LOVE LETTERS BETWEEN LADY SUSAN HAY AND LORD JAMES RAMSAY 1835

Edited by Elizabeth Olson

with an introduction by Fran Woodrow

in association with The John Gray Centre, Haddington

I II Contents

Acknowledgements iv

Editing v

Maps vi

Family Trees viii

Illustrations xvi

Introduction xxx

Letters 1

Appendix 102

Further Reading 103

III Acknowledgements

he editor and the EERC are grateful to East Lothian Council Archives Tand Ludovic Broun-Lindsay for permission to reproduce copies of the correspondence. Thanks are due in particular to Fran Woodrow of the John Gray Centre not only for providing the editor with electronic copies of the original letters and generously supplying transcriptions she had previously made of some of them, but also for writing the introduction.

IV Editing

he letters have been presented in a standardised format. Headers provide Tthe name of the sender and of the recipient, and a number by which each letter can be identified. The salutations and valedictions have been reproduced as they appear in the originals, but the dates when the letters were sent have been standardised and placed immediately after the headers. Due to the time it took for letters from England to reach Scotland, Lord James Ramsay had already sent Lady Susan Hay three before she joined the correspondence. This time lapse, and the fact that thereafter they started writing to each other on a more or less daily basis, makes it impossible to arrange the letters sensibly in order of reply. They have instead been arranged chronologically, with the number of the reply (where it can be identified) added to the notes appended to each letter. Anyone wishing to read the letters in order of reply without having to scroll back and forth through the document can do so by opening the document in two separate windows. It should be noted that not all of the letters have survived and that there are gaps in the correspondence, especially towards the end. The original spelling has been retained. Words that have been misspelled but are readily recognisable have not been annotated. Missing letters have been inserted in [ ] only when the meaning of the word would otherwise be unclear or hinder easy reading. Sic has been used sparingly, mainly to indicate irregular or archaic spellings that might otherwise be mistaken for transcribing or typographical errors. For misspelled words that are not immediately obvious, or that might be confused with another word, the correct form is provided in [i.e. ]. Where necessary for sense, missing words are supplied in [ ]. In addition, superior numbers and letters have been lowered, and abbreviated words (including ampersands) have been silently expanded. In the interests of clarity and readability, punctuation throughout the current edition has been modernised and further punctuation introduced. Paragraphing has also been introduced.

V Map 1. A map of the county of Haddington by John Thomson, 1822. Yester House and Coalstoun (Colstoun) House have been circled. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Scotland. http://maps.nls.uk)

VI Map 2. A detail from Fowler’s Map of the County of Haddington, 1844. Yester House and Coalston (Colstoun) House have been circled. Other places mentioned in the letters, such as Eaglescairnie, Gifford and Lennoxlove, can also be seen. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Scotland. http://maps.nls.uk)

VII George Ramsay (1730-1787) 8th earl of Dalhousie m. Elizabeth Glen

Elizabeth (1769-1848) George (1770-1838) William (1771-1852) James (1772-1837) John (1775-1842) Mary (1780-1866) m. Thomas Moncreiffe m. Christian Broun m. Patricia Gordon m. Mary Delise m. James Hay

David (1788-1830) George (1806-1832) Patricia (1796-1859) William (1804-1871) Elizabeth (1802-1828) Georgina (1790-1842) Charles (1807-1817) Elizabeth (1797-1852) George (1806-1880) William (b.1805) m. George Bridgeman 2nd James (1812-1860) Lusinda (1799-1806) James (1808-1868) Helen (b.1806) earl of Bradford Mary (1799-1864) John (1811-1856) Mary (1807-1886) Fox (1801-1874) Anne (1815-1891) Anne (1809-1884) Georgiana (1803-1833) Henry (1816-1893) Georgiana (b.1810) Christian (1805-1888) Robert (1820-1897) Lucy (b.1813) Lauderdale (1807-1854) Jemima (b.1816) William (1809-1859) James (b.1817) Catherine (1819-1915) Caroline (1820-1911) Orlando (1819-1898) George (1823-1895) Georgiana (1825-1843) Lucy (1826-1858) Charlotte (1827-1858) Mary (1830-1889) John (1831-1897)

Table 1. A simplified family tree showing the descendants of George Ramsay, th8 earl of Dalhousie.

VIII IX George Hay (1753-1804) 7th marquis of Tweeddale m. Hannah Maitland

George (1787-1876) James (1788-1862) Dorothea (1789-1875) Hannah (1790-1878) Elizabeth (1792-1868) John (1793-1851) Jane (1796-1879) Julia (1797-1835) Edward (1799-1862) Thomas (1800-1890) m. Susan Montagu m. Elizabeth Forbes m. John Henry Ley m. John Sharp m. James Hope-Vere m. Mary Cameron m. John Cam m. Harriet Kinloch Hobhouse

Susan (1817-1853) James (1815-1883) Frances (d.1885) Hannah (1816-1868) Julia (1829-1849) Hannah (1818-1887) Louis (1820-1890) Sophia (1818-1878) Charlotte (1831-1914) Louisa (1819-1882) Jane (1820-1890) Sophia (1832-1916) Elizabeth (1820-1904) Georgina (1821-1894) George (1822-1862) Harriet (1822-1883) Millicent (1823-1826) William (1824-1872) Arthur (1824-1878) Henrietta (1828-1863) William (1826-1911) Charles (1828-1900) John (1827-1916) Jane (1830-1904) Julia (1831-1915) Charles (1833-1912) Frederick (1835-1912) Emily (1836-1924)

Table 2. A simplified family tree of Lady Susan’s family, as descended from George Hay, th7 marquis of Tweeddale. His eldest daughter, Mary (1786-1860), has been omitted from the tree in the interests of space.

X XI William Montagu (1771-1843) 5th duke of Manchester m. Susan Gordon

Jane (1794-1815) Susan (1797-1870) George (1799-1855) William (1800-1842) Georgiana (1803-1892) Elizabeth (d.1857) Caroline (1804-1892) Emily (1806-1827) m. George Hay m. Millicent Sparrow m. Emily Dupré m. Evan Baillie m. Thomas Steele m. John Calcraft

Susan (1817-1853) William (1823-1892) Emily (d.1848) Evan (1824-1874) Thomas (1820-1890) Georgiana (d.1915) Hannah (1818-1887) Robert (1825-1902) Louisa (d.1901) William (1827-1902) Susan (1833-1892) Louisa (1819-1882) Frederick (1828-1854) Francis (d.1854) Caroline (d.1913) William (1834-1901) Elizabeth (1820-1904) Olivia (1830-1922) Georgiana (d.1918) Henry (1836-1896) George (1822-1862) Mary (d.1923) Millicent (1823-1826) Arthur (1824-1878) William (1826-1911) John (1827-1916) Jane (1830-1904) Julia (1831-1915) Charles (1833-1912) Frederick (1835-1912) Emily (1836-1924)

Table 3. A simplified family tree of Lady Susan’s family, as descended from William Montagu, th5 duke of Manchester.

XII XIII Alexander Gordon (1743-1827) 4th duke of Gordon m. Jane Maxwell

Charlotte (1768-1842) George (1770-1836) Madelaine (1772-1847) Susan (1774-1828) Louisa (1776-1850) Georgiana (1781-1853) Alexander (1785-1808) m. Charles Lennoxi m. Robert Sinclair m. William Montaguii m. Charles Cornwallisiii m. John Russelliv

Charles (1791-1860) John (1790-1863) Susan (1797-1870) Jane (1798-1856) Wriothesley (1804-1886) Mary (1792-1847) m. George Hay Louisa (1801-1872) Edward (1805-1887) John (1793-1873) Jemima (1803-1856) Charles (1807-1894) Sarah (1794-1873) Mary (1804-1872) Francis (1808-1869) Georgiana (1795-1891) Elizabeth (1807-1874) Georgiana (1809-1867) Henry (1797-1812) Louisa (1812-1905) William (1799-1881) Henry (1816-1842) Jane (1800-1861) Cosmo (1817-1875) Frederick (1801-1829) Alexander (1821-1907) Sussex (1802-1874) Susan (1817-1853) Rachel (1826-1898) Louisa (1803-1900) [see Table 2] Charlotte (1804-1833) Arthur (1806-1864) Sophia (1809-1902)

i 4th duke of Lennox and 4th duke of Richmond; ii 5th duke of Manchester; iii 2nd Marquess Cornwallis; iv 6th duke of Bedford.

Table 4. A simplified family tree showing Lady Susan’s descent from Alexander Gordon, th4 duke of Gordon. It highlights the number of dukes and others of high aristocratic rank among her extended family, as she mentions in Letter 37.

XIV XV Fig. 1 Lady Susan Hay. (From Baird, J G A, ed. Private Letters of the Marquess of Dalhousie, London, 1910)

XVI Fig. 2 Lord James Broun Ramsay. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XVII Fig. 3 Lady Susan’s father, George Hay, 8th marquess of Tweeddale. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XVIII Fig. 4 Lord Ramsay’s father, George Ramsay, 9th earl of Dalhousie. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Gallery of Canada)

XIX Fig. 5 Lord Ramsay’s mother, Christian Broun, countess of Dalhousie. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XX Fig. 6 Lord Ramsay dressed in the uniform of the Royal Company of Archers. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XXI Fig. 7 Lady Susan’s sister Elizabeth. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XXII Fig. 8 Members of the wider Dalhousie and Tweeddale families mentioned in the letters. Clockwise from top left: Lord John Hay; Fox Maule; John Cam Hobhouse; John Hay Mackenzie. (All reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XXIII Fig. 9 Lord Ramsay’s friend James Robert Hope (‘Black Jem’). (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

Fig. 10 Lady Susan’s friend Lady Alicia Spottiswoode. (Reproduced courtesy of the National Galleries of Scotland)

XXIV Fig. 11 A page from Lady Susan Hay’s letter of 7 November 1835 (Letter 16). Cross writing such as this was one way in which a correspondent could save money, as it not only economised on paper, but also reduced postage costs (which were calculated by the page). In this instance, however, Lady Susan admits that she was simply too lazy to find a new sheet of paper.

XXV Fig. 12 A page from Lady Susan Hay’s letter of 9 November 1835 (Letter 20), showing the message written at the top of the page by her brother, Lord Gifford.

XXVI Fig. 13 The cover sheet for Lady Susan Hay’s letter of 16 November 1835 (Letter 34), showing the stamp of the Haddington Penny Post and the abbreviation for Christ Church that Lord Ramsay insisted she used.

XXVII Fig. 14 A page from Lord Ramsay’s letter of 26 November 1835 (Letter 52). The damage to the left hand side of the page would have occurred when Lady Susan removed the seal to read the letter.

XXVIII Fig. 15 The cover sheet from Lord Ramsay’s letter of 15 November 1835 (Letter 33), showing how he used the top and bottom sections of the address side to extend the letter.

XXIX Introduction

he papers relating to the Broun family and the Colstoun estate held in the TEast Lothian Archives are an absolute treasure trove for historians. They include papal bulls, correspondence from Oliver Cromwell and instructions from Mary Queen of Scots, as well as a large quantity of personal papers. Among the latter is a collection of love letters sent between James Ramsay and Susan Hay during their betrothal. Presented here as part of the Sources in Local History series, they offer a valuable and often surprising insight into the lives of two individuals and society in the 1830s. They tell only part of the couple’s story, however. Susan and in particular James went on to lead fascinating lives, mixing with the cream of society, raising a family and achieving high honours. However, throughout it all, it was their love and affection for each other, as expressed in this correspondence, which provided the solid foundation for their achievements. James Andrew Broun Ramsay was born at Dalhousie Castle in April 1812, the youngest of three sons of George Ramsay and Christian Broun. George Ramsay (1770-1838), 9th earl of Dalhousie, was a soldier, and at the time of James’ birth was serving under Wellington in the Peninsular War. He went on to serve as the lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia (1816- 1820), the governor-in-chief of British North America (1820-1828), and the commander-in-chief of the British army in India (1829-1832). Christian Broun (1786-1839) was not only a woman of great intelligence and wit, but also a noted botanist. Her achievements in this field were recognised when she was made an honorary member of the Royal Botanical Society of Edinburgh in 1837. The only daughter and heiress of Charles Broun, it was she who brought the estate of Colstoun to the Dalhousie family. In 1816 the family moved to Canada when Dalhousie took up the position of lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia, so James spent much of his early life there. The industrious streak which was to mark his life manifested itself early. His mother remarked in one of her letters, when James was just eight,

Jem is the most steady little personage that ever was. If Mr T[1] is out, James is always in the schoolroom at the proper hour – his lessons always prepared before he goes out to play.2

XXX James entered Harrow school in 1825. His letters to his parents in Canada (where his father was now governor-general) detail his schooling, floggings and olidaysh at Sandhurst with his brother George. James seemed to enjoy Harrow, taking pleasure in the company of fellow students and the headmaster, Dr Butler. He left in 1827 and spent some further time being tutored by Reverend Temple before entering Christ Church, Oxford, in 1829. He made many connections at university, and his friends at Christ Church included the future prime minister William Gladstone, and Lord Canning, the man who would succeed James as governor-general of India. His father was appointed commander-in-chief of India in 1829, and James’ brother George accompanied his father east. James was very close to George, and when he died in 1832 he was left devastated. He consequently assumed the title Lord Ramsay and became heir to the earldom of Dalhousie – a huge responsibility for a man who was once the youngest son and had probably expected to lead a life of his own choosing. He confided some of his trepidation to Susan in his letters to her. At least in one thing he got to choose – his wife – and in this he chose wisely. Lady Susan Georgiana Hay was born in May 1817 at Yester estate, the eldest of fourteen children. Her father George Hay (1787-1876), 8th marquess of Tweeddale, was a soldier who had served in the War of 1812 and in the Peninsular War under Wellington. He was the lord-lieutenant of East Lothian, a post he had held since 1823. Her mother was Lady Susan Montagu (1797-1870), daughter of the 5th duke of Manchester. Reputed to be a lady of great beauty and elegance, Susan was also an accomplished musician and horse rider. Colstoun and Yester are not so far apart but James and Susan did not meet until 1834 –11 November, as he touchingly notes in one of his letters. Although Susan spent much of her early life at Yester, James spent much of his abroad, in England or at the family home of Dalhousie Castle, so it is perhaps not too surprising that they had not met previously. The teasing and affectionate tone of their letters to one another and the warm language used in their marriage contract shows that theirs was obviously very much a love match. The pair married in January 1836 at Yester in a ceremony celebrated not only by all their high profile connections but also by the village of Gifford, which was illuminated for the occasion at the cost of the villagers. James had stood as an MP for Edinburgh in January 1835, but lost. In his letters to Susan, he shared his misgivings about standing for parliament again, but his sense of duty won out and in 1837 he was elected as the MP for Haddingtonshire. His diaries of the time make much of his campaign across East Lothian and it was not unusual for him to work sixteen-hour days,

XXXI much of that spent in the saddle as he visited his rural constituents. In a later addition to his 1836 diary, he noted:

I myself endeavoured to be in almost two places at once. I was out every morning before daylight and home never til late in the evening; I ordered a pair of double milled trousers on purpose and rode and bowed, smiled and scraped, made good speeches and bad jokes, took snuff, drank whiskey each in their turn and all to great amount. By the voters themselves even in radical Prestonpans and ultra extra super radical Tranent I was received with perfect civility (December 1836).3

The industry identified by his mother in his early years only grew. As well as an MP, James became a member of the Royal Company of Archers, the queen’s bodyguard in Scotland, a prominent freemason, serving as grand master in Scotland from 1836 to 1838, and a member of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, representing the presbytery of Dalkeith. The death of James’ father in 1838 saw him inherit the earldom of Dalhousie, which also brought his brief career as MP for Haddingtonshire to an end. He was subsequently called to the House of Lords as the 10th earl of Dalhousie, where he devoted himself to a number of Scottish issues. James was an avid letter writer and journal keeper, a practice he kept up throughout his life. As his career flourished, he recorded in his journal meetings and friendships with many recognisable names, and in 1838 he met Queen Victoria for the first time. His first impression of the young queen was not entirely favourable. He recorded their first meeting, when he was to return the Order of the Bath after his father’s death:

My name was called after the Duke came out, and in I went. I thought I should find her with some other Lords and Ladies about her and that the sooner I could get my affair over the better. Had I known that I was to find her quite alone I should have tried to spin it out a little more that I might have had an opportunity of seeing her, which however I never fairly did. When the door opened and the Lord in waiting announced me I found her standing in the royal closet, close to the door so that I had to fire off my bow almost before I got in the room. I then said that “I had requested an audience of her majesty to restore the ribbon of the order of the Bath worn by the late Earl of Dalhousie general in her Majestys service”. She took it, smiled but said not a word. Thinks I, what am I to do? She does not seem inclined to tell me to go; I can’t in etiquette go till she bids me; what am I to do? However as she still kept in silence I took that as a hint and therefore

XXXII bowed and retired. She again smiled in reply to my bow and there was an end to it. A more stupid affair I was never in engaged in!4

The relationship thankfully improved! The first of the couple’s daughters, Susan, was born in 1837 and Edith joined the family in 1839. Sadly Lady Susan also suffered a number of miscarriages. Susan was appointed as a lady of the bedchamber to Queen Victoria in 1842, a great honour and a position that was also to be held by her sister Elizabeth from 1843 to 1858. However, the poor health which plagued Susan for most of her life meant that it was a short-lived position. In the same year, Queen Victoria visited James and Susan at Dalhousie Castle, recording in her diary that, ‘The house of reddish stone, is a real old Scotch Castle’.5 In 1843, James was awarded the honorary post of captain of Deal Castle. In the same year, he was appointed vice-president of the Board of Trade, serving under Gladstone. Here he showed his ability and capacity for hard work, with particular responsibility for managing the huge workload created by the expansion of the railways. When Gladstone resigned in 1845, James succeeded his university friend. James had for a few years been interested in Indian affairs and his diary frequently referenced the possibility of receiving an appointment there. This came to pass in 1847 when he was given the position of governor-general of India. He travelled there with Susan, arriving in January 1848. At thirty-five years of age, he was the youngest man to hold the position. His time in India was challenging and his rule there splits opinion to this day. On the one hand, he initiated and oversaw great improvements – the post office, the electric telegraph and passenger railways were all introduced under his rule. He championed education for women and did much for civil rights in the country, including ending the tradition of suttee where a widow was to burn with her husband on the funeral pyre. On the other hand, driven by the conviction that all India should be brought under British rule, he vigorously pursued a policy of annexation. This made him very unpopular in some quarters, especially following the annexation of Oudh, which contributed greatly to the factors that were to lead to the Indian Rebellion of 1857. Throughout his adult life James wrote to Sir George Couper.6 Sir George had served in the Peninsular War with James’ father, but despite the twenty- four-year age gap the pair became close friends, and James confided in Couper telling him many things he was unable to say to anyone else. This was particularly apparent during his time in India, from where he wrote, ‘I write to you my oldest friend and keep you as a safety valve through which I have the right to blow off feelings which I can express to no one in India but my wife’.7

XXXIII James was responsible for securing the Koh-i-Noor diamond for Britain. This magnificent gem, also known as the ‘Mountain of Light’, now rests in the Crown jewels thanks to his efforts. When Punjab was annexed in 1849, its lands and assets were given over to the East India Company. James made it a condition, however, that the Koh-i-Noor was to be surrendered to Queen Victoria by the maharajah, the ten-year-old Duleep Singh, who was also to be sent into exile. Some criticised his handling of the affair and his treatment of the maharajah, who was after all just a child. He nevertheless brought the jewel to Bombay himself, and again writing to Couper said,

The Koh-I-Noor sailed from Bombay in HMS Medea on 6th April. I could not tell you at the time for strict secrecy was observed, but I brought it from Lahore myself. I undertook the charge of it in a funk, and never was so happy in all my life as when I got it into the Treasury at Bombay. It was sewn and double sewn into a belt secured around my waist, one end through the belt fastened to a chain around my neck. It never left me day or night.8

It was in recognition of his role in the Punjab campaign that James was made the 1st (and only) marquess of Dalhousie in 1849. During James’ time as governor-general, Susan had spent time both in India and in Scotland with her daughters. It was on a journey back to Scotland in 1853 that she passed away within sight of the coast of Britain. To say James was heartbroken would be an understatement. He was never to recover from his loss. He wrote to Couper,

The severance of two souls bound together “till death shall them part” is the bitterest drop in the cup of mortality …. surely surely God will pardon me if for a time I feel it almost too hard to bear.9

James left India in 1856 and many hoped that he would return to government. However, the positive view of his time in India was marred by the subsequent rebellion, and many of his supporters soon distanced themselves from him. He faced frequent public attacks on his policy record, and his health, which had deteriorated in India, was to be a source of concern for the rest of his life. He died at Dalhousie Castle on 19 December 1860, aged just forty-eight.10 He was buried next to Susan in the Dalhousie vault in the kirkyard of Cockpen.

Fran Woodrow East Lothian Archives

XXXIV Notes

1 i.e. Isaac Temple, evangelical preacher, chaplain to Lord Dalhousie and tutor to James.

2 Baird, J G A, ed. Private Letters of the Marquess of Dalhousie, Edinburgh, 1910, viii-ix.

3 Private Journal of the Marquess of Dalhousie (Typescript), September 1836-December 1838, John Gray Centre Archives, EL568/3/volume 10.

4 Private Journal of the Marquess of Dalhousie (Typescript), September 1836-December 1838, John Gray Centre Archives, EL568/3/volume 10.

5 Queen Victoria. Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, from 1848 to 1861, Cambridge, 2010, 9.

6 Sir George Couper (1788-1861) served as military secretary in Canada to General Sir James Kempt and Lord Durham, governor-general of the Province of Canada (1838-1839). He was also comptroller of the household to duchess of Kent, Queen Victoria’s mother.

7 Baird, 1910, 95. Understanding the sensitive nature of many of his letters and the political climate of the time, Dalhousie requested that his papers be kept private for fifty years before being published. This request was adhered to. Many of the letters written to Sir George Couper were published by Baird, who was a resident of Colstoun, and married to Dalhousie’s granddaughter.

8 Baird, 1910, 124. The ownership of the Koh-i-Noor remains a contentious issue to this day.

9 Baird, 1910, 257.

10 Fox Maule (1801-1874) became the 11th earl of Dalhousie on James’ death and shortly after changed his name to Maule-Ramsay.

XXXV LOVE LETTERS BETWEEN

LADY SUSAN HAY

AND LORD JAMES RAMSAY

1835

XXXVI 1. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Wednesday 28 October 1835

At last, dearest Susan, I am here! after as weary and dreary a journey as ever made a sorrowful man more sick and sorry. We swam to Haddington and from thence I got to York, where my evil genius kept me some time for want of a Coach; so that instead of getting to Leamington last night I endured another night’s purgatory in the mail, and only reached my Aunt’s house about two hours ago.[1] Now having breakfasted – for I was starving – and dressed, for I was most vile and blackguardish in my outward main, I am settling down to write to you. And oh! if I could but make you feel and know the pleasure that I have in the consciousness that it is to you I write – that after so many months of anxiety and uncertainty the word is spoken, and I have a claim to write to you and to look for your writing in reply – that after loving you for long, but doubtful whether that love would ever be returned, I have seen it gradually shewing itself in your bearing to me till every day added certainty to conviction and changed hope into assurance; and now at last that we have plighted our troth and that I can hail you as my bride – when all this passes through my mind, as for the first time I write to you, no wonder that the pleasure is exquisite indeed, and far beyond what I can tell to you in words. You love me, Susan, and you will feel when you first read what I have written, and when you first write what I am to read, how truly I have spoken when I say that words may tell of the existence of the pleasure, but can never tell its force. Once again, I am writing to you! and tho’ the other day at Yester I did abuse the inventors of writing I recant my error! I was a heretic! And I can never have a more favourable opportunity for recanting than now when I am sensible, in all its force, of the precious power which it confers upon one – that instead of, during these weeks to come, our being obliged to sit in silence and ignorance, imagining every sort of misery for ourselves, in a sort of day-nightmare, we can daily hold converse and set time and space at defiance – that I can sit here and tell you how I am thinking of you – that I can call you dear, dear Susan and be certain that days after you will read the words and reading them will rest as confident that they are tokens of my affection for you as though you had heard my own voice whisper them in your ear! I recant! I recant! and blessings on the man that first invented letter writing and a double blessing on him that first sealed them with a seal and prevented other people from reading them! I am writing for my very life to save the post, so that you may get them at

1 Dalhousie on Saturday morning. Now write to me, pray do, very very often. Tell me all you do and see and hear and think – tell me all you feel and all you wish and hope – tell me every thing, tell me any thing – for if you do but go to the door and back to your chair it will be interesting to me and tell it me. And remember never be afraid as people are foolish enough to be, never be afraid in a letter of the pronoun “I”. A letter should be egotistical – and the more perfect egotism your letters to me display, the more I shall like them, for it is of you I want to hear, but, as I have said, before – write any thing only write – write – write. I aim to see this wise Doctor soon, and tomorrow you shall hear what he does with me. Your uncle is here, and that is all I know about him as yet. I do so long to hear what you do at D.C.[2] How you get on. You will find every one anxious to know you and like you, and determined, if it be possible, to love you. You won’t be surprised (perhaps) at my saying I don’t think they will fail. And now good night. God in heaven bless you, keep you, dearest. Though I should exhaust every form of endearment, and exhaust love’s treasury of epithets, I could not say more than is contained in that short sentence, nor shew you how utterly I am devoted to you than by signing myself in two little words

Your own, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 4

1 Lord Ramsay’s aunt, Elizabeth Moncrieffe (1790-1842), lived at Shilston House, Leamington.

2 i.e. Dalhousie Castle.

2. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Thursday 29 October 1835

“Ay marry now my soul hath elbow-room”,[1] and I have time to write to you, my dearest Susan, deliberately and in comfort. Yesterday I was so hurried, and so fidgety lest I should lose a day’s post, that I wrote as if I were running a race and literally had barely time to read over what I had written, so that if I have not dotted all my i-s and crossed all my t-s as regularly as any one, having

2 the bump of tidiness[2] so strongly developed as Lord Tweeddale[3] would require, you must not set it down to a wish to get it over, but to a desire to say as much in a short time as the hand of man could scribble. I have been wearying myself with wondering when you would write to me, and with calculating when I should get the letter: and reluctantly my reason has been obliged to yield to its’ [sic] own arguments, and to allow that probably you would not begin till you had heard from me; and that consequently I shall not see your welcome “hand o’ writ” till Tuesday next. Hoigh! hoigh! but it will be wearisome till that post comes. When you do write, direct to me

Ch. Ch. Oxford and never, I do beseech you, write Christ Church at full length; for those two hieroglyphics Ch. Ch. express it all, and the name Christ Church written out is an abomination in the eyes of an Oxford man; while Christ Church College is a treason! a heresy!! a crime!!! one of the seven deadly sins!!!! so write Ch. Ch. and oh write it often, often. Well! and I have seen the wise man here and our meeting was after this manner. I had sent for him and was lolling in a very “Digagee” attitude (ask Annie for the meaning of that word, as it is one of hers I think) in an arm chair – feet on the fender, one hand in my sinister pocket, the other busily engaged in flipping away the luncheon crumbs on the carpet with my pocket handkerchief, and yawning most extensively – when in walked the doctor; bobbed a little bob-bow and sat down. I looked as interesting as I could, and as much like a patient as possible, and told my story – doctor looked at patient – and patient looked at doctor – Doctor asked how old he was – patient thought it lucky he had so small a number to give, and said 23 – Doctor hummed and began pulling patient about, poked his ribs, and his back and his legs, and handled him much as Lord Tweeddale feels a fat sheep – turned his head first to one side and then to the other, as if he had been a hair dresser rather than a doctor, opened and peered into his eyes (patient continued patient), put a key half down his throat (patient began to get impatient), rubbed his skin and looked at it as if he had been about to buy leather to make a pair of shoes and not looking at a gentleman’s body. Then he asked whether I ever had or ever did spit blood, and whether I did this horrible thing and felt that horrible thing, going through a list of miseries till he frightened me out of my wits, and I began to think I was in a bad way, especially when he finished by saying “you have a nice constitution” which I interpreted into meaning “You are in a nice way – in a ticklish state!” but

3 which I afterwards found out meant I would do well yet. Seriously speaking, he told me this (and I will tell it to you, for what, dearest, will I not tell to you now?) that I am far from well – but this I knew very well before – that my system is a good deal unhinged – but that there is nothing but what with a little care and watching may be completely removed. He said to me “Will you do what I tell you” – to which, says I, “Dr Jephson,[4] I should not have come here to consult you unless I had intended to follow your directions, nor come so far merely to prove myself a baby or a fool,” and he replied “I like that – you be a good patient and I will be a good doctor” – and then proceeded to tell me what I was to do, how I was to take baths and take walks and take some other things – and how I was not to take pork, and not to take wine and not to take cold. He went on in this way till at last he concluded “and in a few weeks you will be quite well”. I shrieked out for I had never bargained for staying here any time at all. I shrieked out again that it was impossible, and that I must go back to Scotland. “Why” said he – “Oh” says I “because” and then I stopped, for I did not want to tell him all my arrangements. So I looked to right and I looked to left, looked up and down, backward and forwards while his eyes still followed me like the eyes of a picture. “Why” said he again – so says I in despair “because I’m going to be married.” “You must put it off, Sir, till I make you well” pronounced the oracle. However, I began to growl a little at this, and at last we arranged to the satisfaction of all parties that I was to stay four or five days now, pursue his system while at Oxford and see him again after that. This is a plague but I cannot help that, and you will agree with me that it is better to sacrifice a few days now and give him all fair play, rather than to allow one’s feelings to get the better of one’s prudence, and after all perhaps have to come back again. I have written you a long story, but it will not be uninteresting to you, I hope, and moreover, I think, you will be glad that I came to this man, for indeed, dear Susan, I was not well, nor had been for years – and now the case is known and I am certain will be much amended. How have you been prospering in Edinburgh and what have you been doing? and have you chosen pretty gowns? and has Mr Marshall[5] mended your chain? He would grin, I dare say, when he saw you, for these lockets and ringlets and trinkets and all the other ets’ must have put him half in possession of the secret (another et.) And tomorrow you go to Dalhousie! Oh! for a bird’s wings that I might be with you there – if only for one hour. I will think of you about six, just as you are going to dinner, (not that I need say that – for I wonder when there pass five minutes that I donot think of you) – and be sure to remember whether your brothers are at home! and if it is not asking too much of your

4 shyness how many brothers and sisters you have! I have come to the end of my letter again – so, till tomorrow, goodbye, dearest Susan.

Ever most affectionately your’s [sic], Ramsay

I am going to write a word to Lord Tweeddale.

Reply – Letter 6

1 King John, act 5, scene 7.

2 Lord Ramsay appears to be referring here to phrenology. Enjoying widespread credence in nineteenth-century Britain, it was based on the belief that an individual’s mental traits could be ascertained by measuring bumps on his or her skull.

3 George Hay (1787-1876), 8th marquis of Tweeddale, Lady Susan’s father. See Figure 3.

4 Dr Henry Jephson of Leamington (1798-1878). By this time, Leamington was a popular spa resort. Jephson was an ardent promoter of the health-giving properties of its mineral springs, and had a flourishing practice that attracted wealthy patients from throughout Britain.

5 There were a number of jewellers called Marshall in Edinburgh at this time, including: Marshall and Sons, 62 North Bridge; F J and W Marshall, 41 George Street; William Marshall, 64 North Bridge; and William Marshall, Lawnmarket.

3.James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Friday 30 October 1835

Susan dear! I have had a great quarrel with my venerable Aunty and I appeal to you to decide it – for it is all about you. You see, we were playing backgammon last night and I beat her triumphantly – upon the which she said, says she, “Oh you unhappy man, Lady Susan isn’t thinking of you or you never would have such good luck, for no one is ever thinking of lucky people”. I stoutly denied the principle, and argued the point logically and sturdily for a long time, asserting that you were thinking of me and therefore and therefore [sic] alone it was that I won. Now tell me, were you thinking of me? About ten o’clock. Say yes if it was only for the pleasure of enabling me to out-argue my most Argumentative Aunt. Oh what a length of a week this has been! and we are only at the Friday yet. It looks as long, positively as long, as a whole year, or as from this to

5 Yester. If it was not for this writing I should never survive it and by the way, and apropos of writing, I wonder if a letter every day is rather too much, and whether you will weary of it, and above all whether you are frightened by the sight of so many note sheets under each cover, so like Miss Ley’s last folio to you.[1] Now you see, as concerning that, there is not very much in them, very much more, than in a common sheet of paper after all, and seeing that I write fast and large, it is easier for me to write on a good many pieces of paper than to make my pen small and pack my sentences well into the page. Set my mind at rest on the matter and say whether every day letters are too desperate; but do not say it unless you really think it, for in forbidding me to write to you daily, you rob me, sweet Susan, of the only active pleasure I feel through the twenty four hours. And if you do not object to my scribbling anything or nothing for each post, don’t fidget if by any chance a post should come without a note, nor fancy me dead or dying or even dangerously ill and confined to bed! Well, I have been obeying Dr Jephson most carefully, stumped away my hours yesterday and took my bath – boo! what an operation that is, for I never had taken a shower bath before and the man showed off his shower before I got in, a most tremendous pelt, it was like the hail in Egypt![2] and quite enough to knock me down, as it seemed to me. So in I walked – laid hold of the side – planted myself firmly on my legs – took a last look of the Sun – then shut my eyes, clenched my teeth and resolutely pulled the string – and memory of Noah! what a flood,[3] what an ocean did come down; it nearly beat my brains out! but it was very jolly and nice – it was left warm this morning and tomorrow it will be quite cold. I don’t like it – it will be much like that souse coming home from the Bass.[4] Yesterday I saw Lord Thomas.[5] He is looking ill, and indeed is not well for both he and his wife have sore throats. He seemed glad to see me, and spoke very kindly and very warmly of our marriage. So indeed, dearest Susan, does every one; and if it can please you to know that all the world who are acquainted with either you or me, rush up to me, or write to me, or send to me, with a grin upon their face, or manifest in their pen or message, and wish me joy with too much eagerness and ease not to be sincere; you may enjoy that pleasure to the full; for my own part, if anything could add to the happiness which the knowledge that I am your choice, and the choice, love, not of your ambition, nor of your convenience, nor of your family only, but the choice of your heart, your own inmost heart, it would be to know that all who are connected with you by blood or by friendship receive me so readily and so pleasedly, and seem so satisfied that it will be for your advantage and happiness. Today I am going to call upon him, as they leave this soon. Tomorrow I

6 hope to be able[6] to learn from Jephson when he will let me away to Oxford. I have just heard from Annie that the Hamiltons are to meet you at D.C. I am glad of it for you like them and you will feel more at home tho’ I am quite sure that you and my mother are to get on wonderfully.

Ever dearest Susan, yours, and yours, for ever, Ramsay

You will get this on Monday, and as I don’t know whether you stay longer at Dalhousie I shall direct tomorrow’s to Yester. Love to Miss Hannah.[7] Tell her she may play with my men and horses if she won’t break them! and to remember the good old principle when in my room “to look at every thing and touch nothing”. By the bye, do you look into the drawer of the inkstand in my room. You will see there some thing to recognize. I think it is there.

Reply – Letter 8

1 Possibly Frances Ley (d.1885), who like Lady Susan was a granddaughter of the 7th marquis of Tweeddale.

2 i.e. the plague of hail sent by God to punish Egypt for the captivity of the Israelites, as described in the Book of Exodus, chapter 9.

3 i.e. Noah who built an ark to survive the flood sent by God to destroy the world, as described in the Book of Genesis, chapters 5-9.

4 i.e. the Bass Rock, off the coast of East Lothian.

5 Possibly Reverend Lord Thomas Hay (1800-1890), who was the dean of Rendlesham, Suffolk, and Lady Susan’s uncle.

6 Immediately below this, at the foot of the page, Lord Ramsay has written ‘Scrupulous Scruplelous’.

7 This is probably Hannah-Charlotte (1818-1887), Lady Susan’s sister. She is also referred to elsewhere in the correspondence as Lady Hannah.

7 4. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Dalhousie Castle Saturday 31 October 1835

I have just received your very very kind letter my dearest Ramsay, and though you know I cannot express myself in the same affectionate way you do, yet you may be sure I love you as much as if I did. This week has been such a long time going by that it appears longer than a fortnight and it has been Saturday two or three times in my imagination, I have been longing for your letter so much. We arrived here last night; nothing could exceed the kindness of Lord and Lady Dalhousie.[1] I made myself quite at home and only felt that I wanted somebody to make me quite happy, which I hope the next time I come to Dalhousie to have. Since I am to be very egotistical, I must tell you what I did this long week. Tuesday we went into Edinburgh late in the evening and only stayed Wednesday, as Thursday was the fast[2] and made it very inconvenient not having time to do all we wanted. Papa went to the Club dinner on Tuesday and did not arrive till 12 o’clock so Mama and I had an evening all to ourselves and thought and talked of nobody but you; how delighted you would have been to have come and had your tea with us. The Hamiltons only come today. I shall be so pleased to [meet] Mrs Hamilton[3] to have a little conversation with her which you may guess who it will be about. I went into your room last night with Miss Hathorn[4] and thought it looked very comfortable and that I could spend many happy days there if you were with me. Hannah was delighted with the men on the table and I think very much inclined to amuse herself with them if it had not been very cold. Your post is a very provoking one; it does not give you much time to answer a letter and particularly not one of yours. I am obliged to scribble away that I may be in time for it. I am going today to take a long walk if it is fine with Miss Hathorn but I am afraid it looks very gloomy and dismal. You never told me whether I need to go to call upon Lady Mary Hay[5] or not, therefore it must be left to Mama’s decision. I had a very kind note from Aunt Car Calcraft;[6] she says she is very anxious to know you but supposes she must wait patiently till you are a married man. I have not had an answer from Uncle Hobhouse;[7] I suppose he is in Wiltshire. I will tell you the fate of the black velvet as soon as I hear and if the genteel hint was taken. Now I am sure I have talked enough about I and my affairs. I wish I could fancy you as well as you can me sitting on the same sofa I did when I first came to Dalhousie, but I know nothing about Leamington and still

8 less of Oxford. I wish I could just pop into your sitting room and make your breakfast for you now and then – but now I must end this letter which I only wish was like yours, as affectionate and as kind. I should be ashamed of it if it was not you and that I know anything coming from me you will like.

Goodbye now my dearest Ramsay, believe me forever yours, Susan G. Hay

Reply – Letter 11

1 Lord Ramsay’s parents: George Ramsay (1770-1838), 9th earl of Dalhousie; and Christian Broun (1786-1839). See Figures 4 and 5.

2 The bi-annual Presbyterian communion season, which started on a Friday and finished the following Monday, was preceded by a fast day on the Thursday.

3 From later references, this would appear to be Lord Ramsay’s cousin, Mary Hamilton née Maule (1799-1864).

4 This was perhaps Susan Hathorn (b. 1817), the daughter of Vans Hathorn of Garthland and Jean Dalrymple-Hay.

5 Lady Mary Hay (1780-1866) was the daughter of the 8th earl of Dalhousie, and so Lord Ramsay’s aunt. She lived at Linden Lodge, Mavisbank, Midlothian. She is also referred to elsewhere in the letters as Aunt Mary.

6 Lady Caroline Calcraft (1804-1892) was the daughter of William, 5th duke of Manchester, and so Lady Susan’s aunt. She had married John Calcraft in 1828.

7 John Cam Hobhouse (1786-1869). He had married Julia, the daughter of George 7th marquis of Tweeddale, in 1828. At this time, he was MP for Nottingham and President of the Board of Control for India.

5.James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Saturday 31 October 1835

It is just eleven o’clock, and by this time, dearest Susan, you have got my first letter and read it, for you would only be able during breakfast to cram it into your bag and hide it from the eyes of the world in general, and from the grin of Lady Hannah in particular. The first letter! How often is this “first” letter only the first born of a miserable family of lamentations over thwarted wishes and adverse circumstances; over forced and protracted absence and

9 all the mournful train of disappointments and sorrows and anguish! And how thankful should I be, how thankful in truth, I am, that my first letter is but the forerunner of a long line of happy and uninterrupted intercourse, where proofs of confidence and expressions of affection shall be exchanged unceasingly and without varying by us, through this blessed invention which gives words and utterance to the tongue when distance has put it to silence. How happy should I be, that in my case, no objections have been to be overcome, no prejudices removed, no feuds healed, but that we have been allowed calmly and happily to form that union, to twist together the links of that chain which time alone can sever. For all this I am indeed grateful. May I not include you too, lady, in the thanks for that; (as Mary Hamilton used to say to me in a half pleased, half vexed tone) “the pigs will not run through it!”. And so you came to the Castle yesterday Evening and have I not been with you ever since? did I not see you about a quarter after six, all sitting round the dinner table, and as I thought sitting next Jemmy,[1] but I find from a note this morning he was not to come till today. However there you were, in the white silk I think, looking remarkably straight, and Lady Hannah somewhere near you as “straight as a poplar tree” and looking so prim and so quiet, and suggesting to no one that “smooth water runs deep”, and did I not see you looking so calm and quiet but know how bored you must have been within, for everyone would stare, the servants would stare, the very ancestors would seem to stare at you out of their frames and did I not astonish my good Aunt during the whole of our dinner by not answering her observations, and as for her questions, answering them all wrong – she little thinking, honest woman, that in reality I was far away listening to the conversation round your dinner table, and quite forgetting hers. And then in the evening you and Annie and Lady Hannah would sit on the sofa in the corner and you would get a giggle then, and Annie would talk a little about me and you probably would run away from the subject, all very modestly and proper-like. And though Dr Jephson will not give me any wine, no not even one glass which was all I wanted for this special purpose, I drank your health in water! and I drank it with a wish that within Dalhousie Castle you might feel as though it were your own home, and that every one within its walls might receive you kindly and love you as dearly. I will not say as dearly as I do, sweetest, for that would be impossible, but as dearly as I know they wish to do, and as you deserve to be loved. Oh for Thursday, for Thursday! Yesterday I saw Dr Jephson again. He gave me another pummeling [sic] and poking, took his guinea very genteelly, told me my pulse was better, my appearance better, and my system more tranquil – to go on – put the aforesaid guinea into his pocket, good bye, bow and exit. Monday I think

10 now I shall certainly get away from this. Yesterday I saw Uncle Tom and Aunt Tomasina.[2] She is much the same as when she was Miss Kinloch, and seems to be very properly aware of the merits of all Yester and Yester things. They are to dine here today, which by the way I am not so fond of for my Aunt’s house is not much accustomed to dinner giving and the rooms are so small that the dining room is not much more capacious than a good sized bonnet box. This morning I had such a dear letter from the Duchess[3] so full of kindness and I know of sincerity. You shall see it when I come to you again for it is too bulky to send. She says she is hugely anxious to know you, so pray make Lady Tweeddale go to Drumlanrig or to Bowhill[4] which is nearer. You will make her acquaintance and you will love her, Susan. I know you will. This post brought me also a most laconic epistle from Black Jem Hope[5] to this effect “Dear Jem! I always told you Lady Susan Hay appeared to me one of the nicest people I ever saw. I need not tell you therefore what I think of your marriage. Yours ever Jem Hope.” To which I am going to reply “Dear Jem, I always thought Lady Susan Hay the very nicest person I ever saw. I need not tell you therefore what I think of your congratulations on my marriage. Yours ever Ramsay.” These are two of the neatest specimens of the condensed and Laconic style which have come to light since Lacedaemon ceased to be a Kingdom![6] By the bye among other things the Duchess is very anxious that we should got to Bowhill and occupy it after our execution. Now of all things I hate what is called a “marriage trip”. It is so Cockneyish! and always conjures up to me images of Ramsgate steamboats, or the Inn at Loch Katrine. I think we will just toddle away down to good old Coalstoun and live in our own home like sensible people that like their home and wish to live in it. Don’t you think so? I should like to have your Ladyship’s opinion on this weighty point. I am just going to take a bath and probably shall get one before I reach the bath, for it is raining heavily.

Dearest Susan, your’s ever most affectionately, Ramsay

Love to all the juveniles at home and beg Charlie[7] to teach them one and all not to call me Lord R. and to practice it.

Reply – Letter 10

1 From later references, this would appear to be James Hamilton of Bangour (1799-1852), who had married Ramsay’s cousin Mary Maule in 1824.

11 2 Probably Lady Susan’s uncle Thomas Hay (see Letter 3, note 5). His wife, however, was called Harriet – not Thomasina – Kinloch.

3 i.e. Charlotte, duchess of Buccleuch (1811-1895).

4 Drumlanrig Castle in Dumfriesshire and Bowhill House in Selkirkshire were the main Scottish residences of the duke of Buccleuch. Lady Tweeddale was Lady Susan’s mother Susan Hay (1797-1870), daughter of the 5th duke of Manchester.

5 James R Hope (1812-1873) had been among Lord Ramsay’s circle of friends at Christ Church. He is also referred to elsewhere in the correspondence as ‘Black Jem’. See Figure 9.

6 Lacedaemon was an early name for the Greek city state better known now as Sparta, the inhabitants of which were known for their verbal austerity. The wider region was known as Laconia, from which the word laconic comes.

7 Charles (1833-1912) was one of Lady Susan’s brothers.

6. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Dalhousie Castle Sunday 1 November 1835

I have made Mr Hamilton,[1] my dearest Ramsay, shake his head two or three times at the idea of my writing on a Sunday, even to you; he said you were very particular and did not approve of it but I hope you will give up your particularity for a short time at least and not shake your head, also it is a pity he does not keep Mrs Hamilton in better order for I believe she is writing to you also. My reason quite approves of your staying at Leamington five days but I am afraid my own will does not at all approve of it; however it is better to stay there now than to have to go back to him. I hope you are going to follow all his injunctions and not dine upon marrow bones at Oxford. I saw a miniature painting of you last [word missing]. I think it is quite a caricature likeness, does not do you justice; your head is stuck on one side, sloped shoulders and very vulgar, it puts me in mind of a clerk standing behind a counter in Mr Blackwood’s shop,[2] selling pink ribbon and with a fascinating smile, “Did you say two yards of Pink ribbon, Madam”. I have seen Lady Mary and the Misses Helen, Georgiana, Catherine and Caroline.[3] I went with Miss Hathorn early to escape Georgy who was to breakfast at Midfield but unfortunately she returned and received me open arms. I made myself as disagreeable as politeness would permit; the young one is the prettiest and the most Lady-like. Lady Mary is a very kind person, she dined here yesterday and I chattered away [to] her – was deceitful to

12 say I was sorry she was going to Edinburgh. I have not been at all shy and I have remembered, whether my brothers were at home or not, have answered [sic] all the questions put to me, adding a little more than yes or no, for example “it is a very fine day” Lady Susan “Yes but I am afraid rather frosty”, a considerable improvement which you will allow. I am going to Church to hear ‘I forget what his name is’, Mr Pitt - - something;[4] hope I shall be edified and not too much stared at. You have heard so much of my handwriting I hope you think it good well shaped letters, and no mistakes; Uncle Hobhouse would cut off all the tails of the y’s and g’s and say they were too long. I am quite shocked to see such a book as the Arabian Nights in your Library, so very learned. Mama has come with the frank and I must again say good bye till tomorrow, so good bye my dearest Ramsay and I wish I were with you.

Yours most affectionately, Susan G. Hay

The P.S. is always the best part of a Lady’s letter so P.S. of great importance Mama is very much pleased with your letter and says she will answer it in a few days. She says she has no doubt you will wait with great patience for a letter from Her.

Reply – Letter 13

1 Perhaps James Hamilton of Bangour (1799-1852).

2 Probably T & J Blackwood, silk mercers, 43 George Street, Edinburgh.

3 Helen (b. 1806), Georgiana (b. 1810), Catherine (b. 1819) and Caroline (b. 1820) were daughters of Lady Mary Hay (see Letter 4, note 5), and so Lord Ramsay’s cousins. Georgiana is more often referred to in the correspondence as ‘Georgy’.

4 Thomas Pitcairn (1800-1854), the minister of Cockpen parish.

13 7. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Sunday 1 November 1835

Sunday morning leaves one with but little time, my dearest Susan, to write (bah – what a bad pen, I must stop and mend it) but something (yes that’s better – it looks now decent, more like a pen and less like a poker) something must go. Yesterday Uncle Tom and my lady dined here. Do you know, whether it was that she is improved in her manner or that I like her the better now for that she is somebody’s Aunt, I can not tell, but I certainly do like her much more than used to do. We had an infinity of talk of course about you all; and she bore my twaddling – for tho’ it is most intellectual and charming and fascinating conversation to me, I suppose it is twaddle to other people – with great good humour. In short, since she likes you all so much and will talk about you so contentedly, I begin to have rather a good opinion of her. After Church today I am going up to see the “wonderful babe”, which both of them evidently think a prodigy. I hope I may say nothing very disagreeable or unfeeling about its beauty or talents or qualities. Forbid it all good fortune! that you had such a day yesterday as we had here. I should have so liked you to have seen Dalhousie in beauty for I really must say it is a very pretty place, even tho’ it does belong to one’s own family. It is [a] great absurdity to think that one must never speak well of one’s own – and all the trees must look so dishevelled and miserable and the river so muddy – in short, my dear, you have not seen us in our Sunday best! but never mind, there are plenty Sundays coming for us I hope to be seen on. Tomorrow I am to see Jephson again and I hope for liberty to leave this for Oxford, where I expect to find a yepistle [sic] from your Ladyship, if not on Tuesday, surely on Wednesday morning, but if not then, verily I will exalt my voice and scold. My venerable relation is playing the part of the Church bell and summons me to Church – go you too – and I hope Mr Pitcairn[1] will give you a good sermon and above all don’t laugh at the Precentor. Bybye sweetest, Ever your very affectionate, R. (bad one) R. better R. (best) Hurra! we’re in November. I can now say I shall be back this month.

14 Reply – Letter 12

1 See Letter 6, note 4.

8. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Dalhousie Castle Monday 2 November 1835

My dearest Ramsay you are dreadfully mysterious. Mrs Hamilton and I have ransacked every drawer in your room which is open (not many to be sure), and we cannot find any thing there to recognise exept [sic] Hannah’s glove and that is not in the inkstand. Thinking of you, I am always doing that, but I am afraid Thursday night I was fast asleep even at ten o’clock, for I was in bed at nine, but that does not signify; I daresay I was dreaming about you. I have found out today, much to the trial of my good temper, that all my letters franked to me go to Yester and therefore I shall not receive the Hon. Baronet’s letter till Thursday when we return to Yester from Edinburgh. I should like to have told you the fate of the black velvet gown, as you know I am rather scrupulous on the subject. I and Lord Dalhousie walked arm in arm yesterday to see Mrs Cabbage, or I do not know what her name is, and then to the garden. I felt quite proud of my courage. I cannot write any thing out of nothing as you can, therefore you must excuse my letters being so short and as I write every day there is very little to tell you about but what you know already, that I love you dearly. Give my customary and fashionable love to Uncle Tom if you see him again.

Ever your’s affectionately, Susan Georgy Hay

How bad the Dalhousie pens.

Papa tells me that he has just seen your groom who called upon Sir John Hope[1] the other day and was informed by him that he had not received any communication from you relating to the sale of your bay mare. As Mr Dundass of Arniston[2] has been looking at the mare and expresses himself to be pleased with her no delay should take place on your part in communicating your wishes and instructions to Sir John Hope.

15 Reply – Letter 15

1 Sir John Hope (1794-1858) was a prominent lawyer, dean of the Faculty of Advocates and later Lord Justice Clerk.

2 i.e. Robert Dundas of Arniston (1797-1838). A lawyer who had entertained hopes of political advancement, by the time this letter was written Dundas had retired to the family seat at Arniston (Midlothian) with a view to improving the estate. A staunch Conservative, he nonetheless remained actively involved in furthering that party’s cause in Midlothian. His politics and status as a county gentleman would have brought him into contact with Lord Ramsay.

9. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Monday 2 November 1835

You will be sorry to hear it, my dearest Susan, but I am going to fight a duel! Not that I have pulled any man’s nose, or had my nose pulled by any man; I have not cheated any body, or trodden on any one’s toes; I have not told any body, in a monosyllable, that he was stating what was not exactly measured by the standard of truth, that is, I have not said to any one, Sir you lie: but still I am going to fight a duel. I’m “going out a-gunning”, as the Yankees say, and it is because Uncle Tom told me yesterday that some one had told him in London that I was going to marry Mary Balfour![1] Devious and evil spirits of matrimony! (for there are both good and bad spirits of matrimony as the man who weds you, and he who is wedded to Miss B, and as your happy husband, sweet Susan, and her unfortunate mate will find out.) That it should enter into the wicked heart of man to conceive, imagine, fancy, suppose, feign, forge such a thing! and for that he hath so forged it, verily I will massacree [sic] him. Who he is I don’t know but I’ll fight any body – every body – and eat your Uncle Tom, bones and all, like the ogre, singing

Fee, fo, fum I smell the blood of Uncle Tom as his funeral hymn, if I can get no other victim – and I will do the same to any one who ventures to say that it was ever possible, is possible or will be possible, that I might, would, could, should have, may, can, am about to, will, or did or have married anybody but you, my own dearest dearest Susan. The very idea, even when writing it in joke as I have been just now, binds me to

16 you firmer and firmer – makes me feel more and more sensibly, and seriously how entirely and intricately wrapt up in you I am – how dependant on your love for every enjoyment which I can picture to myself now or in time to come. I have written myself out of a trifling humour during the last two pages into a serious one; and into that best of all serious humours when the mind, quitting the anxious task of speculating over future prospects, or meditating over the means of supplying present wants, turns back into itself for the contemplation of past blessings, of mercies already shown – and you will readily believe me, Susan, now that you know pretty intimately my character and opinions and feelings, when you know that I am not given to feign that which I do not in reality experience in my own head, you will readily believe me when I say, that of all the blessings and mercies which Heaven in its goodness has bestowed upon me, and they are both many and extraordinary, there is none for which I so readily offer thanks, none for which I bend the knee to acknowledge, with so deep a gratitude as for linking my fate with your’s [sic]. There are times when this feeling rushes over my head in such a flood as well nigh to make me dizzy with happiness, and when I can scarce hinder the words of thanksgiving from bursting forth from my lips, so perfect my confidence that the qualities of your mind, the affections of your heart, the bent of your soul are calculated to blend with mine, so perfect my confidence, that with you, and you alone, I am, humanly speaking, secure of happiness. But then too there are times, when, convinced of this fact myself and confident in my own security, I doubt whether that feeling is equally strong on your part – whether you feel that my qualities will agree with yours, whether you are confident that with me you will live happily – whether in short you can believe as I do that we were made for each other, and can live with each other ever in harmony and happiness. Oh tell tell me, dearest, if it is so; tell me that you think that in marrying me you can go down upon your knees and thank God as earnestly and sincerely as I do, for it as his best blessing. I do not write to you thus to gratify my own passion in hearing you say I love you, but really because I am so painfully anxious that all should be for your good, that I cannot be happy until I know that you are happy too. You told me when I left you that I should write sensible letters to you and not nonsense. All this is sensible for it is sincere – and answer it, answer it. Dr Jephson has just been here. He tells me I am a power better, and so indeed I feel, and he gives me leave to depart for Oxford tomorrow on condition that I see him for a day on my way back, and so tomorrow I am off – nay, tonight if I can get away, for I should like to get my letters by the post tomorrow.

17 Lord Thomas has just been here to pay me a visit before he goes – which same visit was kind in him. Yesterday I went up to see his boy. It is [a] little blue eyed, very fair curly-headed little [sic] fellow – merry and good tempered apparently – who shewed his oratory by saying da da and his perseverance in the indefatigable manner in which he endeavoured to knock in the crown of my hat! I like Uncle Tom. My worthy Aunt has begged me to say to you that altho’ she has not the honour of your ladyship’s acquaintance, she takes an old lady’s privilege in sending all sorts of kind sayings to you, beginning and ending with the assurance that she is anxious to make friends with you and to see you here some day. She is a kind old soul – very. Hurra! for Ch.Ch. tomorrow. Tho’ it carries me 50 miles further away still it brings me nearer to you – there’s a bull, but a true bull.[2] Best love to Lady Tweeddale and your sisters. I will write to some of them when I get settled at Ch.Ch.

Your’s to the end of time, dearest, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 14

1 Mary Balfour (1817-1893) was the daughter of James Balfour MP and Lady Eleanor Maitland. Her family home, Whittinghame House, near Haddington, was not far from Lady Susan’s. A skilled watercolour artist, Mary married Henry Herbert of Muckross, County Kerry, in 1837.

2 i.e. a self-contradictory proposition.

10. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Wednesday 4 November 1835

I have just returned from Edinburgh, my dearest Ramsay, and therefore I am afraid you must expect as Laconic an epistle as James Hope’s. I am very tired in the first instance, very like moon-faced Bessy[1] in the 2nd, and rather put out in fact at finding the pens at Yester as bad as those at Dalhousie; writing to you is the only thing which will set me to rights to night. I perfectly agree with you that it will be much better to go to Coalston than to Bowhill and much more sensible, though it is exessively [sic] kind of

18 the Duchess to offer it. I do not think we shall go to Drumlanrig, as it would be rather disagreeable to be stared at by so many people than [sic] I do not know. I received two letters from you to night on my arrival and shall answer all your questions and write to you about my proceedings to-morrow; really to night I am so hot and tired I can not write any more, so Good bye, and believe me my dearest Jem (are you not pleased), believe me, your’s affectionately, Susan G. Hay

Reply – Letter 19

1 Moon-faced Bessy is a character in The Adventures of Hajji Baba of Ispahan in England (1824) by James Mornier. Baba secretly hopes to marry her, but she loves another. She is left disconsolate, however, when she is obliged to marry a third man – a wealthy, but coarse, grocer. Why Lady Susan identified herself with Bessy is not clear.

11.James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Tuesday 3 and Wednesday 4 November 1835

“Wait till tomorrow’s post” did anybody say? “before you answer Lady Susan’s letter”. I would not – I will not – not a day nor an hour nor a minute, nor a second – no not the smallest possible part of the fraction of a Lilliputian second will I wait; and tho’ the letter will not go a bit sooner than if I were to write it tomorrow evening, still I could not be happy if I were to delay a moment in thanking you for your dear letter, my still dearer Susan. And why have you always thought it necessary to make apologies for that you could not express this thing right nor say the other thing properly? Believe me, it was quite unnecessary for you express yourself like your neighbour only a great deal better than the half of them and certainly write with more ease. Write always as you did on Saturday – write as if you were talking to me, and you will not only delight me, but write better than half the professed letter-writers in the land. But even if it had been badly imagined – badly expressed – of which, as I have told you, it was the reverse – would it not still have been welcome to me? Were not the words traced by your hand? Did not the thoughts take their birth from your mind? Had not your eyes looked on the page where now I rested mine? And was not the “Susan Hay” at the end

19 a sort of portrait of you, your representative, your second self? And when all this was so, could I do, have I done, less than read it again and again, and look at it and kiss it as only one who loves can look and kiss? Thanks, double, threefold thanks for it. I have never before experienced so sensibly as now how “hope deferred doth make the heart sick”.[1] I had comfortably settled in my own mind that I could not hear from you till I got to Oxford, when yesterday by dint of our fingers and other means of calculation Aunty and I made out that it was possible I should get your letter at Leamington; and since that time I had been in an eternal fidget – I sate for half an hour before the postman could come and for half an hour after he must have passed with my watch in my hand but alas! no rap came and I left Leamington this morning bewailing. The moment I landed here (for I am in Oxford) I sent a porter off to the Ch. Ch. gate and paced my den in an agony till he came back and came alack! empty handed. I sent him to the right about immediately telling him that there must be letters for me some where and that he must not come to me again till he had got some by some means; and in a little while he did return – beautiful were his feet! – with a whole handful. I seized them from him, shuffled them till I found a Tweeddale in the corner and read your first kind line, my own love. And now I am a little more tranquil, as Jephson calls it, for I really had put myself into a fever, and have taken time to read my remaining letters – most of them congrats of course. Mr Temple[2] – old Temple as he is styled by the multitude – writes very kindly like a good friend and pious man as he is, and vows that he did not go to his own marriage with more pleasure than he thinks he will set off with to perform mine; and Uncle Tom evidently did not expect that he was to be called upon, for I set forth on a piscatory conversation with him, that is to say (being interpreted) I tried to fish this out of him and I succeeded. I am glad of it for I should have been sorry if he had wished to do it and had not; tho’ I honestly confess, Susan, that I would rather be married by Mr Temple than by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Pope and the Greek Patriarch, chaunting a trio! I know you will like him to do it too, for you told me so – at all events you would like him best when you knew him to be the man who for the most part educated me, who above all taught me all the little good I know and put into me those good principles and that knowledge (and as far as he could that practise) of religion without which I know full well you would not have given me or any man your esteem. So he will marry us and depend upon it, dear, we shall be better married by him than by any one else. It is a sort of knot that any body can tie tight enough, but it is not every body that you can think ties it pleasantly and satisfactorily. I have letters too from Aunt Mary – whom I hope you saw at the Grange;

20 she is a dear kind hearted woman and very unlike her daughters – and from Fox Maule[3] – whom I am afraid you would just miss – and from Charles Edmonstone[4] – whom you have heard me mention as my most intimate friend. He is a loveable boy and you will like him very much. I am so glad to hear you felt at home at once at the Castle; and I know my father and mother would be as kind to you as they possibly could; and he will doat upon you if you do but get on a little, for he is a man who feels very kindly and very warmly tho’ his manner is sometimes a little stately in the eyes of young people. As for my mother, she is not only the most warm hearted but the most warm mannered person in all the world – you will soon be one with her, and soon find out, as I have often done, how kind and indulgent and self denying and unselfish a mother she is – in short I do not despair that you will learn to feel as I do when I look at your mother, that she is in good earnest my second mother hardly inferior to my own in the affection with which I regard her. Did you see old Main? Yes you surely would. I hope so, for he is my foster father and looking on me as his only son, though he has a whole squad of sons of his own at home, he would, I am sure, gladly give his little finger to see and speak with you. You may judge how great is the confidence which I place in him and the sort of terms we are on when I tell you that I told him the secret, of course under promise of secrecy, before I left Dalhousie, which I had communicated only to my father and mother and Annie. See what a pin-pointed pen I have been writing with to get as much as possible into my three sheets (for I really could not find it in my conscience to send two letters on the same day, tho’ I could find plenty materials in my head) and tomorrow I shall have more to tell you of my movements. Good Night.

Wednesday 4th. The chambermaid roused me vociferously out of my sleep this morning, dear Susan, to give me your letter; and after reading it I rolled round to reflect upon it, whereby I fell asleep again, whereby I did not get up till very late, whereby I transgressed Dr Jephson and got a headache which I have not had before for a week. I hope it is not a sin to write any letter on a Sunday, for if so I not only have offended myself but I fear I cannot blame you for offending either, and cannot help rejoining that both Annie and Mary Hamilton transgressed likewise. It is great news to me that you were not shy and actually said more than Yes or No in company – go on, my dear, in time you will be quite loquacious! and I am glad too that you went to the Grange for Aunt Mary is very kind and very fond of me and would be pleased to see you; and I condole with you most sincerely on Georgy’s reappearance. She is a hypocrite, Susan, and

21 a gossiper, and both of these are enough to give me, and to have often given me, good reasons for disliking her – setting other reasons out of the question. Don’t say she kissed you? Today I went up into College, saw my old tutor, who was really glad to see me again, which considering he is some what of the character of an iceberg pleased me a good deal; and I have taken lodgings which tomorrow morning I am to occupy [word scored out, now illegible] and to set up my standard for the next three weeks. Your hint about the marrowbones alarmed me so much that I decided at once on keeping myself beyond the verge of temptation, so I determined not to dine in Hall but to have my mutton chop at home: so I progressed towards a pastry cook’s shop which I had known in days of yore, where I secured lodgings in which I can get my dinner quietly and at home – while I have a separate entry which will keep me from passing through all the tarts and pastry, and these being placed in circumstances in which it would be expecting too much from human nature to think that I would not fall! There you cannot, as you say, “pop in and make my breakfast for me”; still your letter will come as your ambassador, and be at least my companion as far as a letter can and be more like you than any other thing or person could. Oh! such a letter-writing as I have had this morning for every body writes and every body must be answered. There were two or three men in the Coffee room who from the piles of paper round me kept eyeing me all the time, satisfied I am quite persuaded that I was at least a Secretary of State. I have written a wee note to Lady Hannah consulting her on a mysterious paragraph which I have seen in the newspapers. Do you help her to decipher its meaning if she is quite at a loss. One more word and I will put an end to this most voluminous epistle. Do, pray do, call me Jem, and I will tell you why. You shrink from it perhaps because it is so familiar, but it is not one bit more so than Ramsay, hardly so much, for in a company of men all roaring my name Ramsay Ramsay you would be doing the same and that you would not like. Then again, to me, Ramsay is a cold, unfamily name, for I was Ramsay at school, Ramsay at College, and Jem only at home; for the same reason James is to me cold as Ramsay for I never was called so except when I was in disgrace. Thirdly, not one of my relations or even my intimate friends ever calls me any thing but Jem, so that really they would not know whom you were speaking of. Fourthly, you cannot well call me so to my mother for it was always my brother’s name, never mine, and she would not like it. Fifthly, if you do not call me by my name from the very first you never will, and Ramsay, you know you will not be always able to call me. Sixthly, when you come to try you will find it easier to call me Jem than Ramsay – it is shorter and less conspicuous. These are six most excellent and unanswerable reasons – the best of all is

22 to come – call me Jem because I ask it of you as a favour – nay more, I will invoke you upon a ground which you cannot refuse – call me Jem, sweet Susan, if you love me! Tell Lady Tweeddale if she means by “waiting for her letter with patience” I shan’t care about it when it comes she mistakes. I shall indeed. Every thing from Yester will be ointment unto mine eyes. Best of all good nights to you, my pet.

Ever your truly affectionate, Jem Ramsay

There now! That’s the name by which I am known to myself and all the world.

Reply – Letter 16

1 Proverbs 13:12.

2 Isaac Temple had been the domestic chaplain of Lord Ramsay’s father, the 9th earl of Dalhousie, and the tutor of Ramsay. At the time of this letter, he was the curate of Longton (Staffordshire).

3 Fox Maule was the grandson of the 8th earl of Dalhousie, and so the cousin of Lord Ramsay. He served as aide-de-camp to Ramsay’s father during the earl’s time as Governor General of British North America, and succeeded as 11th earl of Dalhousie on James’ death in 1860. At the time this letter was written, Maule was the Liberal MP for Perthshire.

4 Charles Edmonstone (1811-1847), the son of the former Tory MP for Stirlingshire Sir Charles Edmonstone of Duntreath, had been among Lord Ramsay’s circle of friends at Christ Church.

12. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Thursday 5 November 1835

I must summon up enough courage to begin my letter in the way I ended it last night as I know you like it, my dearest Jem; so I am in a very good temper, and quite recovered all my fatigue. I hope your weather will not be as bad as is it is here or else I am afraid it will agree too well both with your feelings and mine, and to day for a little variety, it is snowing and so cold that it nearly freezes ones brighter faculties. My sisters are singing, O Lady fair, and “My pretty Jane” at the top of

23 their voices.[1] I have looked in vain two or three times at the chair near the fire to see if you were there – and can not get on at all with my letter in consequence. I showed your picture to Charly and he says, “that’s Ramsay”, so you see he has better taste and more discernment than his eldest sister. My letter is very like a dialogue, short sentences, but I cannot help it. I do not quite agree with Jephson in not allowing you to drink wine, but he ought to know better than me. “Jemmy” and I or me drank your health every night at Dalhousie; we sat together every night and talked to ourselves all about you till Captain Dundas,[2] unhappy man, handed me in to dinner the last evening and I was obliged to divide my charm between both. Helen dined also that night. I think she is rather a nice girl. Georgy made up uncommonly to me but as I told you before I was just as rude as common civility would permit. I do not understand her having taken such a violent affection considering her conduct to you. I have received the most delightful letter from my worthy cousin Henry. I do not know who he thinks most of, you or me. He only concludes by saying that “you are a very lucky person in having such a treasure”, which if he had said I was a very lucky person it would have been more like the thing; however Henry is a very kind fellow and I have not received a kinder or a more sensible letter on the subject. The tremendous quantity of letters I receive and have to say “thank you” is as Aunt Car says very troublesome. “Bye the bye” the Right Hon. Baronet’s letters arrived and he is very much “flatterred [sic] at being allowed to present me with the gown”. I was quite delighted with my visit to Dalhousie, we got on so well; walked with Lord Dalhousie and I hope made myself agreeable; was introduced to your particular friend Mr Maine and also to Mrs Nanny who showed me the great bell that you amused yourself pulling to frighten the people at the house. I am very glad you found Harriet[3] so agreeable; did the idea never suggest itself to you that people and Ladies in particular are always more agreeable when they are married, it improves their disposition very much. Mr Pitcairn did not preach, and we had a sermon “about the end of the world” which only wanted the introduction of the Comet[4] to make it complete, and such a Precentor, no dozen children in a nursery every [sic] sung so out of tune and time, as for not laughing that was impossible, so do not scold nor look “cross”. Bessy says “write something funny to Lord Ramsay and put it for me”. Hannah says “that her guesses can not conjure up any thing interesting or disinteresting and only sends her love which she is sure you do not want.” I have just asked Louisa if she has any message but she is so busily occupied with a new collar that Mama has just given her that all I can get from her

24 is “who did you say”, “who is in want of my love” to which I answered “Nobody” and there the affair ended.[5] It is a [sic] very difficult to end a letter in a genteel way, so good bye. I need not say “Forget me not” as I did once to a very faithful friend of mine. Good Bye, dearest, shall I put it dearest Jem “and believe me”; you believe me already so that will not do.

Ever your affectionate distinctive little pet, Susan G. Hay

Reply – Letter 21

1 ‘O Lady fair’ and ‘My Pretty Jane’ were popular songs of the period. They were written by Thomas Moore (1779-1852) and Edward Fitzball (1793-1873), respectively.

2 Probably Captain Henry Dundas (1799-1863), a Royal Navy officer and the second son of Robert Dundas of Arniston.

3 Harriet Kinloch, wife of Lady Susan’s uncle Thomas Hay (see Letter 5, note 2).

4 In the Book of Revelations, on the blast of the third trumpet a burning star – interpreted by some as a comet – falls from the sky and poisons a third of the Earth’s fresh water.

5 Bessy (1820-1904), Hannah (1818-1887) and Louisa (1819-1882) were sisters of Lady Susan. Bessy is also referred to elsewhere in the correspondence as Bess, Betty and Bet. For Bessy, see Figure 7.

13. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Thursday 5 November 1835

No letter this morning! And no reason why there should not; on the contrary you said yesterday “good bye till tomorrow”; not a scrap is there, however, from any body; and it as of no use, here in Oxford, sitting down to guess; so dearest Susan, I gave up wondering and sate me down in silence – feeling very much like an Indian prisoner, whom I have read of, being delicately larded with porcupine fat before a large fire – a dressed dish, a good deal in vogue it seems, among these warrior gourmands – he felt very uncomfortable but held his peace! and so did I, making up my mind as well as I could to this maigre day.[1] I call it a maigre day, for your letters are in deed my “daily bread” and tho’ doctors say that an occasional maigre day is a wholesome mortification for the flesh, I am not quite prepared to grant that a similar

25 short allowance of letters is anything but a simple mortification for the spirit, unredressed by being either (la! what a one armed sheet of paper! like General William Stuart![2] I have only just discovered it) pleasant or profitable. The post brought me from the South a most Aunt-like epistle from Lady Cornwallis,[3] which I have answered with all speed; and from its very gratifying contents it does well deserve so speedy an answer. She goes to Brighton tomorrow. Upon my word, my Lady! you treat my picture vastly cavalierly – “vulgar” and “sloped shoulders” forsooth – and all this too when I have often been heard to say, and now say it again, that it makes me a much better-looking fellow than I am or ever will be; and you may deny that what I say is true, if in your conscience you can – there’s a challenge. I confess to the sloping shoulders but I know it was very like my neckcloth and a perfect fac-simile of my coat, and the only fault I had to find with it was that it was too good looking. Behold me! seated in my lodgings – which in pursuance of my determination to keep myself as far as possible beyond the reach of temptation by marrowbones and pie crust I have taken over a mutton- chop-shop – having just discussed[4] 4 mutton chops (oh I should have liked a potato) and where I should be happy to have the honor [sic] of your ladyship’s company on any day, and on that day – yes by Epicurus![5] on that day – I will have marrowbones, tho’ Dr Jephson should go down on his own marrowbones to prevent me.[6] As yet I have hardly turned round in the room yet; have not made acquaintance with the furniture, am only on bowing terms with the arm chair and have ventured on no familiarities with the sofa. Tomorrow I shall be able to give you something of an idea of my position. But you, dear, I see clearly in my mind’s eye just sitting down to dinner (five minutes past 6 – we dine at 5 here), with your back to the fire [illegible – page damaged] no chair where a chair ought to be between you and Mamma. Och och I wish I was there. Tomorrow morning I shall go into Chapel and see who is here. Your friend Maidstone[7] I have heard of – he is here but I have not seen him yet.

Remember Remember The 5th of November The Gunpowder treason and Plot.

26 Have you had a Guy Fawkes? plenty of old hats and coats about the house to make one of I’m sure.[8]

Ever, dearest Susan, yours truly attached, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 18

1 In the Catholic Church, a maigre day was a day of abstinence from meat. By extension, it was used to describe food – especially soup – lacking in meat, and more widely applied to a lean day.

2 Lieutenant William Stuart (1788-1837) had lost an arm as the result of a wound received at the battle of Quatre Bras (16 June 1815). His brother was the laird of Eagelscairnie, Haddingtonshire, and so the family would have been well known to Lady Susan.

3 Lady Louisa Gordon (1776-1880), wife of Charles, 2nd marquis Cornwallis, and Lady Susan’s great-aunt.

4 To consume food and drink, especially with leisurely enjoyment.

5 Epicurus (341-270 BC) was a Greek philosopher who believed that the purpose of philosophy was to lead a happy, tranquil and self-sufficient life free from pain and fear. Although he and his followers ate plain food and eschewed excess, by the time Lord Ramsay was writing, Epicurean was a popular byword for someone who liked eating and drinking extravagantly.

6 Lord Ramsay inserted in the top margin of this page: ‘(ah this sheet has its proper complement of legs and arms)’.

7 George Finch-Hatton (1815-1887), Viscount Maidstone. He and Lady Susan shared a common ancestor in the 4th duke of Manchester.

8 Guy Fawkes Night, held annually on 5 November, commemorates the failure of Guy Fawkes and his fellow Gunpowder Plot conspirators to kill King James I of Great Britain on that date in 1605. A traditional aspect of the celebrations is the making and burning of a ‘guy’, an effigy dressed in old clothes.

14. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Friday 6 November 1835

I suppose you are now settled at Oxford, my dearest Ramsay, in a little room about the size of your dear Aunt Moncrief’s,[1] writing to me perhaps at the same time I am writing to you at one o’clock which it is now, the children all in the room chattering right and left, Aunt Jane,[2] Bessy and little Jane[3]

27 singing “My Father’s Land” to enchant me and make my ideas flow more rapidly than they generally do. “the three babies” and Aunt Jane were going to see an old woman who lives at Coalston Mains. I must explain her genealogy: she is my nurse’s husband’s mother, she is a very nice old body (as all people are that come from Coalston) but she is [a] very pious, good woman which goes a great way in my eyes. I have not told you about my beautiful presents. I shall be so smart you will not know me; perhaps you have seen them already but I shall not deprive myself of the pleasure of telling you, the first is a set of turquoise and pearls, necklace, earrings and so on. Secondly, as Mr Thomson says, a beautiful India shawl which Somerville tries to make me believe is much handsomer than the green scarf embroidered in gold and which I do not intend to believe because the one is very useful and the other flatters my vanity, and Lady Dalhousie says she never expected to see it look so well as on “my pretty person”, the last three words are an addition of my own. Your last letter was rather a melancholy one to send so far, and to allow me to think that you were in doubt whether the affections of my heart are as strong towards you as they ought to be; how can I tell you that they are? I am afraid my conduct sometimes does not show to you what my feelings are towards to you. I know some people think I am devoid of affection all together, but I can assure you that when my affections have been given as they have been to you that I feel with that with you and you alone, I am sure of happiness; believe me and though I am now happy, yet I shall be still happier if I was quite confident that you did not entertain any gloomy doubts about my love for you. Mama says she will give me great credit if I write a coherent letter, of which you will be the best judge as I never read my letters over. Bessy wants you to write to her some day, but her wishes have rather decreased since she found out she will be obliged to answer it, so when you have time write to her and as difficult a letter to answer as you can; insist upon an answer, and we shall have the fun of seeing poor Betty’s [sic] face get so red and so white at the idea of your seeing anything which she has written.

Again, farewell, ever your’s, my dearest Jem, your Susan G. Hay

Reply – Letter 23

1 Elizabeth Moncreiffe (1790-1842) was the daughter of the 8th earl of Dalhousie and so Lord Ramsay’s aunt (see Letter 1, note 1).

28 2 Jane Hay (1796-1879), daughter of the 7th marquis of Tweeddale.

3 Jane (1830-1904) was one of Lady Susan’s sisters. She is also referred to elsewhere in the correspondence as Jany.

15. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Friday 6 November 1835

So, it seems you did write on Monday after all, but did not take the trouble to get it franked, and there I was left fasting, though food was cooked only not dished and sent up! “Oh fie!” Mind you, my dear Susan, I don’t expect you to write every day as you seem to imagine. Nor should I have any sort of satisfaction in your letter if I thought it was written just because it was expected. Pray don’t think of writing, at least unless you are yourself inclined to do so at the moment, for all sorts of extortion are bad, even an extorted letter. I write every day because it is an employment to me and a relief. I have nothing else to do, I have nobody to talk to. I can’t talk to you, and therefore I write to you – but your case is quite different, and once again, prithee, don’t write unless from inclination to do so at the time. How did you like my cousin, Fox, I wonder. You did not find him the sort of carnivorous animal that the Tory newspapers would make everybody believe the radical member for Perthshire and every radical member is. Fox is a warm-hearted, good-humored [sic], generous, pleasant fellow, but for his course of politics – “oh breathe not its’ [sic] name, but let it sleep in the shade”.[1] This morning I donned my cap and gown, appeared in College and went to Chapel. How the sound of the first sentence of the Latin Matins did stir up old recollections and transform one into the Undergraduate again! and as I bent my head over the cushion, and listened with closed eyes to the voice of the chaplain and to all the well remembered sounds of the College Chapel, my old habits revived in me as though they had never been interrupted; my old inclination rose up in my heart; and I thought (pardon dear Susan) how I should like to return to my old occupation, and shutting myself up in my room pile the books round me till they invaded my ears; manage my own time; direct my own studies; control my own fate; and (most precious liberty of all) poach my own eggs for breakfast. In truth, tho’ absent from all I most love and without intercourse with what I am most interested in, today I have received much pleasure. In these detestable days of change, it is refreshing to wander round the

29 unchanged walls of any place, where you have passed some of your years and no place so fruitful as College in the associations and the recollections of past days, days of anxiety, and anxiety, perhaps, as intense and as bitter as any which life in general supplies (though those who have expressed anxieties in more serious matters of life, and who have never undergone this particular trial, do not easily believe the excessive pain of mind which is almost invariably endured by candidates for University honors [sic]); and days too of vast pleasure – days in which are laid the foundations of most, and certainly of the most enduring of your friendships, and which have many delights peculiar to themselves, which no after years can ever afford. Every niche in the Architecture shelters some tale, every bridge, every milestone is a landmark for your memory; and every church tower is a sort of tombstone of some by-gone ramble in merry company. And just while I am writing, there goes old Tom! (By the bye I must introduce you to Thomas. He is the great bell of the College, the largest bell in England, and he strikes the hours with most glorious emphasis: in short he is a well known character is “Great Tom of Christ Church”). And he does ring out his hundred and one strokes superbly; when every night,

“swinging slow with sullen roar”[2] he tolls the curfew; and warns all the little boys that it is time to be locked up.[3] As I have told you, sweet, you are my principal outlet for all I am thinking and doing just now; you must therefore make up your mind to hear me twaddling on for ever about college and college friends and college days – while college is within my view – and should you ever get bored with it beyond endurance, it may perhaps appease you to remember that I added at the end of the first out break of my ecstacies [sic], that I would give all – ay every brightest day that ever I spent at College – to sit for but one hour with you in the little arm chair by the fireside at Yester; that I would rather be resting there now, as we were wont, you with my hand in your’s [sic], while my other arm was round your waist, than be revelling in all the pleasures of the wildest student; and that I would not exchange the privilege of pressing one kiss upon your cheek for all the ivy chaplets that ever were placed on a student’s brow for victory! If I were willing to make the exchanges I should be a fool, for I should be bartering the exercise of the best affections of the heart for what at best would be but the indulgence of a visionary fancy. I should be throwing away from me the prospect of a solid and enduring happiness for the momentary triumph of gratified ambition. In short (if you would like all this sense (and good sense, and sincere sense it is) rendered into nonsense), I would not exchange this same seat in the armchair etc etc with

30 you to be admitted to the most violent flirtation with every one of the Nine Muses that ever god, demigod or mortal was permitted to engage in!! Thank your good Mamma for her letter which in spite of all her affectation of humility she knows was very welcome. What, want more things in Edinburgh! How many wadded black petticoats do you mean to have? Coalstoun is not I believe a very cold house.

Love, best love to all your sisters.

Ever, dearest Susan, ever your’s only, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 20

1 Based on the opening line from the poem ‘Oh! Breathe Not His Name’ (1803) by Thomas Moore.

2 From ‘Il Penseroso’ (1645) by John Milton.

3 ‘Great Tom’ is the hour bell in Tom Tower, Christ Church. It chimed 101 times every night at 9.05 as a signal for students to return to college and for all the Oxford colleges to close their gates. The number of chimes betokened the 100 original scholars plus one added in 1663.

16. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Saturday 7 November 1835

I could not allow, dearest Jem, notwithstanding all my resolutions, my very very impertinent sisters [to] write their very impertinent letters without sending you also a few lines, few they may be, because I have spent all my ideas upon some of my worthy Cousins, Henry and his two sisters; “thank you” for congratulations of course to which I have answered, since they approve so much of me they had better follow my worthy example. Lady Dalhousie is so kind, too kind shall I say; she sent me such a beautiful veil which you will see some day or other about the end of December; it is extraordinary to relate that the Duchess of Bedford gave Mama a veil before she was married the very same pattern as mine. [Illegible] Jemmy I mean and I are going to walk off to Coalston and see and review the house; you know I did not follow my madcap sisters the other

31 day when we rode there. The Mob and their leader poor dear Mr Roxburgh[1] are getting on pretty well, that is to say better than usual; Gifford[2] has not been in disgrace since the last time which you remember. Poor Gif I wish he would give up that shocking propensity of his; notwithstanding all his faults I get fonder of him every day and particularly as he is so desperately in love with you. You will have enough to do to read all Louisa’s nonsense about me and now Papa has promised her a penny a line she will write a volume more; some parts of what they say [may] be true, not all. I got a letter today from dear little Harry;[3] in a very bad state I am afraid, a very nice letter; he says that I am just entering life as he is preparing to leave it; his medical attendants not giving him any hopes of recovery and certainly not of any future usefulness; Sophia Lennox[4] has told me he was in a very bad way; he is perfectly aware of his state. “By the bye” you promised to write to Sophia Lennox on the well known subject of the wife to tell her when you might claim one in another shape than a book. I must cross my letter, I am so lazy I cannot get another sheet of paper.[5] I shall say Good Night now as I am going to bed, so Good night dearest Jem (I am perfect now).

Ever your’s, Susan Georgiana Hay

When I have a longer name I will not be able to scribble Georgiana at full length and must disobey Sophia Lennox, who wished to keep me company in signing my name at full length, nobody she says in the United Kingdom doing [so] but herself, as it was a freak of old Dowager Duchess, called by her more respectful nieces “Aunt Peg”.[6]

“Jemmy” sends his love.

Reply – Letter 25

1 Mr Roxburgh was tutor to the marquis of Tweeddale’s children.

2 George Ramsay (1822-1862), Lord Gifford, the eldest son of the 8th marquis of Tweeddale. He is also referred to elsewhere in the correspondence as Giff/Gif.

3 References later in the correspondence suggest that this is the Church of England priest Henry Blunt (1794-1843), who had been presented earlier that year to the rectory of Streatham (Surrey) by Susan’s great-uncle, the duke of Bedford.

32 4 Sophia Lennox (1809-1902), the daughter of the 4th duke of Lennox.

5 i.e. she has written over one of the previous sheets. See Figure 11.

6 Perhaps Charlotte (1768-1842), the wife of the 4th duke of Lennox.

17. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Saturday 7 November 1835

There came this morning, my dearest Susan, a most astounding despatch from the Castle, which my man astonished me by delivering, a good load for both hands, with the assurance that it was “a letter, my Lord” – it contained among other literary matter a neckcloth, a glove, and sundry other articles of wearing apparel! and was franked by the Undersecretary who, you know, can send free any weight.[1] What a pity that you missed so good an opportunity of paying me a visit easily and incognito by putting yourself into an envelope and with “F. Maule” written on your back, jumping out in my face when I broke the seal like the figures of monks which you have seen in sham snuffboxes. With this Golia[t]h of a letter there were however some minor ones from the Castle, lamenting of course over your departure. It is the fashion never to tell anyone what another thinks of them lest it make them blush. I know you are calm and composed dear, and moreover I cannot see your blushes and I have no reason, therefore, not to tell you what my father says, in a few lines I have from him, about you. He calls you “a very sweet and nice person” and “in every point a most prudent and excellent choice to secure your happiness in life, in which we are all so intimately interested”. Since first I knew your character and yourself, my reason and my heart both dictated to me that you would be a “prudent and excellent choice”. I have chosen you, dearest, and I would that you could you [sic] look this moment into my heart, and see there how full is my confidence that I shall never find that I am disappointed in my choice. And, yet, it is a fearful power in one woman’s hand, for it is indeed true as my father has said that with you rests the happiness of my life – that happiness “in which all of them, and many, many more are so intimately interested”. You know your power – oh dearest Susan, use it wisely. When I said just now that “many many” were interested in my happiness it includes more perhaps than you can have an idea of, and comprehends a circle exceeding far beyond relations and friends. I am seldom – I may almost say never – in the habit of alluding to my own position to others,

33 but to you, to whom my thoughts are now even as your own, to you I can speak without reserve. And to you I can say that I know of the very high position in which public opinion has placed me. I am quite aware that the transactions of last winter gave to men an idea of my talents which I am satisfied in my own mind are overrated,[2] but which idea nevertheless men will entertain; and I know that I was held forth as something wonderful – and that throughout Scotland my name now stands as high as that of any man of my own standing in it; I believe I may say, without breach of modesty, higher than any man’s of my own standing; and that I enjoy at this moment a reputation greater perhaps than it often falls to a young man’s lot to hold – with the advantage of this reputation, I am the object of considerable interest, more especially with that class who, religious themselves, gave me credit for being a great deal better man than I am; and who set a great price on what they fancy will be the effects of my being a champion for them and an example to others.[3] I said no more than was correct, then, when I told you that there were “many many” interested in me and I doubt not that many a prayer has gone up for you and for me from those who, tho’ they never looked upon either of us, yet have learnt that our fate is now united, and feel that interest in both which they originally felt for me alone. I would not say to living mortal but yourself what I have now written, and I have written it to you now because you have a claim to know your own position (for my position is your position) and because I feel sure that being acquainted with the ground on which I stand when I take you as my heart’s choice, you will aid me, hereafter, in maintaining this same high position by all the assistance which as my wife you can give me. This is a long serious letter, dear Susan, but I know quite well that you feel we are taking a serious step, and which must sometimes be seriously talked about and I know well, also, that though you love a laugh dearly and will laugh when you can (wherein you are quite right by the bye) that you can talk both seriously and sensibly, when need be. I have just now read over my letter and I alter nothing in it. You will be glad to know my father likes you, and what a comfort you will be to him. You will feel proud of the position which I occupy, if you were not aware of it before; and you will be happy, I know you will, in the thought that it will be in your power, as my wife, to help me to bear all the anxiety and endure the labor [sic] of such a position, to prevent as far as possible men’s expectations of me being disappointed, while if their expectations are fulfilled, if I make myself useful to my country and gain

34 its distinction, you will be proud to share its distinction with me. I can’t run away into nonsense again tonight – so may God ever help you, your’s your’s your’s, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 24

1 Fox Maule was at this time undersecretary of state in the Home department.

2 Lord Ramsay is perhaps referring here to his participation in the recent general election, when he stood as the Tory candidate for Edinburgh. Although unsuccessful, he was praised for his performance at the hustings and for the manner in which he accepted defeat.

3 Lord Ramsay is perhaps referring here to his involvement earlier that year in the revival of the Protestant Association, the members of which were anxious to defend the Protestant constitution and the Protestant religion against what they thought was the increasing influence of popery, especially in Ireland.

18. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Sunday 8 November 1835

Yes I say again, dearest Jem, that the miniature intended for you does not make you half as good looking as you are and is just like what I said before very like a clerk and Mama agrees and so does Papa and Aunt Jane and Uncle Edward[1] and every body that has seen the original; so you see it is not my bright imagination alone that has found the picture to be unlike you; did you want a compliment or was it a little of my art you were practising when I ask you with an innocent face to say what I know you think. Enough of the picture, why will you always style that cousin of yours and mine “Your friend Maidstone”; he is no friend of mine; I only teazed [sic] you about him in the same way I do about another person (who, if it will please you, I dislike as much as a Christian ought) because I know you do not like him, only for a little fun which I will give over soon – you need not be afraid that I fell in love with him, I only saw him for one night and certainly I had not time even if I had been inclined, so do not call him my friend anymore. I think they might be a little more complimentary to me in the Newspaper than to say that my only recommendation was my youth, “the youthful

35 Lady Susan Hay eldest daughter of the Marquis of Tweeddale and grand- daughter of the Duke of Manchester” Morning Post[2] – so I suppose my youth and my being the grand daughter of the Duke of Manchester are my only recommendations. Will you be so kind, so very good and so very obliging as to enquire if there is not at Oxford a young man studying for the Church of the name of Solomon Malan, a son of Malan’s at Geneva.[3] If there is such a man will your kindness extend still farther and ask “what is thought of him”, “if he is getting on well”, “if he is steady” and, in fact, “if he behaves properly” – he was my brother Giff’s tutor and as he is a foreigner and rather a little conceited we want to know how he is getting on; he was a shocking character when with us five years ago; told lies by whole-sale and ended by saying Mama wanted to cheat him out of his salary and various other mean things; he is married, unhappy woman I pity his wife, and they have a son and heir; this is a message from Aunt Jane, who wishes you to ask about him. I kissed or rather (the Passive voice) “I was kissed by Georgy Hay”; it was not my fault indeed or else it would not have happened. O.O.O. “do not look cross”, “do not scold”, “do not swear”, I will be a good girl next time and I will turn my back when I see her. Hannah and Miss Hathorn are witnesses I could not help it; if I was at Oxford I would go down on my knees and beg pardon. I am so sorry I did not write to you, but I was in Edinburgh both days. I am trembling lest the post should come tomorrow and I should not get a letter from you? I can safely say as far as my will is concerned Good Bye till to morrow to day Good Bye (dearest Jem) is not this too familiar. I am going to bundle up stairs to put on my blue gown for dinner; your dinner is over now, do not drink too much whiskey like a good man. Lady Dalhousie eats three grapes because you are not there. Good bye dearest dearest Jem, ever your’s very loveable, Susan Georgiana Hay Sunday for shame, Mrs Hamilton is here again.

Reply – Letter 27

1 Edward Hay (1799-1862), son of the 7th marquis of Tweeddale. For Aunt Jane, see Letter 14, note 2.

2 The following note had appeared in the Morning Post on 5 November:

36 ‘It is rumoured that a matrimonial alliance is on the tapis between Lord Ramsay, only surviving son of the Earl of Dalhousie, and the youthful Lady Susan Hay, eldest daughter of the Marquis of Tweeddale, and grand-daughter of the Duke of Manchester.’

3 Solomon Caesar Malan was born in Geneva in 1812. In 1831, he came to Britain as the tutor to Lady Susan’s brothers. Despite being able to speak a number of languages, his English was still imperfect and according to his son this was partly why ‘the young tutor found much that was decidedly uncongenial in his new life’ (Malan, A N. Solomon Caesar Malan, D.D.: memorials of his life and writings, London, 1897, 29). He left the marquis of Tweeddale’s employ the following year, travelling in England for a while before pursuing his studies at Oxford University. Noted for being conversant in about eighty languages, he also rose to prominence as one of Britain’s leading orientalists.

19. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Sunday 8 November 1835

“Ever dearest Jem” and then “are you not pleased?” My dear, I’m ecstatized, I’m electrified, I’m galvanised, I’m dancing mad so pleased am I; and all before you got my letter about it too. In consequence of the dancing turn which the madness has taken, I could get up, Sunday as it is, I could sing to myself for music, tho’ I know that

You must not sing on Sunday Because it is a sin[1] and dance a jig with every one of my chairs singly; waltz with my own chair, because she has the advantage of wheels and besides is growing rather corpulent; and then walking a minuet with my sofa to rest myself and accommodate my demonstrations of feeling to her age and infirmities, dash out and rattle with the poker and shovel and tongs through Sir Roger de Coverley![2] Indeed I am very glad of it; it is so much more intimate, so much more natural, so much more domestic, so much more affectionate in its sound to my ears than any other name you can call me by. Spell Coalstoun with a U -TOUN, my Lady, and you will be quite right in your spelling as I think you are in your decision about going there. I am all for every body going to their own house, at once! – and besides we shall be as much alone there as at Bowhill, while we shall have no fear of spoiling fine furniture before our eyes; not to mention that the legion of tall gentlemen in red coats and yellow continuations[3] would be quite enough to frighten me away with the thoughts of their crowding about your chair at dinner as they always do, and insisting on foot-maning you at every turn. I hate them

37 and to confess the truth I am afraid of them. It is the fashion nowadays for a newly married pair to rush away into the wilderness for a fortnight, in that way, to make one another’s acquaintance, since they seldom do it before the marriage, and after they return to the world when this fortnight has passed, they have very little time to do it then. We know each other, happily, pretty well already, and therefore there will not be the same necessity for our driving off “far in a wild, unknown to public views”.[4] And I think we shall contrive to enjoy the acquaintances we have made at old Coalstoun tolerably well. What think you? Nevertheless it was very kindly done in the Duchess, and as she always is – the most considerate and most obliging of friends. She told me to say to you that she “insists upon your feeling quite at home with her and regarding her in the light of an old friend of mine.” I am sorry then to see that your plan of going to Drumlanrig is going to evaporate; but I suppose it must be a very awful thing for a girl to be so bestared [sic] as you would be. Did the Cockpen Congregation stare you quite out of Countenance? After all, the thing I said you would find in the inkstand in my room, and which you accuse me of being so “mysterious” about, was only the little book “White Lies”[5] with the mimicry of my R. in the beginning of it, which was the first present you gave me and which I wondered if you would recognize. Lady Hannah’s glove arrived here yesterday among sundry other nonsense that Mary and Anne scraped together to put into Fox’s overgrown frank. Has Lady Tweeddale carried off Pincher. I am rather distressed that I did not bring him up now, for he would have been somebody to talk to; one or two old acquaintances have come dropping in upon me from different quarters, and we have had divers talks over old times and have reckoned up the killed, dead and wounded – killed, that is, either by death or marriage, and of which there is a most incredible number. By the bye, the “youthful Lady Susan Hay” figured at full length in the Post,[6] as I suppose you would see. Did you blush? I did not, which was extraordinary! don’t you think so? This morning in chapel I met Maidstone. He is just going in for the examination for his degree. He has been reading very hard and deserves, for that reason, the “honours” as they are called which he is to try for. Whether he gets a first class, which are the “highest honours”, or not, he will have, I have no doubt, a very good place. I had a long letter yesterday from Isabella Houston, my mother’s old friend you know (and who was so near being your Aunt, you also know!), who gives you her blessing. She ends with a long story about old Davidson the confectioner in Edinburgh[7] being ambitious about making the Bride’s cake – a matter which being purely domestic and foreign to my province, more especially since Jephson has cut me off from all the enjoyments of the flesh in that way, I don’t meddle with more that to mention the aforesaid

38 Comfit-maker’s name for Lady Tweeddale’s information if she needs any. In the mean time I am obeying Dr J. most rigorously eating mutton mutton mutton for ever, so that by the time we meet again I shall be, I dare say, as all his patients are said to become, “ashamed to look a sheep in the face!”

Good night, my “youthful” dearie, Your most true R.

Reply – Letter 24

1 A popular nursery rhyme of the period, based on an old Suffolk proverb. The full verse ran:

You mustn’t sing on a Sunday Because it is a sin. But you may sing on a Monday, Till Sunday comes again.

2 Sir Roger de Coverley (also known as the Haymakers) was a popular country dance.

3 Trousers or knee-breeches were sometimes known as continuations as they ‘continued on’ from the waistcoat. Lord Ramsay appears to be describing the livery of the duke of Buccleuch’s footmen.

4 A line from ‘The Hermit’ by Thomas Parnell (1679-1718).

5 This is perhaps Amelia Opie’s short story, which formed the second volume of her New Tales, 4 vols, London, 1818, rather than the farce of the same name by Joseph Lunn first published in 1826.

6 See Letter 18.

7 Francis Davidson was a confectioner based at 47 Frederick Street, Edinburgh.

20. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Monday 9 November 1835

And has your anger all evaporated? I am rather displeased with you in my turn; how could you, dearest Jem, suppose for one moment that it was anything but a pleasure for me to write to you; the reason I did not like to promise at first was I was afraid your [sic] were very difficult to please; now I see you are not I can write a short letter every day, unless I am cross which I never am now.

39 Gifford was afraid you had forgotten him, so he scribbled this beginning to my letter and what he says is true, he did not see mine because I [three words scored through, now illegible] (what mistakes I make, as bad as Papa) I covered it with a piece of paper, and held it all the time he was writing.[1] “Jemmy” has added some thing to the next Page – do not be afraid this was all done before I began.[2] I began to read “the Wife” and I have read the first volume,[3] but tonight (do you put two oo in to- or one? I never know) Mama says I am not to continue it. I suppose she is afraid I shall lose some of my native simplicity before she puts me into somebodys hands – do you think it will do me any harm? I am so tired. I went out to ride to Coalston with Mr Hamilton, and poor man his leg was nearly broken by “Mary Jamieson” who kicked out seven or eight times and hurt his foot very much and also his own horse, and I was not much frightened. I behaved very well at least Mr Hamilton says so. I do not know what you would say. After that we went all over the house at Coalston lighted a fire in the sitting room down stairs and warmed ourselves – Mr H, Ramsay and I or me. I think it a very nice house, the little sitting room down stairs particularly. Good bye, Good night and may all that is good happen to you; do not fall in love with Oxford. I am going to write to Miss Loyd (tiresome woman).

Ever dearest Jem, your’s “youthfully”, Susan Georgiana Hay[4]

Reply – Letter 29

1 Written at the top of the first page of the letter, in Lord Gifford’s hand: ‘Suky, I am not going to read, only let me sign my name to Jem that he may not forget me. Your’s affectionately Gifford’. See Figure 12.

2 Written at the bottom of the second page of the letter, in Jemmy’s hand: ‘My best love [illegible] J.H.’.

3 This is perhaps The Wife: A Tale of Mantua by James Sheridan Knowles, which was first published in 1833.

4 The following was written, probably by Lady Susan’s sister Elizabeth (1820-1904), on the back of the cover sheet for this letter:

Write to your fat pet Little Miss Bet.

Two lines out of a prize poem. Really I could write better than this if my pen were

40 not so excruciatingly bad. P.S. Oh that you were here to give me a few kisses now and then, they were so sweet I quite miss them. Cross Bet.

21. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Monday 9 November 1835

We have neither snow nor any other weather at which a reasonable man would be inclined to growl, my dearest Susan, but that does not hinder me from calling it detestable. I obey my doctor and do all that in me lies to make myself well, but whether it is his diabolical compounds, or whether it is the air of this place, or what it is I can’t tell, but I have not been as I was or as I ought to be for a day or two past. The fact is, I am fretting, for I cannot make myself content at being away from you, and one smile from your dear merry eyes would do me more good than all the Pharmacopeia of Medicine. In vain Reason comes to me and says: Foolish youth, you know you could not live always with Lady Susan even if you were in Scotland, and if only 18 miles away you would fidget more perhaps than at 300. And then she tirades on about fidgetting [sic] not making the time pass; and January coming in its own time, do what I will; and that three weeks are only 3 weeks (as if I didn’t know, as well as she does, that 3 weeks are neither more nor less than 3 weeks); and bids me be content till I lose the patience she bids me take and roundly tell Reason to go to the Seringapatam[1] or any place where her most tiresome and disgusting discoveries maybe [sic] inaudible. Nonetheless I must be still at all events, if I can’t be content; tho’ it is weary, weary work. I read Byron and I read Shakespeare and I read Horace and Homer and novels and sermons by turns, and sometimes all at once, but time here is a very slow coach indeed. Oh if he would but go down hill to the end of this month! for I don’t so much care about the loss of time afterwards by the lawyers or the painters or plaisterers [sic] or any others ‘ers’: if I could but see you and speak to you I should be content enough. I have taken a glass of wine today to cheer me and pledge you in – and I think it will do me good. I have always told you Charlie was the most sensible man in the family – you may say to him with my most profound respects and very best love, and to Julia[2] too, for they are my two special little favourites, to cast about in their minds what I shall bring them from England and if they fix upon anything portable, if they dont [sic] choose a regiment of live dragoons ready mounted, or the pig faced lady, or the Thames Tunnel or anything of that

41 sort, I will bring it for them. And so you “don’t understand Georgy Hay taking such a violent affection” for you? No, my sweet Susan, I don’t suppose you do. You are much too high minded to understand her crawling policy. You are far too guileless yourself to be able to conceive her selfish intrigues. Listen while I tell you. Georgy Hay’s wishes are to make for herself as many profitable friends as she can – friends, that is, on whom she may quarter herself at any time or for any time – and to do this she plays off the name of one friend against the other. She will tell you of how dear a friend she is of this person and the other, and having talked ten words to you, she will rush away to another and say, as she has said, how charming a person is Lady Susan Hay! She will hint, as she has hinted, that she is the intimate companion of Lady Susan Hay; she will talk, as she has talked, of the fondness and kindness of Lady Susan and all the Tweeddales for her. She will advert, as she has adverted, to the constant messages which she gets from Yester and she will leave the impression, as she has left before now, that Georgy Hay and Yester are one and the same. Georgy Hay’s object is to make herself your friend, Susan, in order to open the doors of Coalstoun wide for her and be a convenient refuge when no other invitations chance to come. This is Georgy Hay’s object. Luckily for you, I know her well – many years and experience, some troublesome experience, have taught me to know her and I declare to you that I would rather admit the Goddess of Discord herself as the guest of my house than receive that girl as an inmate of it. And for this plain reason that I think you and I are well enough armed in mutual affection to set the very goddess of discord at defiance! While Georgy Hay by her incessant lying and intriguing and flattery, by her eternal gossiping and a mischiefmaking [sic] pen that never rests would be much more likely to disturb us than all the torches of the other. Now do you “understand her taking such a violent affection for you”. Oh! of all revolting objects to me, how it sickens me to see hypocrisy! I have told you something about Georgy’s character already. Some day when we have more time than when we last met, I will tell you more about her. Meantime, believe me, I have used no one term in this letter which is exaggerated, or which I could not literally prove. Helen is a better girl. She is less clever and more amiable – but none of them are worth a single lock of their mother’s gray [sic] hair. It is just a fortnight to-day since we parted. What a fortnight it has been and how it “like a wounded snake drags its slow length along.” [3] One other fortnight tomorrow however I hope to get clear of Oxford. I hope I am not too sanguine in this. Tell Lady Bessy with my love I would write something but a sober letter

42 she would not thank me for and fun to night I have none in me, not as much as would make even a very bad pun [interlined: that’s a P not a F]; and give my love too to Lady Hannah in return for that which she thinks I will not value. She is mistaken, however. I should like, if I could, to make every body love me in that house, and all for the sake of “this my eldest daughter”. Good night pet. May you not have to go to bed with a headache like poor little me.

Ever, dearest Susan, your affectionate, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 26

1 Seringapatam (the anglicized version of Srirangapatna) is a town near Mysore in southern India. It was the site of a siege in 1799 that saw the East India Company and its Indian allies defeat Tipu Sultan, ruler of Mysore.

2 Julia (1831-1915) was one of Lady Susan’s sisters.

3 A line from Alexander Pope’s ‘An Essay on Criticism’ (1711).

22. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Tuesday 10 November 1835

A delightful substitute for your letter, dearest Jem, arrived to day. My horror was great when I heard that there was no letter for me but the production I send you, which you will be kind enough to read, and observe that the P.S. is not the best part of a Lady’s letter alone. I am to make an apology Bessy says for her seal and her writing, because she is still in the schoolroom and only writes from copper plate copies, not a copybook. Jany’s is a natural production all out of her own head upon Mama’s principle of “Write what comes uppermost.” Now I must tell you that I thought that however short a letter from me was, still it would be acceptable. I have not yet recovered [from] my ride to Coalston, and I look “shocking” as Mama says. The truth is I got a little fright as the Coachman is not a good rider, in my opinion at least he is not as much accustomed to me as poor Joe. I thought Mr H. leg was hurt and that if Mary Jamieson did anything in the kicking line as she was very much

43 inclined the whole of the ride I should have nobody to take care of me. Good bye, Good bye, you will come again soon will you not dearest Jem? I am now going to tea.

Ever yours very very affectionately, Susan Georgiana Hay

P.S. Do Oxford letters go to London?

Reply – Letter 31

23. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Tuesday 10 November 1835

I am sadly disturbed, my dearest Susan, by some passages in your last Friday’s letter which I have just received, for I see that I have, most unintentionally, given you pain by that “melancholy letter” which you mention. If I have pained you, forgive me, dearest, for you know that I would gladly cut off all my finger, rather than allow it to write any thing, knowingly, which would vex your gentle spirit. All men are sometimes unreasonable, at least ladies say so – and I believe it is true. It must have been in one of these unreasonable moods that I wrote those words. Not that I ever doubted for one moment that you did really love me (as you seem to suppose). Never, never, but I was heavy in spirit at the time. I had never then heard from you, and from sitting brooding over my own ardent feelings thus, while I had no corresponding avowal of your feeling to compare with them, [and] from a sense in my own breast of the worship with which I worshipped you, I gave some devil the power to tempt me with the thought “Can she love you, do you think, with the same intensity with which you cling to her?”. From a knowledge of my own imperfections, my own faults, my own want of many things calculated to gain a woman’s heart, I came to question whether it was almost within the bounds of possibility that you should feel as sure of happiness with me as I told you I thought myself with you; and then, as I could not be even decently happy unless I knew you to be supremely so [and] as I could not express myself perfectly content with my lot unless I knew you to be equally content with yours, I wrote these words. The next day came your first letter. Before I had read three lines, I

44 regretted the words which I remembered to have written; while the memory now of all your kind, affectionate letters which have reached me since makes me regret ten-fold. And now that from the tone of your last one (containing no complaints, no reproaches, tho’ I dare say, dear lady, I deserve them both), now that from the sorrowful tone of your last one I see that I have given you pain, I detest myself and my hastiness. Once more then forgive me, forgive me; and since you say that “though you are happy now, you would be still happier if you were quite confident that I do not entertain any gloomy doubts about your love for me”, listen and be happy – lay aside every doubt now and forever, when I say to you that loving you with a love so great that one grain more added to it would make it idolatry. I believe that in return you love me with your whole heart, that your love for me has all a woman’s fondness and will endure with all a woman’s constancy. Words cannot say more. By the time you have read thus far you will have forgiven me, my gentle love, I know you will. And never again let us fancy that either of us is less tenderly attached to the other than at this moment we feel ourselves to be, for we both know, as Montrose’s ballad says,

True love begun shall never end; Love one and love no more![1]

Mrs Somerville may be very right but I can’t pretend to decide in these matters. I dare say they are both very pretty and at all events I am glad you like them. My mother has, I see, begun to fulfil an old promise made to me, that if I would furnish certain qualities in a wife she would engage “to find Indian shawls and young cows”! The more ornamental half has come. What between the glass of wine and a long snooze in bed this morning I am better to-day tho’ not yet as I ought to be. We will repeat the same doses and see the effect tonight. This morning I had a long letter from the uttermost parts of the earth in the shape of a congratulation from Crissy Maule[2] near John o’Groats House. She desired something civil to be said to your Ladyship. Horrid bore answering all these matter-of-course letters is’nt [sic]. Not like yours from Henry Ley[3] and divers that I have had – but I mean the civility people’s. It’s cold, cold here today, but no snow yet. However the waters, which are out here all the winter through, giving the town a Venice air and making it look as if it stood in the midst of a lake, are dreary enough; while the East wind coming sweeping across these overflows, rushes against you as if it were set with razors and carving knives and comes like any thing but “music over the waters”. I was going to say something after this, about music and waters, but

45 I was called away to my dinner and I have forgotten it. However now I have returned with my glass of wine in my claw, which I am going to drink. Here’s to your good health, Susan. There it is gone and passing good – right pleasant it was. A man has just been here to tell me about aprons. Would you tell Lord Tweeddale from me that he may have it made in any way or of any stuff he likes. They are usually of camlet to make the rain run off and lined with beaver for warmth, they strap round the waist and may be fastened before or behind or at the side; they are long enough to enable you to set your feet on the end and may have a ledge to put your feet on. Tell him to say which way he will have it and to give his dimensions, round the waist and how long he wishes it. I am getting such a splash pair of mud boots! Poor Susan your turquoise necklace will be a joke to their splendour. I would they were riding over from DC to Yester now and I in them.

Bless thee, dearest; to eternity your’s, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 28

1 James Graham (1612-1650), marquis of Montrose, was the author of a number of poems.

2 Christian Maule (1805-1888) was the granddaughter of the 8th earl of Dalhousie, and so Lord Ramsay’s cousin.

3 Possibly John-Henry Ley, the husband of Lady Susan’s aunt, Dorothea.

24. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Wednesday 11 November 1835

How very ungenteel to write on large paper do you not think so, dearest Jem. I am very glad you are pleased; I will do everything that is right in time; a few days, and sometimes a few hours are sufficient for me to reflect; and do what is sensible though I am such a “laughing” concert. I received two letters from you to day; what a stupid post the Oxford Post is to go to London on its way to Scotland. I suppose mine was a Sunday letter you chose to say was not franked on the proper day.

46 I have heard such a mournful story of poor Hugh;[1] his leaving Yester preyed so exessively [sic] on his spirits that when he got to Grantham where his wife is, he had a severe attack of brain fever; his wife wrote to Somerville in great distress, and said that Hugh had taken quite an abhorrence to drink; poor man I think that if it were not for Page,[2] Mama would be very much inclined to have him back again; our present footman is such a vulgar man and Hugh such a loss we have been obliged to send for things that Robert has left behind at every place we have been lately; now I think you have had enough about footmen, so I shall tell you now that my poor maid is also in great distress; she has lost her mother to whom she and all her sisters were very much attached. You say everything interests you that interests me and both these subjects interest me because I have got what they call a woman’s heart. I was very sorry not to see more of my future cousin Fox Maule; he seems so very kind, though so unlike a Minister; however my worthy cousins George and Harry say he is the only Scotch Member in the House that speaks well; they will not say that some of these fine days do you think they will? I thanked Miss Loyd for her congratulations and told her I thought her very generous particularly as she said when at Yester that she was setting her best cap at you. Poor Miss Loyd, she was sadly disappointed with all her hopes. Very glad to hear my “friend” Maidstone is getting on so well. I hope he is not growing “Conceited”. I always told you he was very clever; did he congratulate you in any new way since he has been studying so much. I have nothing more to say. Oh what a stupid letter. I am as well as possible to day though Mama says I have not recovered my looks yet. Bessy says Good Night and I shall say Good Morning as my letter arrives at Oxford in the morning.

Good Morning, dearest Jem.

Ever your’s, Susan Georgiana L. Hay (full name)

47 Reply – Letter 33

1 Hugh appears to have been a footman once employed at Yester, but let go due to excessive drinking.

2 A Mr and Mrs Page were employed as servants at Yester House.

25. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Wednesday 11 November 1835

A noble paket (I have left out a c there) came this morning my dearest Susan, it was in fact a dromedary of a packet for it had two humps; one of which, from Jemmy, was a famous fellow, and the other I must acknowledge thus – say to Lady Louisa that I lay at her feet the odorous effusions of my ever grateful heart, and that in case she should love this valuable offspring of my buzzum [i.e. bosom], thus laid at her feet, I advise her to tie it to her shoe string. Tell Lady Bessy that I am charmed with her nice longletter [sic] and that I would answer it by this post, only, though I have read with all my might, I haven’t been able to get quite through it. That’s enough for the present. Lady Dalhousie may be kind, but not “too kind”, and so let me tell you she thinks. I am right glad we have got so far. I’ve secured the minister, you have the veil and the bridesmaids. I must pick up a best-man somewhere, some vagabond bachelor who will do “the last melancholy office for me”,[1] and then as Mr Thomson says “what wait us for?” Alack my dear Susan, I have horrid misgivings about the paint not being dry, or the footman not being ready or something or other not being right, for you see nothing will be actively done till I come down. However no time will be lost, that’s sartain sure, on my part. Poor Mr Blunt![2] I grieve for him tho’ I do not wonder at your intelligence. Tell me where he is to be found and I will write a bit notie to him, for old acquaintance sake; or had I better not? Under Jemmy’s guidance I trust you will see Coalstoun to advantage and much I hope you may approve. It is an old fashioned place, but passing comfortable; and when it is one’s Home, it will be as though it were a palace to us. Lady Louisa’s letter gives me a famous diary of your proceedings and tho’ I am quite aware vastly extravagant, I believe it, every word of it. I would not discredit a single assertion in it for anything – nothing so pleasant as being

48 pleasantly deceived. So-so “vulgar, sloping shoulders” – you took it home tho’ for all that! And when you open it, does Mr Blackwood’s apprentice and a “yard of pink ribbon” always come first into your mind? I wish to goodness I had something of the same sort of you, but I have no representative except the signature of your letters and that requires some fancy to turn into a likeness of you; and then when I sit and stare into the fire and see among the red coals Coalstoun (very appropriate situation for it, isn’t it) and bridal favours and Lady Bessy’s face (that’s the colour causes that) and Gifford bridge and try to descry you among the rest, I sometimes can make out a face and figure; but it is provoking enough generally to be much more a sort of compound of Mrs Dobson and the old coachman than “such a pretty girl as I”; and if it does for a moment assume your appearance, in a minute it flits and becomes Mrs Wheat, the cook I mean, with a frying pan in one hand and the drawn sword in the other! To be sure, I have the locket and most sacredly I guard it – it has never left my neck (as a residence that is) night or day, and a good friend it is for I can fish it out every now and then, and both look and touch a something which if not you, was once a part of you, and I can fancy I see its sister curls and then I wonder whether 3 weeks will ever be gone to let me play with them again. Poor locket! it very nearly met with a watery death at Leamington for I had forgotten to take it off before going into the shower bath and only remembered it when I saw it dancing about “mid the pelting of the pitiless storm”.[3] I rushed out and took it off leaving within the influence of the shower one heel, as a representative of the rest of the body corporate. What a heal-ing influence it must have had! My what a bad pun. I am going to write a little billet to Lady Sophia. Tell her when you enclose it that I would have written to her before really, only that I thought it would be impiddent [i.e. impudent], but now as you bid me I will and leave it open that you may see there is no clandestine correspondence! It is all very well laughing at it now, but I thought it highly disgusting at the time – not but what I was delighted at hearing it alluded to and the possibility of such a thing being asserted, but I fancied at the same time that every soul in the room heard what she said as well as I did and that I did not like. However all’s well that ends well; and it has ended well when I can say, sweetest Susan, farewell.

Your very affectionate, Ramsay

I must send Lady Sophia tomorrow for Fox Maule has just surprised me agreeably by walking in.

49 Reply – Letter 32

1 A phrase normally used to describe a funeral, but here being used comically to denote their upcoming wedding.

2 Henry Blunt (see Letter 16, note 3).

3 A line, slightly adapted, from King Lear, III, iv.

26. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Thursday 12 November 1835

How sorry I am, dearest Jem, to hear you have such a bad headache, poor man. I am afraid it is the wine you treated yourself too [sic]. I am obliged to write without lines as Gifford has none, and he is so blind he cannot see when the lines are ruled for him, so if it is written crooked, it is not my fault. John Hay Mackenzie[1] was here yesterday at breakfast and only stayed two or three hours (poor man). He gave me a ring as a proof however inadequate of his love, esteem and I forget what more for me, but now he is going North soon. I do not dislike him quite so much. I am quite pleased that your reason is so much more sensible than mine. I never trouble that Deity much and I do not agree at all that three weeks at all times are alike, the three weeks you have been away are just like three long months; this is the Anniversary of the day I had the pleasure of being first introduced to your Lordship, did you think of this because I did. I wish I could pass this evening with you; if I was to come and pay you a visit, “pop in” as I say, when you have some friends, how they would stare; will you dismiss them if I come. Yesterday I paved the way for what I was going to ask and as I gave you a little of a woman’s heart I am now going to give a little of a woman’s Art and prove to you I am not so guileless as you are good enough to think. I want to ask you if you would try Hugh to be your servant, and only engage him from the time he is wanted like the May term. I think it is quite worth while trying him for so short a time; he is such a superior servant to any thing you meet with; he promised faithfully before he left that he would not drink any more; and he seems now to see the misfortunes his drinking has brought on him. I hope you will grant my request. I have just been telling Mama what I have written and she says if you do take him she will be quite jealous.

50 My own maid is engaged; she is [a] very nice woman; she knew me when I was quite a child but I have not seen her since; she is a very clever woman, quite a pattern in my opinion of what a maid ought to be; she was enchanted to come, she said; I was always such a great favourite of hers when quite at the age of a green frock; her name is Inchelwood. Poor man I pity you to be troubled with such nonsense as maids and footmen. I promise you this is the last letter you shall hear anything of the sort mentioned. I must conclude this business-like letter as I have been dancing with Jif till I am quite tired. Gifford began to night a letter to you “My dear Jem” at which Bessy was horrified because she said that Gifford spelt your name with an e instead of an i and made it gem, upon which Gifford asked Bessy if she did not think that “you were the brightest gem that ere was seen”. This was the interesting conversation which took place which [i.e. when] I was busy writing to you and I was called upon to decide whether your name was Jim or Jem. I do not know which is right myself, but good night now Dearest.

Ever yours, Susan Georgiana Hay

Reply – Letter 35?

1 John Hay Mackenzie (d. 1849) was a cousin of Lady Susan’s father. He had inherited the nearby estate of Newhall from his father, Edward Hay, and the lands of Cromartie from his mother, Maria Mackenzie.

27. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Thursday 12 November 1835

By good luck, my dearest Susan, I had written my letter yesterday morning or your Ladyship, much as my soul cleaveth to thee, would have been for one day starved; for Fox Maule arrived, meeting me among some of these Academic shades much to my astonishment and still more to my delight. He dined with me and has just set off for London, after having been lionized thro’ Oxford in such a manner as to show him more and please him more extremely than could have been the case in the hands of any other cicerone[1] than the one whom his good star gave to him; and which cicerone hopes to have the

51 satisfaction of one day doing the same service to the right honourable Lady Susan Ramsay! Doesn’t it look nice on paper, Susan? dear Susan does it not? During all this cicerone-ing we had, of course, much and various talk. He told me [he] had seen you at Dalhousie and how much he approved of my taste, and (this seriously) how truly he was gratified by the manner in which you received him. He said he could not tell exactly what is was or wherein it consisted, but there was a something, an indefinable something, in your manner towards him which made him feel that you did not regard it merely as meeting of two strangers, and which made his heart smite against his ribs! So you see what victories you have achieved at the Castle. It was kind in you and, be sure, it was kindness well bestowed, for Fox has a real good, affectionate heart. His visit has set me up greatly. How he did grin at me this morning when no letter appeared at breakfast; and when after many consultations about the hour and the postman I was obliged to give up hope, and to look as much as I could, “before folk”, as if I did not care! I heaved a huge sigh or two and drank an extra (oh Jephson) cup of tea to drown my vexation; when all at once my servant dashed open the door with a violence proportioned to the violence of my feelings and presented your letters. Then did I skip like unto a kid, and sent orders up to College immediately to decapitate the postman and bring me his head in the letters bag, which was straightway done for we have some singular regulations here, and as you may judge from this are considerably absolute. Indeed I was not fishing for a compliment about the miniature; and of all my conceits, what ever they may be, I certainly never hit upon being well- pleased with my own phizmahogany [i.e. physiognomy]. I was a very pretty leetell boy once, but that is all away long ago. However, if I pleases you, that is all I want, and care not a bodle what any body else thinks of it. Maidstone (I did not put “your friend” this time) asked me to breakfast the other day, which I declined as I was afraid of all the good things which I would have encountered in that feast “flowing with milk and honey”.[2] Since then I have not seen him, as he is very busy with his degree. Don’t fancy however that I have an antipathy to the youth. I never thought once of him till you one day mentioned his name: his character did not please me here and his bearing still less, but I hear that he has very much improved since the death of his Mother – and I dare say it is true. And she did kiss you, my poor dear pet! I pity you from the bottom of my soul. And how you must have scrubbed your poor face to get it out, as troublesome as Lady Macbeth’s “spot”.[3] I have enclosed you a little salt of lemons to aid your labours; for I have heard it is capital for taking out stains.[4] Read the introduction to the Chronicles of the Canongate – you will find then the name of somebody’s Patent Scouring Drops.[5] They were

52 able to take out the marks of Rizzio’s blood – why not perhaps Georgy Hay’s Judas-like kiss? I will make diligent enquiries after the Solomon. By your account of him it is to be hoped that he has approached somewhat nearer to the qualities of his name-sake than in the days of your acquaintance with him. “Don’t drink too much whiskey” did you say? This is an unnecessary caution, for there is no whiskey here; one might as well look for Ambrosia or Manna or any other beverage equally rare and comfortable. One glass of wine is “all they give to me.” Upon counting I find I have written one more note sheet than usual – wonder what it’s all about; ‘spose I shall find out when I read it over and it does not signify for Fox’s frank carry’s any weight. He was so immensely tickled with the sheet of letter paper which I have found for Lady Bessy that he sat with me today folding it up into all sorts of shapes, planning and squeezing and framing and all as seriously as if he were, as an Under Secretary should be, drawing up some important and voluminous state papers! It will be lucky for us that we shall have two papa-in-laws to have all our heavy letters enclosed to! I hate the nasty little thumbed book, headed “Letter book”, that comes from the post office every month with a great sum chalked at the end which one has to pay long after one has forgotten the letters that caused it.[6] A letter I care for I would pay gladly with its own weight in gold, but your duns and your circulars and your “beg to remind your Lordship that your Lordship’s subscription is due” and all that sort of things [sic] throw speedily dark clouds over my bright skyblue temper. So you see the papas-in-law will have a storm now and then. We shall be horridly poor, but it can’t be helped. For my part the “dearest, dearest Jem” at the close of your last letter is worth to me hundreds a year; and you too will not set a lower value on the words with which I bring this long screed to an end, and with which I tell you once more (will you ever tire of hearing it repeated? I think not) that I am dearest, dearest Susan, your faithfully attached, Ramsay

I send Lady Sophia today. Seal it and send it on when you write. I don’t know where to direct.

53 Reply – Letter 34

1 i.e. a guide.

2 Exodus 3:17, and elsewhere in the Bible.

3 Macbeth, act 5, scene 1.

4 The common name at the time for potassium hydrogen oxalate, which was used among other things for removing ink stains.

5 In the introduction to Chronicles of the Canongate, a ‘cockney’ salesman pays a visit to the palace of Holyroodhouse. On being told by his guide that nothing can remove the blood stains marking the floor where Mary Queen of Scot’s secretary Rizzio was murdered, he produces some scouring tablets from his pocket and proceeds to rub away at the planks. Scott, W. Chronicles of the Canongate, 2 vols, Edinburgh, 1827-28, I, introduction.

6 Before 1840, letters were paid for by the recipient.

28. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Friday 13 November 1835

You were quite right to say all you said, dearest Jem, in the “melancholy letter” I received last week; I only thought it “melancholy” because I thought you were not pleased with me. How very kind of you to give me the pretty Lily I received today, it shall not “waste its sweetness on the desert air”[1] as long as I wear it; this day last year about this hour we were dancing Sir Roger de Coverley and I was dancing with you. Dear Lady Olivia Sparrow[2] wrote me such a kind letter the other day not a “civility letter”; she is such a dear creature I wish you knew her; she said if ever you and I went to London she hoped we would pay her a long visit; if you went to London after Oxford she thought you would think her house preferable to an Inn as it is on the Public road; the name of her place is Brampton, two miles from Huntingdon. She is so excessively kind but I suppose you will not go to London nor stop anywhere that you can possibly help. However remember that I hope you are not going to travel all night for I should have no pleasure seeing you looking ill and tired. Now goodnight. I have been half way to Haddington and back and I am very tired.

So Goodbye, dearest Jem,

54 believe me, yours affectionately, Susan G. L. Hay

Reply – Letter 36

1 A line from Thomas Grey’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’, first published in 1751.

2 Lady Olivia Sparrow (c.1778-1863) was the widow of Brigadier General Robert Sparrow. She lived at Brampton Park, near Huntingdon. Her daughter Millicent married Lady Susan’s uncle, the 6th duke of Manchester.

29. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Friday 13 November 1835

The 13th of November 1835! Does Lady Susan remember the 13th November 1834? Little did either of us think, when, just a twelvemonth ago and about the very hour in which I now am writing, we saw each other for the first time, when to each other we seemed such utter strangers, and our fate so separated, that before the sun shone on the same day again, we should be not only not strangers but children of the same house, our fates united till “death us do part” – ourselves betrothed! And yet, thank God, my own dearest dearest Susan, it is so. It was not till a short time ago, as I was dating a letter to Charlie Edmonstone, that I’ve remembered what day it was and it set me down to a fit of musing. What time may have in store for me I cannot tell – none can tell – how much of brightest good or how much of heaviest woe, it is needless to guess upon but never, I believe, will he send a year to me with so abundant a load of happiness and prosperity on its wings as that which has now come to a close. When it began I was not happy. I felt anxious about the future for there was an impression strong upon my mind that I should not have been placed in the station which I held, by the removal of one brother after another, and that too under unusual circumstances had it not been intended that there should be something for me to do which the future had not yet enabled me to foresee. I had but a dismal house, for my father and my mother were both ill and my situation altogether was not a comfortable one there. I was anxious to study and I could not; I had feelings running over with warm

55 affections and no object on which to lavish them; I was willing to settle myself but knew not whether I should be allowed nor indeed could I for with whom was I to settle? In one word I felt anxious, and lonely and dispirited and in uncertainty of all states the most depressing and the most distressing. Then all my friends were constantly urging me “you must marry you must take a wife”; and it was in vain I said, “So I will when I see one who will be likely to make me happy, which I have not yet seen”; they went on, “Yes you must get a wife, and she must have rank and she must have beauty and youth and talents and accomplishments”; and she had better be an Englishwoman, said some of them; and she must have money said all of them. They varied often on different requisites but however far apart they wandered in their solos, they all returned to one grand chorus and united in saying, “She must have money, money, money”. To all this I answered not a word, but I thought to myself that these were not my ideas of a wife. That in my wife I would not require rank, tho’ I should certainly never choose any whose rank was not suited to my own; I wished for no surpassing beauty; I desired no talent, for brilliancy of talent in a wife is not too apt to produce harmony around the fireside, but rather to produce argument where one looks for concord and perpetual exertion in the scene whither one retires from such things for repose and peace. I thought to myself that whatever came to pass, their chorus at least was likely to fail, since the idea of marrying for money could not rest on my thoughts for an instant – it made my very soul sick – and that, while I knew that my means, tho’ small, still were assured, I would never permit money to weigh with me in my choice, further than that I would fix on one who had prudence sufficient to live as live we could, without permitting her thoughtlessness to lead her astray, nor her wants and wishes to pass over the bounds which were set to them by her means. I thought that I would choose for my wife one in whom gentleness rather than brilliancy appeared; one whose plain sense would enable her to share my troubles and lighten them, as well as participate in my pleasures and be glad with me in them; whose gentleness of temper and cheerfulness and sweetness would make me look towards my home as a refuge ever ready and ever welcome from the stormy debatings and vexations of the world without; one who would not value me for my thing but my own sake; who would love James Ramsay and not Lord Ramsay and in whom there was a mind cherishing firm and upright principles, and a heart which had been nurtured in the fear of God. With such an [sic] one as this, I felt that I would cheerfully set out on life’s troubled journey; that we should travel it together in happiness and in harmony, watching over and correcting each others faults, while each looked forgivingly on the others’ weaknesses; that she would gladly take from me advice and encouragement and support, while I should look to her for sympathy and comfort; that she

56 would lead me away from evil to that which was good, reasoning with me if need be, by her knowledge, and inviting me on by her own sweet example; that I would be her guardian and guide here, staying and guiding her steps in this world, while she would lead mine to a better. I felt that such an one as this would truly be

“The dove of peace and promise to mine ark”[1] or to use the words of a better book she would be one to whom I could say,

“Whither thou goest, I will go and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people and thy God my God … the Lord do so to me and more also if aught but death part thee and me!”[2]

But where was she to be found? I did not know and waited till fortune should shew her to me. Thus I was when this year began and now how am I? My lot is cast, my life’s course is marked out for me. I know my duties and I am ready to engage in them with perseverance and prosecute them with such powers as have been conferred upon me; in what I have already attempted applause has followed me and I enjoy as much of fame as a young man can well look for; sickness has in a great measure left my home, and last and greatest of all, I have now a home of my own; I have found that one with whom I said I could “cheerfully enter life’s journey”, I have found her, with every quality which my own most anxious dreams desired for me – in short I love Susan Hay and I am loved by her. They do indeed say well who tell me that I am “one of the chief of Fortune’s favourites”! I wonder very much if you will remember the day as well as I, if you have not, pray congratulate me among the other congrats! I’m sure you must agree with Henry Ley and think me a very “lucky fellow to get such a treasure”. My head is a great deal too full of you and me, love, to write to anyone else to-night (mark the spelling which you enquired about). Lady Bessy’s ekes and sweet sayings must therefore remain unanswered as well as all Jemmy’s and Giff’s “heads and tails”, their frontispieces and tail pieces or vignettes, whichever he chooses to consider it, till another time; but they shall all have something soon. Besides Lady Bessy will hardly have finished yesterday’s letter yet. Glad your Ladyship likes the parlour below stairs at Coalstoun. That’s my private property, my sanctum, my dear. Will you ever venture in there, do you think, among the books and the papers and the dust and the pens? Or have

57 you now grown intrepid and ceased to be afraid of me or to tremble at my criticisms. I should think so. Mary Jamieson’s accomplishments are by no means ladylike – at least not like a young lady, for I remember my mother in St Peter’s at Rome used to lash out whenever the people pressed on her in a crowd and kick their shins vigorously – it had a very salutary effect! Poor Jemmy’s toeseses [i.e. ?toes] – did he not set off roaring to Gulane [i.e. Gullane] “Mary Mary Mary”, one Mary in prospect the other in retrospect. For once I will sign myself like a Douglas.

Ever, dearest Susan, Your “tender and true”, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 37

1 From Lord Byron’s ‘The Bride of Abydos’ (1813).

2 Ruth 1:16.

30. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Saturday 14 November 1835

I have been writing a long letter, dearest Jem, to one of my delightful family of governesses; the only one among the Few I have had that I ever liked or that ever liked me, and I have taken great pains to write as well as possible that she may show her letter off, and tell her present pupils what a wonderful pupil I was. Papa has just told me the necessary things required for his Peticoats.[1] His waist in the first instance is three feet round, and therefore the tightest hole in the strap must begin at three feet; from his waist to the joint of his foot is four feet and he wants a ledge to put his feet upon; it is to be made large to go well round him, he says he is tired of the “continuations”[2] and intends wearing a peticoat for the future. It is to be made of the Patent Water Proof Cloth and he does not care what it is lined with, provided it is as thick and warm as possible. Aunt G. Baillie and dear Uncle Evan are coming to day with little Car; I

58 hope not young Evan, he is such a bore and unless he has just come from Dr Mayer’s school he is not bearable he is so spoilt.[3] I have nothing more to tell you as I have written this morning early and last night late to you. You must give my civility love to Crissy Maule, and ever Dearest Jem, yours very affectionately, Susan Georgiana Hay

Reply – Letter 38?

1 A petticoat was a long, wide outer garment generally worn by sailors and fishermen. It is possible, however, that Lady Susan is using the word ‘petticoat’ in jest, as it would appear as if the item being ordered was a waterproof apron of the type used by carriage drivers. Sailors’ petticoats and driving aprons had traditionally been made of oilskin or rough canvas, although Lord Tweeddale’s version is to be made of ‘Patent Water Proof Cloth’, a recent invention of the Scottish chemist Charles Macintosh.

2 In this context, continuations were a type of gaiter that attached to knee breeches.

3 Georgiana (1803-1892) was the daughter of the 5th duke of Manchester, and so Lady Susan’s aunt. She had married Evan Baillie of Dochfour (1798-1883) in 1823. They had five children, two of whom – Evan and Car(oline) – are mentioned here.

31. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Saturday 14 November 1835

You ought to have received a letter from me on Tuesday, dearest Susan, for I have written every day since I came here and there was no reason why Tuesday should be a blank day to you, unless it was put into the office too late for the post here. However I shall hope to hear that you got two on Wednesday and if you feel any revenge against the servant for his carelessness you have only to say whether you would like his right hand or one of his ears, and you shall have it without delay. I am sorry to hear your ride to Coalstoun has harassed you and spoilt your looks. All journeys to Coalstoun I hope won’t have the same effect! Mr Willison Glass[1] is a great blackguard so take no notice of him. He has not even the recommendation of being a clever fellow, which would cover a great deal of blackguards in my eyes and some impertinence besides. I have seen so many letters of his and all ending with that mendicant truism “I need

59 not say poets are poor” that I am sick to death of him. Jany’s letter is a great curiosity and I fancy will give me more trouble to answer than most letters or any of “Plain John Campbell!”[2] speeches! I have not tried my hand for a long time at the printing and this she says is quite necessary in the answer for the very good reason that, unless it is so written, she will not be able to read it, and I don’t exactly know what will amuse Jany but we’ll try. This morning I have a very flattering letter from the Royal Company of Archers,[3] expressing the wish of a number of them to give me a dinner while I am still in a single state to show their sense of my etc. etc. etc., all very complimentary, and to shew also their good wishes for my increased happiness. You are the cause of all this you see; and therefore I will trouble you to draw up a speech before I come back which I shall pronounce when your health is drunk. The writer adds in a private P.S. that he congratulates me on thus having determined to become a decent member of Society. N.B. he is a married man himself! It is very kind of them tho, is not it? No our letters don’t go through London but by Birmingham and there is a difference between going North and coming South. The letter you write on Tuesday comes to me on Friday Saturday; the letter I write on Tuesday comes to you on Friday on the 3rd morning to you, on the 4th to me. The reason of this is that your letters lie one day in Edinburgh. I have set about making enquiries, pray tell Lady Jane with my best regards, about Mr Solomon Cesar Malan, “Phoebus what a name”!, and as soon as I can ascertain anything she shall hear from me about him. I hope the box of finery arrived quite safe and that all is very becoming and indeed dear Susan, I will “come back very soon” as you bid me, if I can, to see it and admire it.

Ever, dearest, very affectionately yours, Ramsay

P.S. I have accomplished Jany’s letter, and verily it was fatiguing unto the fingers and is the fruit of much toil and labour. I hope she will be able to read it poor little [illegible – page damaged] – her own was most amusing. In return for your specimen of your correspondence I have enclosed you another, which will do for a sample of mine. “John Brown” is evidently another name for Miss Young herself – tho “my Lordship is well acquaint among the ladies”, as Mr J Brown says, I would not venture on so ticklish a

60 matter in politics as Ladies bonnets – no not even to be “one of the members for the City of Edinburgh” – it is dangerous ground.

R.

Reply – Letter 37

1 Willison Glass was a poet and song writer. His published works included The Caledonian Parnassus, A Museum of Original Scottish Songs, Edinburgh, 1812, and Scenes of Gloamin’: Original Scottish Songs, Stirling, 1814.

2 John Campbell (1779-1861) had defeated Lord Ramsay in the election of 1835 to become the MP for Edinburgh. It was in a speech to his new constituents that he described himself as ‘plain John Campbell’.

3 Originating in 1676 as an archery club, since 1822 the Royal Company of Archers has served as the sovereign’s bodyguard in Scotland. When Lord Ramsay was writing, his father, the 9th earl of Dalhousie, was its captain-general.

32. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Sunday 15 November 1835

Sunday again, what a sin to write on a Sunday, dearest Jem, isn’t it. Gif has begun another letter to you and does not know “what to say”, poor boy, “I do not know what to say”, “I cannot write Lord Ramsay is so particular. I must get one of my sisters to give me a few ideas. Suky cannot you tell me something – beastly writing, I cannot write any where but in the schoolroom such abominable pens”; “dear Lord R.” has been written on two or three different sheets of paper, my poor blotting book has been made pen wiper half a dozen times, and poor Gif’s conclusion is that he must wait till tomorrow when the pens will be better and his ideas will be brighter; tomorrow never comes, so he is safe in his promises. I thought Charles Edmonstone was to be best man; I say it ought to be Black Jem “your friend”. The paint will soon be dry and I have arranged the footmen; I have answered all your misgivings so therefore we wait for nothing. Poor dear little Henry will be so delighted to get a letter from you; he was at Brighton and very stupidly does not tell me where to direct to him. I shall either send mine to 40 Cadogan Place which house I think they have given up or else enclose it to his Curate who is sure to know where he is, the Rev.

61 James Vaughan 159 Sloane Street;[1] do as you please. I am nearly sure he has left Brighton and gone to Devonshire by this time. Very much flattered that “such a pretty girl as I” should turn into Mrs Dobson, what a bright imagination you must have and what clever coals the Oxford coals must be. I am going also to scribble a line to Sophy and tell her [interlined: “Now- like”) to make haste with “Lord Douglas”, as I know he was in Edinburgh nearly all the time that she was at Hamilton Palace with Lady L.[2] Poor Sophia, I wish she and Elizabeth (prime pet) would come and live in Scotland. I am afraid they will be old maids and as Mrs Norton says “Who more disliked than old maids”. There goes the gong, my hair as Bess-like as possible; good man not to go to Maidstone’s breakfast – I admire your self-denial.

Adieu dearest Jem, your’s affectionately, Susan G Hay

Reply – Letter 40

1 The Reverend James Vaughan was the curate of Christ Church, Brighton.

2 This perhaps refers to Lady Lincoln (see Letter 34, note 3).

33. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Sunday 15 November 1835

Did not I always tell you you were “delicate” my dear Susan? And tho’ you always looked as cross as two sticks when I said so, is not this a proof, that you have felt like a misery and looked like a dish clout, according to your own favourite similes, for three days and all because Mary Jamieson kicked Jemmy Hamilton’s shins. Depend upon it, my dear, you are a very delicate interesting young lady! Now don’t be crabbed when you read all this. Your letter this morning is full of miseries and sorrows, what between Hugh and Cowison,[1] a collection of brain fever and black gowns! That story about the brain fever is all nonsense; I don’t believe a word of it and as for its having “preyed on his spirits” I dare say there has been a preying on spirits in the case, but whether it was in the way Mrs Hugh describes or not is

62 another story. You will think me very uncharitable and very far from having a “woman’s heart”, and I may be wrong, but if you have any reason to believe this story is true, perhaps you would like to have Hugh for your own servant? Does your charitableness go so far as that or not? Poor Miss or Mrs Cowison! As you say “her and all her sisters were very much attached to her mother”; her will be very sorry for it for a little while but her will get the better of it, at least me hope so. Now I hearing you grumbling out a long soliloquy (that last word don’t look as if it was right spelt – is it?) in which “criticism”, “over-nice”, “Murrays Grammar”,[2] “bore he is” are the only words I can distinguish, but whom they can be meant to apply to, I have not an idea. This morning I have been at Chapel, and since then heard a very good sermon in the University Church, so that I feel quite at ease in my conscience about sitting down to write on Sunday, even with Jenny’s Anathemas sounding in my ears. I hear Janet Suttie is very ill, and that they are with her in Edinburgh poor creature – she must have great comfort from my dear good cousin Mary.[3] I ought to have written to her long ago, and, sinner that I am, I have never done it yet. I will tomorrow tho; whip me, if I don’t. Mr Solomon Cesar Malan, I love to give him all his names from “History Sacred and Profane”, is an undergraduate of St Edmunds Hall, one of the very small colleges here, distinguished here in Oxford from the other colleges from by the domestic turn which leads them to admit married men among their members; all the other houses being sturdy jolly old bachelors! It will probably be difficult for me to get at his character so far as Lady Jane wishes; but this far I have learnt that for his employments, he is a very learned Oriental scholar, and distinguished therein; for his manners and morals, that he is a “respectable” and “gentlemanly” man, who has got a wife, and visits among some of the respectable men in Ch. Ch.; where the person from whom I derived my information had met him and described him to me as an agreeable man, and a great talker, but no wonder, for the person informed me at the same time that he spoke seventeen languages!! More than this I have not yet learn’t [sic]; or whether he still retains the same taste for telling “lies by wholesale” which you tell me he formerly cultivated. If so he must enjoy every possible facility for indulging his taste, for a man that can tell lies in 17 different languages must have great advantages over other silent mortals who can only carry on business, and lie in a small way, in the vernacular tongue! His wife is the daughter of Mr Mortlock, the china-man; and whether he furnished his rooms with her at the same time that he bought teacups and saucers and a caddy from the Papa in Oxford Street,[4] or not, I don’t know nor do I know whether Mr Mortlock’s [sic] supplies himself with son’s in law by buying them, as he does with children. That he does the latter is certain;

63 for Acland[5] told me he had built several cottages near them and stocked them in this way; and it is evident, to do the man justice, that every thing is done on the most liberal scale, and that nothing is spared in the way of expense, for he gave £28 for one child! I suppose it was what he would call “a superior article”. Dear me, dear me! I am wearying sadly here, and in spite of all my morality and good advice to Jany yesterday, I must confess I find the time hang very heavily on my hands, for I feel a fidgetiness which I cannot account for, but which effectually prevents my settling down steadily to any employment at all. Do you feel this too I wonder? or is it some restless discontented spirit in me alone? Oh if I could see you but for one moment, it would help me through the next ten days famously. All I can do, however, is to send you a kiss, as Bessy required me to do for her. I would blow it to you but the wind is not fair, and I must wait till we have a good steady North wind (steady enough to be trusted with the conveyance of so tempting an article); but as that is uncertain, see, I will put one here[6] instead of on the outside of the letter, as I remember they used to call the little drips of sealing wax. There now; I have put a kiss there for you carefully – and pray admire my ingenuity and don’t say, as you used to do, “you’re an impudent man”. We have a regular English November here – fogs and dampness and darkness and dirtiness and disagreeableness of every kind, quite enough to make every body hang themselves, as they say an English November always does. Oh for good Scottish snow and frost! Good bye today, sweetest. Two more Sundays and then you will see very soon.

Your own, R

Reply – Letter 39

1 Cowison was the name of Lady Susan’s maid.

2 Lindley Murray’s books on English enjoyed great popularity and were widely used both for teaching in the classroom and for individual study. His English Grammar was first published in 1795, with an abridged edition appearing in 1797.

3 Janet Suttie was the daughter of Sir James Grant Suttie, 4th baronet of Balgone, East Lothian. She was terminally ill, and was residing at her father’s house in George Street, Edinburgh. Lord Ramsay’s cousin Mary Hamilton was among those who kept her company during her final months. She died on 7 January 1836.

4 John Mortlock was a china merchant whose warehouse was in Oxford Street, London.

64 5 Arthur H D Acland had been among Lord Ramsay’s circle of friends at Christ Church.

6 There is a small hole in the paper here, possibly where Lady Susan tore off a sealing wax ‘kiss’ placed there by Lord Ramsay.

34. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Monday 16 November 1835

What a voluminous letter, dearest Jem, I received yesterday, if you had written for Mr Blunt’s class you would have been obliged to sque[e]ze a little more. I am delighted I made such an impression on Fox Maule for I like him very much; he was very nearly being an Uncle of mine once, at least he wanted to be so; do not tell him however that I told you so. Poor Bet has got a bad cold, a pain in her chest and so on, she is under the law of La Trappe not allowed to utter “poor thing”.[1] I have got a slight touch up of a cold also, not very bad though. Elizabeth Cornwallis says in her letter to me “Mama wrote to Lord Ramsay the other day to say how much surprised she was to hear of his marriage.” The Duke and Duchess of Gordon are on their way home,[2] they intend to visit Paris and the Duke is to be at Brighton the 30th of this month. I do not know whether the Duchezza will accompany him. I have just written to Sophy and enclosed your note. Mine is a very serious one to counteract the bad effect of your’s. She is as I told you at Hamilton with dear Lady Lincoln[3] and dear L __ __ . I hope the additional pleasure is that Arthur and Adelaide Lennox are there,[4] they then go to Wishaw[5] I think and afterwards to Duplin Castle,[6] there is an account of your cousins proceeding. I am going to [write to] Uncle John in a few days;[7] what am I to say from you, his praises are sounded far and near. I saw an extract of a letter from Lady Holland[8] saying he was considered the best officer in the British Navy. Sir Charles Adam[9] also speaks very highly of him. Are you not proud of your Uncle. I had a letter from Aunt Jane yesterday quite delighted with you and quite delighted at having seen you at Leamington “a very agreeable and superior person”, “with unbounded happiness”. Do you know any thing of the note I enclose you; I found it to among a parcel hankiechiefs [sic]. I do not know what it could be doing there. Mind you are not going to travel all night. I shall repeat this injunction in every letter I write for fear you should forget it.

65 If you know as much of Solomon Malan as I do you would not be astonished at my account of him, any thing I could say of him however bad would be to [sic] good for him; he is the greatest hypocrite possible and I dare say at Oxford if they have not found him out yet he is thought a saint, which he persuaded us he was once till we found out how far his professions of religion and his conduct differed. I have heard him thank God in our presence that though once he was a dreadful irreligious character yet by God’s grace “He was now converted and had obtained that assurance of salvation that every true believer must obtain” and yet he has told as many lies about our family and other people as it would be possible for any man to tell. Now I think you will agree with me that he is a shocking character.

Good bye dearest Jem “till tomorrow”, ever yours, Susan Georgiana Hay

Reply – Letter 42

1 La Trappe abbey in France was the original house of the Trappist monks. Lady Susan’s allusion suggests that, like the monks, Bet had been told to speak only when necessary.

2 George Gordon (1770-1836), 5th duke of Gordon, and his wife, Elizabeth Brodie (1794- 1864).

3 Susan Hamilton (1814-1889) was the daughter of the 10th duke of Hamilton. She had married the heir to the 4th duke of Newcastle in 1832, and was known as Lady Lincoln after her husband’s courtesy title, the earl of Lincoln.

4 i.e. Lord Arthur Lennox (1806-1864), youngest son of the 4th duke of Richmond, and his wife Adelaide (d. 1888), daughter of John Campbell of Shawfield.

5 Probably Wishaw House (Lanarkshire), the home of Robert Hamilton (1793-1868), Lord Belhaven and Stenton.

6 Duplin (more commonly Dupplin) Castle (Perthshire) was the seat of the earl of Kinnoul.

7 Lord John Hay (1793-1851) was the third son of the 7th marquis of Tweeddale, and so Lady Susan’s uncle. At this time, he was acting as a commodore of a small squadron off the north coast of Spain as part of Britain’s involvement in the first Carlist War. For his services, especially at the siege of Bilbao, he was awarded the Grand Cross of Charles II and made a Companion of the Bath.

8 Elizabeth Fox (1771-1845), baroness Holland.

9 Sir Charles Adam (1780-1853) was First Naval Lord and the MP for Clackmannanshire and Kinross-shire.

66 35. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Monday 16 November 1835

[The first part of the letter is missing]

… this same young gentleman had a letter the other day from one of his sisters (one of the brothers is a very intimate friend of mine and I saw his sister occasionally in London last Summer) in answer to a letter of his in which he mentioned that I was going to be married without mentioning to whom, or anything about it. This said young lady says “you might as well have told us who the lady was, but I am going to guess and see if I am not right. It is to Lady Susan Hay for tho’ I never heard it said, I remember remarking one day in London on the casual mention of her name that his face betrayed a secret”. Now I beg you to observe how sharp you ladies are and see what a wound you must have inflicted upon me to make it apparent even to bystanders without my knowledge and certainly against my will if I had known it! Charles Leslie,[1] my friend, declares he suspected me one day passing thro’ Belgrave Square! Now I never gave the least hint to him, nor of course to her nor they to one another. You’re clever creatures all of you and bewitching, some of you; see what a spell you have cast over me, many thanks to you therefor. Today I dine in hall with Mr Hussey,[2] your acquaintance – no marrowbones I hope.

Ever, ever dearest Susan your’s, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 41

1 Charles Leslie had been among Lord Ramsay’s circle of friends at Christ Church.

2 Perhaps Robert Hussey (1801-1856), censor of Christ Church and before that a tutor there.

67 36. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Tuesday 17 November 1835

Glad you like the Lily, my pet Lily. When I saw it, it put me in mind of your translation of your own name – and I thought “sweets to the sweet” etc. etc. and that you should have it, so once again glad you like it. Lady Olivia is very kind, but I don’t mean to make any unnecessary stops – in so much that in spite of your assurance that you don’t want to see me if I travel all night, I do most positively intend to do so even though it should risk my exquisite complexion and general beauty! By what road shall I come or how, I have not yet determined but you shall hear in time. This talking of it, however, as if it were so near at hand, is not politic; for ten weary days must pass before the day is at all near. Would you like to know how they are passed? I open my eyes in the morning to the consciousness of a lighted candle, and my ears to the sound of the shower bath screeching as the thing is wound up; after which the awful words “half past 7 my Lord” induce me to thrust the left foot forth from the bed; if the foot has moral courage enough to propel itself toward the floor, all is well, and I get up but if the cold air acting on a timid disposition induces it to shrink back to its warm nest, I am a lost man, and there I stay for two hours longer. I must say however for the foot that it is a bold foot enough, and generally does get up; then I take my shower bath – oh Susan what a cold monster it is – dress, put on my cap and gown, and sally forth into the dark, damp, cold, foggy air, walk across college, half asleep myself among the other fellows bound on the same errand half asleep too, and go into Chapel. After that, which is about half past 8, I walk for nearly an hour, come home, see some letters lying on the table, but determined to enjoy them to the utmost, never touch them till I have made my tea, poked the fire, wheeled my arm chair round towards it, got on my dressing gown and seated myself leaning back in it with my feet on the fender. Then, having looked at the seal and all over it to see if there is anything of yours on the outside, I open it, and glut myself with the contents. Then I eat my breakfast according to Dr Jephson – cold meat, stale bread and one cup of tea. After that I wheel round the arm chair again, read your letter over, then sit for a while and meditate thereupon. Then I either write to you or begin to read. If the latter, I look very serious, and as if I were completely wrapped up in my book; and I only return to consciousness after having turned over twenty leaves to find that I don’t know a single word of what I have been reading – and that my thoughts, instead of being intent upon Virgil or Shakespeare or Homer or Suetonius, have been wandering to a very different Sue indeed. I mend a pen and find it won’t write, and as if it was the quill’s fault

68 I chuck it into the fire; I read; I write; I scribble; I dawdle; I look out of the windows but there I can only see a dead wall. I loll on the sofa but it’s too short and too cold. I read Greek; I read Latin; French; English; the newspaper – it won’t do, I can’t settle to anything – and thus luncheon time comes at ½ past 1. Then and there I eat somewhat and if any body comes I walk with them; if not, I walk alone til half past 4. At ½ past 5 dine, mutton chops and one or two glasses of wine. Then generally write letters and when that is done, begin to think that it is not so very far from post time tomorrow, wonder what you are about and think over all Yester days and especially those precious 4 just before I came away – think of all the rides, and the walks and the words and the looks; even the teazings I think of with complacency; of all the sittings in the gloaming in the little arm- chair and of that last breakfast where we sat together – sad enough but sweet to think of too. At ½ past 8 or 9 Leslie generally comes to tea and he bears with my stupidity like a good natured fellow – and then with a thankful feeling that one more day is gone, I trudge away to my bed. There is a portrait of my very dull day. One day is like its next brother and all together a very lifeless bore of a family. I have just made too a fresh discovery which is vexatious – that I can’t take my Master of Arts degree, after all, this term. I do all that is necessary to enable me to take the degree, but I cannot become Master of Arts till next term. It is not of the slightest consequence, as far as giving or depriving me of any advantages goes but it will give me the trouble of coming here again for one day some time next Spring – which I can easily do, if we are in London for a short time, which perhaps we may be. You must be content to see me again a B.A. and you must have the glory of yourself striking the first blow at my bachelors hip. Had they begun to paint at Coalstoun when you were there? I am afraid that those villainous painters may not be speedy enough in beginning their work, for I can’t take you there while the paint is damp and disagreeable. Yesterday I dined in Hall for the first time and behaved myself like a hero. I denied the fish and manfully defied a most seductive pudding – but I got a mealy potato which is allowed; and which is the first I have seen since I left Scotland. After that I went to the college Common room as it is called, where all the M.A.s and B.A.s meet to drink their wine, and drank some with them and then ended my Ch. Ch. gaieties for I have refused to dine out nor do I mean to go to the Common room again since it costs me some self denial, besides the trouble of putting on a white neck cloth. This dark, dull, day is darker and duller and more detestable than ever.

Dearest Susan, Ever most affectionately yours, Ramsay

69 37. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Wednesday 18 November 1835

I received two letters yesterday from you dearest Jem which made up for Monday’s deficiency. You must make your own speeches for that is not in my line at all; I will cook the dinner if you will get permission from the Archers for me to do it. It will suit me much more than making speeches. This day four weeks [ago] I wonder who came from Dalhousie with some letters, do you know? Charley and Julia wish you to bring them two picture books. Charley asked for a China Horse but I should think that was not a very portable article. Mama bought him a wooden horse the other day, but now it has lost both its tail and Head. Aunt G and Mr Baillie went away yesterday morning with little Car, my sweet pet, she is so pretty. “Bobby” called here yesterday looking much better than ever I have seen him yet; he has been very ill poor man; he is going to preach the Monday after the Sacrament; we are again doomed to hear Mr Abernethy on Thursday week;[1] I shall try and manage to call up a Cough for the occasion he is such a horror. Miss Anne sent such a very pretty bracelet yesterday, and at the same time we heard from Lady Dalhousie, who I am sorry to say cannot come to Coulstoun on account of Lord Dalhousie’s having a cold; they hope however to be there next week. You are not to travel all night, do you hear. I shall write this till I get an answer, and then I shall leave off. I have no news but that Mr Buckle is going to call his son Cuthbert;[2] as you will probably be anxious to know the reason why this name was pitched upon, is that at the time of the great fire of London (in the reign of Charles the 2nd, 3rd of the Stuart line, and king of Great Britain, the Restoration took place in his reign) Sir Christopher Buckle was Lord Mayor of London and Cuthbert was his son.[3] I do not wonder at his wishing to revive the ancient family name as it is not every body who is descended from a Lord Mayor. How kind your relations are, much more generous than mine. Mrs Hamilton sent me a very pretty present to day and all my fines [sic] Uncles and Aunts, the Duke of this and the Duchess of that, who have their pockets as full as they can hold. We had a very kind letter from Lady Lucy Clive.[4] Caroline Finch Hatton is staying with her at Powis Castle,[5] and is in much better health. Lucy Clive

70 is a great friend I think of “dear” Lady Bradford’s,[6] they live very near each other. I am tired – now “Ajiue” dearest Jem, ever your’s, S.G.H

Reply – Letter 45

1 John Abernethy was the minister of the parish of Bolton (1816-1843).

2 i.e. John Buckle of Wharton House, Midlothian. His first wife, Isabella, was the daughter of Edward Hay Mackenzie, and so related to Lady Susan. His second wife, and the mother of Cuthbert, was Dorothea Blackwell.

3 This account, or the one told to Lady Susan, is rather confused. The name of the Lord Mayor of London was Sir Cuthbert, not Sir Christopher, Buckle and he held office in the 1590s, not at the time of the Great Fire of London (1666).

4 Lady Lucy Clive (1793-1875), daughter of the 3rd duke of Montrose, was the wife of Viscount Clive, later earl of Powis.

5 Caroline Finch-Hatton (1817-1888) was the granddaughter of the 3rd duke of Montrose, and so Lady Lucy’s niece.

6 Georgina Elizabeth Moncreiffe (1790-1842) was the wife of the 2nd earl of Bradford.

38. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Wednesday 18 November 1835

This morning the sun shone gloriously down out of a soft blue sky, my dearest Susan, and the air was so mild and gentle, and yet so fresh, that it almost reconciled me to being in Oxford; and I have been revelling in it, for I took a long walk out into the fields, and then round Ch. Ch. meadow by the side of the Isis and at one spot when I stood basking in the sun and watching the leaves floating down the stream, the sun beams were so warm and the breeze so tempered I could have fancied it an April morning, only that there were no birds, not even a robin singing, to keep up the illusion, while the dead leaves that were whirled off by the wind, light as it was, and which fell in showers on my head, reminded me too plainly that we were in November and not April. Now it has clouded over, the sun has put his head under the clothes again, and we are as dark and gray as the most romantic lover of cloisters could desire; and there, the wind has just blown a great puff of smoke down my chimney – it certainly is not April. 71 I will go today and order Lord Tweeddale’s female apparel. His directions and the proportions of his figure which you give me are delicate and fragile and feminine in the highest degree. The man will think it is for you that I am ordering them. Here is Wednesday at all events – it is a great thing when one gets to count by days and not by weeks. I am afraid from what I hear that Maidstone is not going to get a first class after all. I am sorry for it because tho’ I fancy his Lordship would be very great if he were to get it, and would require a house to hold him as large as that which the Duke of Hamilton will need when he gets the garter,[1] still I am always glad when a Lord these days does any thing either clever or sensible, since it is so much the fashion to teach and to think that we can do neither. All last night I was dreaming so about you – it was quite astonishing. You were dressed in the pink gown, and I met you, for the first time since we parted in Scotland, at Almacks[2] (of all places in the world) and you cut me, or at least you gave me the tips, the very tips of your fingers. I am quite unhappy about it; tho’ my last vision about Jenny Hamilton’s having an apoplexy did not come true, and therefore I will take comfort, at the same time I was half angry with Jenny for proving me a false prophet! You need not, for all that, give me the finger points when we meet – I shall gladly see this dream go by contraries. Oh when will that day of meeting come? You will be glad to hear that in consequence of your vituperations of that pair of what you are pleased in your impertinences to call “corduroy things” I sent for Mr Wilkie’s foreman, his Viceroy here, and ordered a pair of very genteel cloth, which I trust you will approve, also two very tasty double breasted waistcoats to keep cold and catarrh from having access to my very delicate lungs this winter, and the whole to be covered by a very distinguished blue frock coat: all of which, I trust, may coincide with the accurate taste of your ladyship’s critical eye – since you will most undoubtedly see nothing else all this winter. Oh my dear Susan they say positively that there will be a dissolution, before next session is over at all events.[3] What a misery for me; and for you too. I would give, yes I would give, my blue frock coat-to-be to put it off for two years. This sacrifice will shew you how anxious I am that it should not be! Seriously, I know nothing which would distress me more, whatever part I myself took in it. Good night and dream of me, sweet, but not giving tips of fingers.

Ever dearest Susan, very affectionately yours, R

I enclose a note (per post) to Pat, my old nurse.

72 Reply – Letter 44

1 Alexander Hamilton (1767-1852), 10th duke of Hamilton, was made a Knight of the Garter in 1836.

2 Almack’s was a fashionable club in London. A committee of patronesses ensured the exclusivity of the club’s balls by issuing vouchers only to those they deemed to be of suitable rank or breeding. It consequently became a place where gentlemen sought brides and ladies introduced their daughters to society.

3 There were rumours circulating at this time that parliament was going to be dissolved.

39. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Thursday 19 November 1835

“Uncharitable”, to be sure I think you are uncharitable, dearest Jem, but then all of you men are unfortunately, so it is only a defect belonging to your sex. I have every reason to believe Miss Hugh’s story; and I think Mr Hugh is a reformed character; at least as far as promises and naturally good inclinations go. I am not at all incredulous and I always look at the bright side of things. Your information of Solomon Malan was very satisfactory. I am very glad to hear him so much improved as to be able to lie in seventeen different languages, for when I used to know him he could lie in 83; he is a Counterpart for her who shall remain nameless. I think it a pity that they should not be introduced to each other. My Uncle Mr Hope’s elegant expression when he heard of his behaviour was that he should have been kicked out of the House instead of being berated like a gentleman. I took a long walk yesterday with the Mob yesterday afternoon. I asked Mr Roxburgh to excuse my brothers their Chemistry (pronounced in brother’s dictionary Kemistry) and he answered with a smile which would baffle the power of language to describe, it was so supremely lovely, that he was afraid that few would be the favours he would have the ecstatic felicity of granting me, and that though two of my brothers did not deserve going with me, yet he was so selfish that he could not deny himself the pleasure of granting my request; he was looking dreadfully cross at first, but you see that “my smile can make a summer where darkness else would be”.[1] Well, after the permission was granted and that a black wand was put into my hands, the emblem of power, we set off, my poor brothers condemned to petticoat government, though they would make the best of it. Arthur drove

73 my two brothers tandam[2] and Gifford and I talked of the misfortune of being the eldest of the family and therefore obliged to set a good example to our brothers and sisters. We got on smoothly till we arrived at the wire near the walk-mill at Gifford; it is called the walk-mill because the poor people in Gifford are put in harness and made to walk round and round like for any misdemeanour they may have committed; it is used instead of the tread-mill; and as it goes by water, if any unfortunate man waits for a minute in his career of walking he is immediately drowned. When we got to the river, Arthur’s horses proved restive [and] tumbled headlong in to the water. The girths of the leader were broke, the reins of the driver were broke, his hat very much spoiled, and I called out that as the driver had proved himself quite incompetent for the task of being coachman, he must try if he could act the part of a gentleman for the remainder of the way; we proceeded then nearly to Bolton and incurred “the utmost penalty of the horse” by returning through Coulstoun. Gifford and I called at a farm called Slateford, and wonderful to relate the Lady of the Mansion My Lady’d me and My Lorded Gifford. It was dark when we got home and therefore I saw nothing more worthy of notice. I stepped into [illegible] and saw a letter for Lady S. Hay to reward me for all my troubles. I am now sitting in the Library where Mr Roxburgh is giving a “Celestial” lesson on the Celestial globe. I have been pronounced “Ducks” [i.e. dux] for having said that the earth going round the sun every day was called the Diurnal motion of the earth, the four wise heads being at a stand. How stupid boys are; I could have answered that question before I was six years old, and that Dies meant a day before I knew Latin. William just now discovered that the axis which goes through the artificial [no more pages of the letter survive].

Reply – Letter 47

1 A line adapted from the popular song, ‘We Have Lived and Loved Together’.

2 A ‘tandem’ was a two-wheeled carriage that was drawn by two horses harnessed one before the other.

40. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Thursday 19 November 1835

It grieves me that Gifford should endure such convulsions on my account,

74 and I hope that the schoolroom may prove more nourishing to this plant of a letter which seems so difficult to rear! You solve all my misgivings about paint and other annoyances, most speedily and most summarily, dear Susan, but I fear annoyances are like banyan trees for they put out ten thousand shoots which all take root and all become annoyances too. I have had a long business letter to write this morning and I am both wearied and bored – so that my letter will be but a lifeless one. My letter was about seats in Parliament, and every pest circumstance that brings elections to my mind vexes me more and more. I do so heartily dislike the idea of being in Parliament, and yet, I cannot reconcile it to my sense of duty to say I won’t stand. While inclination, pursuit, circumstances, and poverty all urge me to remain private and unknown, that troublesome innate principles, assisted (I will confess it) by occasional spurrings of ambition, prevents me doing what I would. I sometimes wish, God forgive me, that I was half a fool and then people would let me alone. As I prophecied, yesterday turned out stormy and rainy; however rather than remain at home with the disagreeable companionship of my own thoughts I went out and had a long walk. I got quite ducked and nearly shot by a parcel of University young gentleman shooting pigeons. I don’t know whether I look very much like a pigeon but I thought I should have astonished you if I had been shot to some purpose, and had come back to Scotland in the guise of a pigeon pie. Is Lady Sophia in Scotland?, as from something you say in your letters I was led to suppose. And is she to remain there? Yesterday I went to order Lord Tweeddale’s petticoat, which the man has promised me that he will have finished so as to let me have it to bring down with me. My mother tells me this morning that my father has a very bad cold, and was, when she wrote, ill in bed, and that she meant to come over to Coalstoun at the beginning of this week to see how all things were coming on. I will certainly write to Mr Blunt and devise some means of getting the letter into his hands. I have written to Charlie Edmonstone to know whether he means to fulfil his pledge of being my bestman, which he gave me long ago and whether he will be able to get away from his church so as to come down to Scotland. If not, I don’t know who I shall get, for Black Jem will, I imagine, not be in Scotland. There has been a splendid Aurora Borealis here for the last two nights. Did you see it in Scotland or are you in a ‘Scots Mist’? My surprise was very great yesterday on looking out of the window to see, driving along the street, in a gig sitting alongside a little shrivelled old woman, with a gun case between them, Captain Brown! I wrote to Lady Bessy to tell her in particular – a long nonsensical letter – for I was in better spirits than

75 I am now – too stupid to let me write anything but a very dull letter of which, doubtless, you have already had too much.

Ever, my very dearest Susan, your’s, Ramsay

Reply – Letter 49

41. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Friday 20 November 1835

How delightful indeed dearest Jem to have to direct to Leamington instead of Oxford, detestable place; have you not been there a much shorter time than you expected? I cannot make out who you mean by my acquaintance ‘Mr Hussey’. I recannois [i.e. recognise] no such person. I feel very much obliged to you for what you have done with regard to Hugh; it is quite natural that I should feel interested about a servant who has been so long in our family; we can but give him a trial; I trust that if you do engage him, he will not prove unworthy of my recommendation, but at the same time I shall take your advice and not be too sanguine on the subject. I feel perfectly convinced that any thing put under his charge would be well taken care of, and that he is perfectly honest. I am going to buy Kitty’s gown to-day if I go to the village. She will be enchanted with it, particularly coming from such ‘a fine gentleman as Lord Ramsay’. Somerville says she will be delighted always to do your capes or bonnets; and that she hopes you will win again at the Tyneside games[1] because she has got a bet with a person that you are to win. My cousins the Hope’s [sic] are going south for the winter with their Mama and Papa. Hannah Hope[2] the eldest, who takes your part against her radical Papa and Mama, even in politics. I should like you to know her, she is such a dear little woman. They are all nice girls, but Hannah is particularly so. Mr ‘Riddle me riddle rod rot trot’,[3] if you know who I mean, the Sheriff of the County I think he is, called here the day before yesterday, and among other things, said that he wondered who was to come forward next election on the Conservative side because they thought they had much better announce it whoever it was, or at least make himself agreeable; the wise remarks of Mr Riddle Sherriff were such. Do you think you have the art of making yourself

76 agreeable? My two sisters Nan and Lou are both domiciled to their rooms for two days with very bad coughs; Betty and I are not yet condemned to ours; my cough is worse to day, but I have not given up of going out yet for I have been looking so brilliant in consequence; I get up early take a good long walk and I never feel tired or retire to lie down, so I am not delicate as you always will insinuate. I do not think riding in winter agrees with me because I am obliged to go fast to keep myself warm and unless you are with me I think I have always a certain degree of fear, which is what occasions my feeling ill and tired after a ride; there is nothing I like so much as riding but I think it is more prudent to give up in winter, as Mama always lays all my headaches and sleepless nights to riding. When you are with me it is a different thing because then I am not afraid, but to tell you the truth I had no very great confidence in either the Coachman or Mr Hamilton. Mama and Papa are going to Dowager[4] together today to Gosford and Luffness. So Ajeu [i.e. adieu], a very convenient word. Addio dearest ever.

Your most cheerful youthful Pet, Susan G. Hay

What a bore I have got to write to John Mackenzie’s wife and I do not know what to say.

Reply – Letter 48?

1 The Tyneside Games, the initiative of a group of East Lothian noblemen and lairds, were first held at Amisfield in 1833.Participants competed in a variety of sports, including hammer throwing, quoits, running, shooting and wrestling. For a description of the 1834 games, see ‘East Lothian Tyneside Games’, Caledonian Mercury, 13 October 1834.

2 Probably Hannah Hope (1816-1868), the daughter of Susan’s aunt Elizabeth Hay (1792- 1868), who was married to James Hope Vere.

3 This is a variation of the opening line of the well-known Scottish riddle:

Riddle me, riddle me, rot, tot, tot, A little wee man in a red, red coat; A staff in his hand, and a stane in his throat; Riddle me, riddle me, rot, tot, tot.

The answer: a cherry. (Chambers, R. Popular Rhymes of Scotland, Edinburgh, 1847, 173)

Lady Susan appears to be playing on the name of her visitor, apparently the sheriff- substitute of Haddington, Robert Riddell.

4 To ‘dowager’ was to travel sedately, either on a steady horse or more usually in a carriage.

77 42. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Friday 20 November 1835

Sorry to find from Lady Bessy’s paper conversation with me that no letter had come to you on that day, Monday. Now, that is perfectly detestable because I know my letters have all been finished early, since you last wrote to me that you had missed a day. I shall go and make a proper row and mercy be on the offender whoever he is, for I shall make him shake in his shoes, since I am not in the blandest humour in the world and rather want somebody to quarrel with. It was a beautiful afternoon yesterday, and I went forth to stroll a solitary stroll in the fields. The sunshine and the green fields and the sheep and all those rural sorts of things soothed my spirit a little and I came home better. I was not cross, and there was no need, dearest, for you to make that mystic sign with your crossed forefingers, which you used to admonish me with sometimes. It was just one of the dowie[1] fits, an attack of ‘the lows”, to which in common with the rest of my family I am subject; and which your merry laugh will coax me out of I hope; and if not, you must just take me by the shoulders and shake me out of them. It only wants that the spell should be broken, and then the thing takes to flight. You will have unrestrained power over them, for as I was a reading in Wordsworth yesterday evening,

“What flower in meadow ground or garden grows, That to the towering Lily doth not yield”?[2]

And then I shall have no chance if I attempt to oppose you, nor any hope but that of being treated like a rebel! I am so tickled with that conceit of yours (NB I don’t mean conceit in a bad sense but that fancy of yours) about Susan and Lily that I can never get it out of my head. It is so well applied. Among a dozen letters which I wrote yesterday one was to Mr Blunt; just a notie. I sent it to Fox Maule to be franked to him at Brighton. If he has left it he would surely leave directions at the Post Office where his letters were to follow him. Poor man. I begged him not to bore himself by thinking it necessary to answer me. Yes, I am going to travel all night and all two, three, ten nights if it is necessary and you may think yourself very well obeyed if I don’t travel outside too. Which I will most undoubtedly do rather than be detained on the road. However you may set your tender little heart at rest for there is no

78 chance of me not being able to get an inside place; but come I will, on that first day I can; though I should be obliged to ride the leaders in the Mail![3] One always feels as if the end of the week was drawing near when you have turned the Wednesday; and now thanks to Time’s post horses, here we are at Friday, and I have only 3 days more. Absence cannot extinguish memory, that is one comfort; nor, whatever it may do with your bodily vision, can it shut up your “minds’ eye”. It has put hills and valleys and rivers and plains between you and me, dearest Susan, but my mental eye, happily, can overtop the Cheviots, and refuses to be checked by Trent or Tweed. Every hour of the day I see you; at home or abroad I follow you, and can almost cheat myself into the belief that you are indeed certainly at that time occupied, even as my Fancy paints for you. At four, I can see you breaking open the seal of my letter and reading it with a smile. I can see you going into dinner when I sit and stare into the embers after my own dull starvation is over; and when Great Tom strikes nine before I go to my breakfast, I can follow you from your room to the library, I can kneel beside you and think I hear my own name whispered in your prayers. It is sweet to fancy thus; it is to sweet to think, often, that while my imagination is depicting on it’s own canvass your features and gown, and tracing your every movement, your thoughts may in like manner be employed in drawing my portrait and following from place to place my steps. More than all, it is sweet to believe that both are, at the same moment, on their knees, seeking, each, a blessing on the other; and less intent on supplicating for safety and good for themselves, than in imploring Heaven to watch over the safety of that other one whose good is more precious to them than their own. There is an interchange of soul at that instant, an intermingling of spirit, as if each was indeed present with the other which is delightful indeed. You, dearest Susan, must have felt this. I have experienced it daily since we parted, and have thought over and over again that were it not for this, absence would be in good truth intolerable. It is very good your pretending not to know what that pinkedged note was, which you have sent me, as if you did not kidnap it from me yourself the last evening I was with you. By the bye it is hugely complimentary to me that I should have gained Aunt Thomasina’s opinion – is’nt [sic] it? I suppose that is all in consequence of my having admired the little boy’s curly head, and allowed him to bang about my hat as his genius dictated. No wonder she thinks me a “superior” young man! When the Duke and Duchess of Gordon talk of coming down to Scotland – not till after next Spring I suppose – I should like to see her again. Poor Amy has had a very bad cold too, but together with his lordship she is in a state of convalescence. You may tell Lady Bessy with my love that her direction Master of Tarts is a cruel mockery of my state of rigid abstinence and deserves a tart reply but

79 as I am a meek and humble minded man I shall let it pass. She must take the letter which I wrote to her yesterday as a reply to this one and if her silence still is enforced I hope she has given her loquacity vent in another epistle to me. Addio, love. I’m annoyed about your letters not reaching you properly, for I should be frantic with disappointment if it were to happen to me.

Your truly affectionate, R

It is just 13 years this day since I landed from America.[4]

1 Dowie – Scots for sad or dispirited.

2 From William Wordsworth’s ‘Ecclesiastical Sonnets’ (1822).

3 i.e. he would ride one of the leading horses pulling the mail coach.

4 Lord Ramsay had travelled to north America with his father in 1816 when the latter was made lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia. He returned to Britain in 1822, by which time his father was governor-in-chief of British North America.

43. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Saturday 21 November 1835

Here am I, poor unfortunate being, dearest Jem, condemned to my room, not allowed to talk but very little. I have got a bad cough, not from being “delicate” but from following bad examples; such as Mama, and my three sisters, also Gifford’s; you see I am not very bad, or else I would not be able to write so steadily, only “a barking cough which means nothing”, as my amiable Dr Warren[1] used to say in a wolf-like voice when he was called in to see me with the Influenza; instead of sitting down to a capital dinner. If you do not know him it will be useless to describe to you the awe which he occasioned by saying in a gruff voice “Tell me what is the matter with you if you can”; and then he found out after this wild way of speaking that I was dreadfully nervous. Dr Jephson at Leamington could not beat Dr Warren in London in enforcing his commands. Now do not think I am ill, it is only a little of Mama’s prudence or else you may be sure I would not be in my bedroom for a whole day. All I can say about you travelling all night is that I think you are very

80 foolish; and I intend to calculate and see how many nights you travel and not see you till the time is out; what is the use of going to Jephson if you do a thing which you know is very bad for you. As I have been all today alone, and therefore nothing perpendicular to say, I shall conclude by telling you my next employment is to go to bed and read till I am sufficiently tired to go to sleep, so I hope as it is 8 now by eleven or twelve I shall accomplish my object. Gifford has taken compassion upon me and is sitting at the bottom of my bed with his spectacles on working to keep me from being in low spirits.

Ever dearest Jem, yours affectionately, S-G.H.

1 Lady Susan is probably referring here to Pelham Warren (1778-1835), a celebrated London doctor who was noted for his abrupt manner.

44. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Sunday 22 November 1835

Here bees [sic] I, dearest Jem, in my room again all day; just had my dinner which consisted of some pheasant and such a delicious pudding, half of which I have given to Gifford to help him through his letter to you which he has begun again; he is writing by me and I am afraid from his numerous exclamations that this fourth attempt will also prove unfruitful. To give you an idea of what we are about in this Invalid room, I must tell you that Gif has just given up writing, and is amusing himself poking the fire; and Old Bess is sitting at the bottom of the bed and begs me say from her that Captain Browne arrived to day in the most agreeable manner in which we had ever seen him. I have nothing to say; what a squeeze I must have to fish something to say. I have been looking at the stuff curtains[1] all day of my bed; I wish you were here to set Gif and Bet to the right abouts (how elegant) what bores they are; Gif has just overturned the fender and the tea kettle on the rug, and Bessy is sighing with all her might. I beg leave to observe that Gif’s excuse for not writing to night is that it is Sunday, and yet he is going on with all the folly imaginable which is less sinful I suppose. If your letters are stupid what must mine be, they will not only be stupider

81 I am afraid, but stupidest. I cannot help it, you will forgive it, as you will find you will have many things to forgive. I am excessively sorry there is to be a dissolution; because it displeases you, and I am afraid you will look very cross; poor me. I shall hide myself. Mama has just received a letter from Uncle John Hay; poor man he says he would much rather be attending my marriage than bullying Don Carlos; he says it is possible that Castor may be ordered home and then recommissioned by him again for three years more,[2] in that case he would have a few weeks to spend with us. I hope the hard service he is engaged in will not do him any serious harm; he says he is quite worn out and nobody knows what he has endured for the last six months; he wrote to Mama that he thought I was “the happiest young Lady he knows”. Ned has gone to Dunbar, my Uncle I mean;[3] it is misery when he is here, not on his part for he is very kind to us and very agreeable also; but it is horrible to live in such a state. I wish the quarrel was made up. Dear me, what a stupid letter I have written, you must excuse it dearest Jem and believe me, ever your’s most affectionately, Susan G. Hay

P.S. I have opened my letter again to tell you that I am going to take a spoonful of syrup of squill[4] that you may enjoy the nice taste with me. “How nasty”.

Reply – Letter 50

1 i.e. the bed curtains were padded.

2 HMS Castor was a 36-gun frigate, built in 1832. John Hay was her first captain (see Letter 34, note 7).

3 i.e. Edward Hay (1799-1862).

4 Sea squill (drimia maritima) was a widely used medicinal plant. A solution was mixed with sugar to create a syrup that was used as an expectorant.

82 45. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Sunday 22 November 1835

Today every thing had been done very regularly and properly, my dear Susan. I have been once to Chapel and heard one sermon in St Mary’s, but I have skipped the second one. 1st because I am tired with a long walk, 2nd because I had to eat my luncheon, 3rd because I did not know the preacher’s name and took example from your intentions about Mr Abernethy, 4th because I wanted to write to you, 5th lastly, finally and to conclude, because I chose to stay at home. At 4 I shall go to chapel again, then read one of Isaac Barrow’s sermons[1] and go to ma [sic] bed: all of which you must, I am sure, approve of, and under the circumstances even of my shirking second sermon. This morning I have heard from Charlie Edmonstone – he quite intends to be my comforter on the awful occasion and promises to come down to Scotland if he can get his place filled for “he wantsvery much to see Lady Susan, and to be present on my wedding day”. The “if” will I hope be easily managed for I should like you two to know one another very much. I think you would like him; but at all events I should like to see together the boy I love better than any man on earth and the girl I love more, fifty times more, than all the men and women and children that are or even have been or will be on the earth put together! He is a mild, gentle, amiable, affectionate creature, devoted to his sacred profession and I believe useful in it, which will all of them be recommendations to you, and moreover devoted to me, which, I flatter myself, will also be some recommendation to your sweet Ladyship – am I wrong? By the way, will your supersitition (there’s an I too much in that word, but I have not time to stop and scratch it out) take fright at a black coat at a wedding? and thus make his parson’s coat a bar to his doing duty as best man? No, I should think not; it will never be noticed by candle light. Jemmy’s note is the most exquisite morceau I have ever witnessed for a long time – blue paper inside and enveloped in white edged with pink; it is something so exquisitely refined that the man must be slightly crazed or very much changed. He is furious against Mary Jamieson – calls her all sorts of bad names, and adds that his mare in consequence of the virago proceedings of Mary, what between the shock from the shoe and the shock to her delicate feminine feelings, has been indisposed ever since; and as the Drs in Edinburgh seem not to make much of her, he talks of sending her case up to Jephson, “poor thing”. If she ever kicks me, I’ll have her hind leg cut off and she may get George Wight to make her a wooden one if she likes.[2]

83 Maidstone has got all his examinations over yesterday. He came up to me this morning after Chapel and shook hands most affectionately, moved by what spirit I know not, unless it was a spirit of rejoicing at having got over all his troubles. I wished him joy very sincerely, for I know from old experience what a “huge Olympus” is thereby taken off your mind, and you rise into an Elysium. Apropos of Elysium make your sister shew you some nonsense which I have written to her, just that you may see what vast sacrifices, as a bachelor, I make; and all for love of you!! Poor Bobby! What has been the matter with him? He has shewn lately that he was not born to be drowned – nor to die in his bed. I much fear hanging must be his lot! It is sad to think of, in one so young too. Mr Cuthbert will no doubt prove a splendid rekindling of the extinguished splendours of the name of Buckle – and that it may prove so, I trust his Papa will impart a little more both of teaching and flogging than he has to his other torches; and that the Buckles will hence forward see and feel, more than they have done, of their natural appendage: the strap. Boo what a bad pun – never mind. Bye bye, dearie.

Ever, ever, ever your’s, R

Reply – Letter 51

1 Isaac Barrow (1630-1677) was a mathematician and theologian. He was much admired for his sermons, which went through a number of editions.

2 George Wight was a labourer on the Yester estate. Lord Ramsay is perhaps confusing him with the estate carpenter, Thomas Wight.

46. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Monday 23 November 1835

I am just going to scribble a few lines to prevent your being dissappointed [sic], dearest, but really I can have nothing to say; today I left my room and travelled downstairs in perfect state of convalescence, since it is raining and has rained all day and so gloomy. Gifford has had a letter today from Maitland,[1] our midshipman cousin, you have heard us talk about; by the bye Captain Dowbiggin[2] is coming

84 home, Uncle John has given him a passage home, he he [sic] has leave for three months. Uncle Hobhouse has written to say the black velvet gown is to come from Mrs Murray with the rest of the things; he is now at Putney with his three little girls, and all quite well. Here comes my tea, a much better one than Jephson allows you; the difference is that Mrs Swinton orders mine while Jephson orders yours. Give my love to dear Lady Bradford, and do not let her think me impertinent. This interesting, elegant and laconic epistle must now be finished as I have got to write to a Berwickshire friend Alicia Spottiswoode.[3]

Buena sera dearest, ever yours affectionately, Susan G. Hay

1 William Maitland (b. 1819), the son of James Maitland of Ramorny, had served under Lady Susan’s uncle John Hay on HMS Castor, but was currently serving on HMS Wellesley.

2 Captain Samuel Dowbiggin, of the 52nd (Oxfordshire) Regiment of Foot.

3 Alicia Spottiswoode (1810-1900) – known as Lady John Scott after her marriage in 1836 – was the eldest daughter of John Spottiswoode of Berwickshire and Helen Wauchope. A supporter of the Scots language and Scottish culture in general, she was a collector of folk songs and tales, a songwriter and a composer. She is perhaps best known today for composing the tune for ‘Annie Laurie’. See Figure 10.

47. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Monday 23 November 1835

Oh oh oh my dear little Sue, I have got such a coat and such a waistcoat! You will never repent that you have promised to marry poor unworthy me when once you have seen these! Luckily for me, I have no room now left to fall in love with anything more; or when I looked at myself just now in the glass, I should undoubtedly have become a Narcissus, and grown desperately enamoured of myself. How conceited all you women are! You invariably talk, I see, of one another as “the better halves” of the partnership. You might at least have the modesty to leave it for us to call you so but in all probability you are afraid lest an unguarded moment of sincerity should disappoint your ears of the

85 title. Whether Mrs Hugh deserves the compliment or not I don’t know – and at all events I hope Hugh is now a better half than he was a short time ago. Indeed, I hope he is, dear, for you will be disappointed if you do not get him for your servant, and I cannot take him unless he is deserving and so I do hope he may be amended that I may be able to take him and so profit myself; for I shall have the delight of hearing you say again “it is very kind of you” and of getting your kiss of thanks. This is the twentieth morning and the penultimate of my imprisonment – and I could dance and sing for pleasure. Every hour that places me, by so many minutes, nearer to you makes me long for you more and more – not, as it was a week ago, with that sickening longing which proved it still far off, but with an increased and increasing tenderness, which swells out my heart so as to make me think it will burst with very excess of fondness when I first see your dear dear face again. How shall I ever make you feel or imagine half the delight which that moment will give me? Not by words – they are dumb – not by looks, they are blind to answer my purposes; or shall I, yes I will, shew how confident I am that all those emotions have their counterparts in your heart, and bid you take your own feelings as the only interpreters of mine, and judge from the delight which you will have in meeting me, how great is my ecstasy in once more seeing you. Oh what a happy happy moment that will be! You have got so excessively scientific in your last letter about axises and diurnal motions and celestial globes, that I’m half afraid of you. Are you going to turn out a bas bleu[1] after all? “blue, deeply blue you are”.[2] I won’t add the other line “gloriously bright”, for fear of making you conceited. Last night was the last night I was to dine in my own rooms, and therefore I thought I would have a ‘jubilate’ so I ordered a roast fowl for dinner with rice, then some maccaroni; after which in a determined tone of voice I bade my slave have the bottle of wine and bring some grapes! I was half alarmed by the echo, but still I got my grapes, and I eat [sic] my fruit and drank sundry bumpers (I wonder who to?) and then with a sigh of satisfaction I sunk back upon the cushion of my sofa and began thinking (I wonder who of?) till lo! I fell asleep, and was only roused to see Young Leslie standing grinning over me. Then I had some tea and read some of Wordsworth and a splendid sermon of old Isaac Barrow and then I went to bed; but whether it was the fowl, the maccaroni, the grapes or the bumpers, the thoughts or the siesta, young Leslie’s grin or old Barrow’s sermon, or what I was I can’t tell, but I could not get to sleep for a long time, not till two o’clock. I was serenaded by a whole household of snorers – they are terrible snorers in this house. The old woman snores and the young lady snores, the man snores, and the maid snores, and so they went on last night like some deep toned, gigantic Aeolian harp which as you know, Lord Byron says doth

86 “take a long unmeasured tone, To mortal minstrels unknown”[3] and of a verity, the music last night was quite to mortal minstrels unknown. The melancholy result of all this has been that I was not in chapel this morning. Tomorrow for the last time I shall, as a regular duty, say my prayers in Latin. It is a melancholy sound to say “the last time” even tho’ that which is thus closing is not very agreeable! I owe much of profit, and have many recollections of pleasure belonging to Oxford and I shall always [illegible – page torn] it and always be glad to see it again. As soon as I have finished this letter I am going away to make my bow to the Dean, the King of all things here, and a ceremony which is equivalent to “kissing hands on going abroad”.[4] Then I dine in Hall, make my bow to the Common Room too, and make myself ready for a start tomorrow. Hurra hurra – three times three – and one cheer more. Give Lady Tweeddale many thanks for her last letter. I wrote to her just the day before. “Come again soon” do you say? Yes I will come again very soon my own dearest love, my own dearest dearest Susan.

Your’s forever and ever, Ramsay

1 i.e. a bluestocking – an intellectual, literary woman.

2 A line from Mrs Hemans’ ‘Roman Girl’s Song’.

3 From Lord Byron’s ‘The Siege of Corinth’ (1816).

4 It had been customary for nobles and others of rank to kiss the king’s hands before travelling abroad, as a ceremonial leave-taking.

48. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Oxford Tuesday 24 November 1835

One line before I start, my dearest Susan, and I am sure you would think it well worth the trouble of writing and reading though it should contain no more than that I am on the wing. My bondage is over, my prison bars opened. I am emancipated. “Quashee ma boo, the slave trade is no more”![1] A schoolboy is eager enough while scratching out day by day

87 in the calendar of his prayer book the mornings that intervene between that and the holidays but he never hails “going-home-day” with greater pleasure than I rose with this morning, and for all my saying, that doing anything for ‘the last time’ is melancholy, still I confess I went into Hall yesterday for the last time with great satisfaction; I took my last tea with great pleasure; I went to bed for the last time with much joy; I rose for the last time with huge zest; I pulled the string of my shower bath for the last time with much readiness; I said the “Gratia Domini nostri Jesu Christi” (make your latinizing brothers find out what part of the service that is) for the last time with great cheerfulness; I have just discussed my last breakfast in merriment; I shall bid the Dean good bye in mirth; and having eaten my last meal in Oxford in much self gratulation I shall leave the University in a positive ecstasy! There I have dismissed the melancholies very fully. When I last quitted Oxford as if for the last time, I looked back over the time I had spent there, and the friends I left in it, and I was sorrowful for I had no bright prospect to look to, no joys that I had to hope for in store. Now too I should perhaps be a little sad, but the light, the bright light which is shed from my future, will admit of no gloom hanging over the present; and the pleasure and happiness which are before me transcend too much those which I have to look back upon to allow my thoughts to rest there a moment. Today I will not give one look back over Oxford, for my eyes will be looking too earnestly forward to the border; and I shall leave the bosom of my venerable! Alma Mater without one filial pang, for I am hastening with an affection a thousand times more than filial to take to my heart my own sweetest Susan. Next week! Only think of being able to say Next week we shall be together if all be well! delicious! This morning I have received a very nice kind note from Lady Sophia. She says they hope to be at Yester on their way South, not next week I do hope – that would be too bad. However if they are, I will promise you not to sit with the Dowagers now, not to flirt with Lady Sophia now, not to play with that Indian stick now, as on their last visit – oh that horrid night – but I will sit with Lady Susan now, I will flirt with Lady Susan now, I will play with Lady Susan now, I will walk and talk, and flirt and play and look and think of nobody but Lady Susan now. In short you shall have a monopoly of me now, and, dear dear Susan for ever.

Goodbye from Oxford for the last time, Your’s, as-nearly-wild-with-love-and-as-nearly-mad-for-joy-as-anyone-out- of-Bedlam, Ramsay

88 In case you would like to have a specimen of the profound sciences cultivated in these Academic seats, I enclose you a prospectus of the lectures from some of the most popular professors, which has just been left here!

1 A quotation from ‘A Loyal Effusion’, which appeared in James and Horace Smith’s Rejected Addresses, or the New Theatrum Poetarum, London, 1812.

49. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Wednesday 25 November 1835

I am happy to say I have got a little very interesting gossip, because I know you are so fond of it. I must tell you now for fear it should go out of my head, and I have been repeating it over and over again all the afternoon, it is such news, so very important to me, delightful because so unexpected, and then the principal actor in the scene is such an object of admiration to me. Captain Houston, dear tall, interesting, elegant, refined, sublime, timid Captain Houston is coming to Backhill[1] with his beloved, dearly got wife; it is delightful to think they will be so near, do you not think so. The next piece of news is that the Lennoxlove[2] gentry have got the scarlet fever and I am afraid dear Kitty, not the Hen wife Kitty, has got it also; the people at Eaglescairney[3] have it also, Mrs Hay and the black nurse who from the heat of the fever has been turned red. I hope the scarlet fever will not come here and trouble us. My curiosity is excited to know what book was so peculiarly interesting to you. We have had an answer from Hugh’s wife; she says that when he heard of it, and that there was a chance of his getting the place, “it would be very little to his honor [sic] if ever he drank again, after your Lordship’s kindness; and that he hoped you would wait for one or two weeks, till he was better”; his wife adds that he has been in such a state of anxiety ever since she told him, for fear you would not wait, he wanted to set off to Leamington, though he was ill. Saturday was the first day he was not delirious and was much better, the doctors who attended him say he may take a place in five weeks – will you wait. Mama told Somerville to write and tell him, that he should know when you came home. I am delighted to think that I am to have the pleasure of being introduced to your dearest friend. I always thought that “black Jem” was, and admired

89 your good taste, therefore I shall like Charles Edmonstone, if it is only because you like him, besides he is a Clergyman and you say devoted to his profession; it is delightful to see one who really feels the responsibility of his situation, and is not content with only preaching every Sunday a day sermon out of Dr Chalmers Textbook.[4] I wish I could put into the hearts of some [of] the Ministers in this County half of what I feel is the duty of every Clergyman, and I think there would be a little more zeal that their is [i.e. than there is]. You must excuse the mistakes etc. in this letter, my sisters have been reading out, and I really have not got your talent of writing while other people are speaking. Tomorrow is the fast day and we are going to hear a Mr Bannerman.[5] I have never seen him but I know a good deal about him, and I believe him to be a superior young man; he is English I think. Bye the bye I never told you that Sophia was in Scotland, and I believe they are coming here. I must try and screw out something for tomorrow as it is the last day. Good night dearest Jem. I am going to bed now.

Ever your’s most affectionately, Susan Georgiana Hay

1 This is perhaps Backhill, near Carberry, in the parish of Inveresk.

2 Lennoxlove House was the home of Charles Stuart (1818-1900), the 12th lord of Blantyre. It lies c.4 miles north of Yester, in the parish of Haddington.

3 Eaglescairnie House was the home of Sir Patrick Stewart (1777-1855). It lies c.3 miles north west of Yester, in the parish of Bolton.

4 Dr Thomas Chalmers (1780-1847) was a leading figure in the Church of Scotland. An accomplished preacher, his published sermons were popular among fellow churchmen and laity alike. He was also the professor of divinity at Edinburgh University, where he was noted for his use of textbooks.

5 Probably the Reverend James Bannerman, minister of the parish of Ormiston (1833- 1843).

50. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Wednesday 25 November 1835

You were quite right, dearest Susan, to direct your last letter to Oxford as

90 you did. I received it there on Monday, and your next yesterday – to-day I have none here, and presume I shall find it at Weston. My aunt has bored me greatly by asking some people here tonight, and thus detaining me for some of the teadrinking old twaddles here. However, it will not make any difference in the day of my arrival in Scotland but only oblige me to stay one day less with Mr Temple, reaching him on the Saturday instead of Friday. I did indeed feel light in spirit as I rolled out of Oxford yesterday – the coach too was most appropriately named “the Hope”, and every milestone we passed I felt more and more raised with the hope of once again joining you, and with the still better hope that after this joining we shall never again be so parted: parted we may be and shall be, but never so parted. I came on the outside just to try my cloaks and season myself gradually for the journey down, in case it should be necessary to go outside all night! Don’t be cross! Hugh has never appeared, and therefore he must really be ill. I wish he had been able to come, as a few minutes conversation would do better than a score of letters. Whatever is done now must be done in writing, and I hope, sweet love, you may get your wish. Now I am sitting in expectation of Jephson’s arrival. He will not, I think, have any reason for detaining me; and in fact, unless he gives me some very unanswerable cause indeed, I won’t stay. I can endure this suspense no longer, and I am wanted besides in Scotland for more reasons than one. Don’t play with your cough don’t, dearest Susan – never mind my nonsense about your being delicate; and don’t brave out a cold to prove that you are not so – take care of it for my sake, and I will promise you not to go outside – there now, is a fair bargain. Lady Tweeddale is quite right, depend upon it, about the riding. It wearies you always and besides I don’t think you do care very much about it, in spite of your protestations – at least it seemed to me you were always glad to exchange it for a walk. We will have great walks when I come down, for we have 10,000 things to talk over. This post brought me a long letter from N P Willis,[1] the man whom you know through the quarterly review; the poet, you know, to whom I wrote one evening at Yester. He returns my congratulations on his marriage and, from experience, wishes me joy of a wife, and of the blessing of having one,

“who when my being overflowed was like the golden chalice to bright wine which else had sunk into the thirsty dust”.[2]

There what do you think of being likened by Shelley to a golden chalice? Are you like a golden chalice, do you think? Yes, as far as being precious in the eye

91 of him who possesses, or is to possess it, you are. Up before breakfast this morning and took a bath. We will have a little stump in the morning together if you hold by your habit of early rising – that is a new fancy. I should like of all things to know your cousin Hannah Hope. I very often have admired her, and, across the room, wished very much I was acquainted and could have danced with her, but I was always afraid of the Mamma. She is a pretty, modest, sensible looking girl. I’m sorry she is going away. Lady Lothian (who by the bye is a very lovable person, and next door neighbours at Dalhousie)[3] writes to me today. Among other things “she longs to make acquaintance with my wife, and means to scoop out a snug corner in her affections for her”. She is a great friend of mine and one day after a long discourse she wound it up by saying “and then you must go and get a nice wife and we will live close together, and we shall be so happy”. That so went bump to my heart at the time for I knew somebody that I thought would make a very very nice wife and now that I have got her I am going to remind Lady Lothian of her speech and to hope that we shall be so happy. Tomorrow I shall write from this before I go to Weston and now heaven bless thee, my soul’s darling,

Your ever attached, Ramsay

1 Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806-1867) was an American poet and editor.

2 From Percy Shelley’s ‘Prometheus Unbound’ (1820).

3 Newbattle Abbey, the home of Lady Cecil and her husband, the 7th marquis of Lothian, lay about 3 miles north east of Dalhousie Castle.

51. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Thursday 26 November 1835

Now do you not think I am very full of love, dearest Jem, to write to you to Liverpool today. I suppose you are at dear Lady Bradford’s, enjoying her and her delightful family. I do not believe any thing about Mr Hamilton’s horse – it is all nonsense, or else it is a very bad horse. Do you not think so. I took a fit of prudence or rather Papa took it for me, and I did not go to

92 Church to hear Mr Bannerman, and I believe I did not lose much though he preached well enough. Mr Wilkie comes here Saturday. I am afraid he is rather in a scrape about some law business, but as I do not understand law among my other accomplishments I do not know who is right and who is wrong. I hope Jephson does not intend you to return to his clutches any more; he shall never have the pleasure of doctoring me; though I think he does people a great deal of good yet I am rather prejudiced against him because I think he is rather a bit of a quack. How delightful to think this letter will be answered in person. I am afraid it will be very little of a comfort to you in the mail, it is a little short and stupidish as Bess says. A long time I hope before I shall be obliged to write to you again. Goodbye then till we meet again, dearest, ever yours, Susan G. Hay

52. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Leamington Thursday 26 November 1835

“More last words”, dearest Susan, for this is my last from Leamington. Till I saw Jephson yesterday I could not help having some small misgivings that he might advise me very strenuously to stay a while, in which case I should have had a small combat with my reason and my conscience to get away; but luckily I have been relieved from all necessity for fights or struggles. He came yesterday. I told him how good I had been, and he then looked at my eyes and scraped my skin as he did before and then told me my appearance was better, was healthier, my tongue was better, my eyes were better. I had no pain in my chest or in back, that my legs and arms were all right, in short that I was better both outside and inside – gave me directions what diet to observe and what good things to take – himself took his guinea and left the room with this comfortable if not complimentary assurance, “Lord Ramsay, you have got the constitution of a horse!” And so, dear, you will not grudge the few days longer which this doctor’s doings have caused to me. You will see me after a time in such beauty you will be full of wonderment in strength and spirits; no dowies, no fits of lows; no necessity for shaking me by the

93 shoulders, or for holding up the crossed fingers! I am better than I have been for long; and when I get some of these frets and suspenses off my mind, and fairly complete my ambition by finding myself one with you, sweet, at Coalstoun I shall be a different man. We have had our gathering here last night – a regular earthquake – all Scots people and pleasant enough. And as it has pleased Aunty, poor kind old lady, I am glad I stayed tho’ I would rather have been on the road. This morning she heard from Lord Bradford who mentions there are two Yester letters waiting for me at Weston, and this makes me more than ever fidgetty for four o’clock when I start from this per coach. Lord Bradford is away from home so “dear Lady Bradford” and I will have a famous gossip; she is a kind, good cousin and when you get over the coldness of her manner you will like her; but you are some time before you get acquainted with her, she is like a fresh walnut, you have to penetrate a thick outer skin layer before you come to anything like a nut – and it requires time and perseverance to get at a kernel. My diamond is in very great danger, for I have arrived here being still 300 miles from Yester with £1.3.6 in my pocket!!! That comes of my fine coat and waistcoat and of a servant who cheated me outrageously; however I am going to beg, borrow or steal enough to carry me down to you and the future must take care of itself. I tried to win a pool at ecarte[1] last night wherein were 8 or 9 shillings, which would have helped a little, but I failed and reduced my stock from £1.5 to the afore said £1.3.6!! See, Susan, what a “splendid matrimonial alliance”, as the newspapers say, you have made. Your coronet will never be a brilliant one, but never mind, mutual contentment and integrity will always keep its ermines pure, and mutual affection (for that we have in abundance, at all events, whatever else is wanting) will brighten its golden circlet, with a brightness which no outward splendour can give. Now I go to take a last bath. I never forget that locket now. I should be ungrateful indeed if I did, for it is my best friend. Tomorrow or next day I shall be able to find out how I am to move from Liverpool, and you shall know when and how to expect me. In less than a week dearest love, we shall be together!

Your own fond R

1 Écarté is a card game for two players. It was particularly popular in the nineteenth century.

94 53. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Weston Saturday 28 November 1835

One more stage of this never ending journey is now nearly over, dearest Susan; for my visit to Weston is drawing to its close. In spite of all the little boys and girls, and the charms of the half holiday, the time has past slowly since the morning, for I have no letter; and though I dare say it is foolish in me, I can’t help being fidgetty about you and your cough. However I shall take example from you and follow your advice (am I not always right when I do so?) in “looking to the brightest side of things” and I shall hope to find letters waiting for me at Mr Temple’s to tell me that you are better and freed from the prison of the “stuff curtains”. How I wish I had been by your side instead of Bessy! I dare say you would admit me even though you had your nightcap on! After lunch we sallied forth to walk away the half holiday, Mamma and governesses and little boys and little girls and all, as many as could not be accommodated with a hand by me being on my coat tails, and forth we went. Ten thousand questions were asked about the “new cousin” – was she tall or not, dark or fair – was I very fond of her – all of which were answered I hope to their satisfaction; and were followed by strict injunctions to remember I must be here on twelfth night, for they could not have half fun enough without me; and when I ventured to suggest that perhaps the ‘new cousin’ they talked so much about would not let me come, it was heard with great scorn, but when I assured them very humbly that I was no longer free to come or go, they then told me to tell the ‘new cousin’ that they thought she had much better come and if she only would, she should be, yes she really should be Queen! What a bribe! Our walk began and ended in such conversations with divers interludes of being pelted with wet leaves, riding the little ones on my back for their convenience and riding myself on my own stick for their amusement, shouting and waving my hat to frighten the crows off the trees and make them caw; with a variety of other rural and innocent occupations, as the newspapers say “more easily imagined than described”. After so much bodily recreation, it was but right to enter on a little mental exertion and accordingly Charlotte[1] perched herself up on my knee and read to me with great emphasis and expression the history of John Gilpin – an eminent character of the last century, who, you may have heard my dear, was a citizen of credit and renown distinguished, no less, for his creditable and renowned character as a civilian than for his military propensities since

a trainband captain eke was he of famous London town.[2]

95 Feeling my mind much exalted by such refined studies, it was painful to me to have to descend from Parnassus to the dining room, where Lady Bradford and I by dint of the dumb waiters had a very pleasant tête á tête; and then again when the juveniles reappeared “the gay and festive scene” was exhilarated by a bumper all round to the health of “Ramsay and Lady Susan Hay”, till it came to Johnny,[3] who stood up with a vast tumbler in his hands, as big as himself, and with true gallantry was the first who put the lady first and pledged “Lady Susan Hay and Jem Ramsay”; finally I am charged with many messages from the whole party to beg you will come and see them all very soon and they all join in a recommendation to you, to take some charge of my education since they find me lamentably deficient. This refers to all branches, but they particularly suggest that your attention should be turned to improve what they pronounce my “joggraphee and spillin”. Lady Bradford, in good earnest, charges me with many wishes to you, dear Susan, of seeing you here, and wishes you to be assured of her wish to make your acquaintance, and her wish that you should know and like your cousin. The coach starts so early that I was obliged to begin this at night but the clock has struck 12, and I can therefore say I leave this to-day. I shall reach Mr Temple’s I expect this evening, if all go well – remain there all Sunday – on Monday get into Liverpool in time to catch the Mail, travel down as fast as eagerness and four horses can carry me. On Tuesday evening I shall arrive at Dalhousie, sleep there and on Wednesday morning be with you at Yester, where I trust in God I shall find you well and (when I am once again with you) quite happy. It will be too dark in the morning to get over to breakfast; besides I would rather wait till afterwards for I could not bear to meet with you, for the first time, before all the people. As soon as your sisters go to their singing at 10 o’clock do you go into the dining room and wait for me there, where I will be, as nearly as I can time it, very soon after ten o’clock. We shall then have half an hour’s quiet talk before any one interrupts us; a half hour of – what shall I say? – of such ecstasy as life can afford but few parallels to – soon after ten I will be in the dining room! Will you thank Lady Tweeddale very much for me for the muffetees[4] which she sent me. They will be valuable friends on the journey and it was kindly thought of in her. I would write and thank her myself, and I would write also to some of your sisters, but indeed, love, I can write to no one but you to-day; I am too full of the thoughts of Wednesday morning and too delighted to find myself in the act of giving you directions when to expect me and where to meet me to think of anything or talk of anything but you. The footman here, hang him, in the excess of his attention and gentility has unpacked all my portmanteau, a construction which cost me I don’t know how many hours labour! And so I have to set about my work again. How I hate a footman; they are always doing what they should not, always leaving undone

96 what they should do; always in the way, except when they are wanted, and then they are always out of it. I am coming near the end of my last letter; and I enjoy in writing it all the ardent pleasure, all the “intercourse of soul with soul” which I thought (as I write to you) was peculiar to the first one. When I closed that first one I remember I felt as if no time, no circumstances, no absence, no intercourse could add one iota to my affection for you, so great was it; but now I am sensible that every day has added and is adding to it that every day I become more and more wrapped up in you; and I feel at this moment, as I have every day, how powerless and insufficient are any assurances however tender, all endearing terms however fond, all exclamations however passionate, to express the deep deep intensity of the love with which I love you. This only, then, I would say that although I were conscious that these were the last words my hand would ever trace, I should be content and happy in knowing that they were employed in assuring you that I love you, dearest dearest Susan, passionately; and that I ever will love you with a fondness and a constancy which will shew you that I am indeed for ever and forever your own.

Ramsay

1 Charlotte Bridgeman (1827-1858), daughter of the 2nd earl of Bradford and Lord Ramsay’s niece.

2 William Cowper’s comic ballad ‘The Diverting History of John Gilpin’ (1782) tells the story of a draper who rides a runaway horse.

3 John Bridgeman (1831-1897), son of the 2nd earl of Bradford and Lord Ramsay’s nephew.

4 Muffitees was the name given both to a kind of mitten and to a kind of muff worn on the wrist for warmth.

54. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Monday 30 November 1835 My dear Jem,

Mr Page walked into the room just now with your letter, a grim face on as much as to say that Lord Ramsay was not coming for a day or two. We are going to Coalstoun at two where I wish you were you may be sure. I have very little time as it is half past two now and I am going to set off almost immediately. I have been writing since breakfast to Aunt Mandeville[1] and

97 really it is not only a County Chronicle, but an account of what all my Aunts, Uncles, cousins and relatives have been doing and saying for the last three months so I think I will be worth two and sixpence. You said if I only signed my name it would be sufficient and therefore I must trust you to that only today. I am going to luncheon now so Good Bye. I think you are quite right to stay with your Father though I do not like it.

Ever yours, Susan G. Hay

Aunt Jane says you must come early on Wednesday morning to attend her funeral.

1 This was probably Millicent Sparrow (1798-1848), wife of George Montagu, Viscount Mandeville, the eldest son of the 5th duke of Manchester.

55. Susan Hay to James Broun Ramsay

Yester Saturday 5 December 1835

It was rather melancholy to see Papa and Gif come home alone today, dearest Jem, but your note restored my spirits a little, and I am much obliged to you for the message you sent by Gif, which he gave in a most feeling and sentimental way. They arrived at breakfast and gave us an account of the dinner, which I am delighted to hear was so successful, not that I expected otherwise although you were in such doleful mood before you went away. Mama and I walked to Newhall, and saw Mrs Buckle looking I think very ill; young Cuthbert is thriving and is to be baptized on Wednesday, very interesting to you. The Gordons are at present in Belgrave Square.[1] We had a letter from the Duchess today; they intend going to Kimbolton[2] to visit my Granny[3] on the 10th and then come to Scotland; the Duke is determined to be at Gordon Castle the end of this month. The Dowager and her daughter will I think by the painting of the drawing room be prevented coming here to my infinite satisfaction although I should like to see Sophia yet you must know we consider the Duchess an exessive [sic] bore.

98 I shall expect you Tuesday, Monday I suppose is useless; so Good bye, not such a long Good bye as the Oxford Good byes, ever your’s affectionately, Susan G. Hay

Bessy expects an answer to her last letter and will take no excuse from you.

1 The London residence of the duke and duchess of Gordon was in Belgrave Square.

2 Kimbolton Castle (Huntingdonshire) was the home of the duke of Manchester.

3 In Scots, ‘granny’ was a child’s name for a grandfather, and Lady Susan is referring here to the 5th duke of Manchester.

56. James Broun Ramsay to Susan Hay

Dalhousie Castle Sunday 6 December 1835

[written across the top margin of the letter: I shall find you in the library when I come on Wednesday about 10 shan’t I?]

If there does not come a most invincible snowstorm, if she can walk, ride, drive or swim over to Coalstoun, my mother goes there tomorrow, my dearest Susan, and as doubtless you will meet somehow, she shall be my post and carry this to you. We have had a fall of snow here; not enough to shut us up yet but quite enough to make it look very dreary. I trust there will come nothing vast enough to snow us up; at least not till the day after we are married, dear, and then it may set to and snow for a month, and take another month to melt! Do you agree? Yesterday I went over to Archers Hall and shot there for the Goose Medal.[1] The winner of it is styled “Captain Goose”; but I did not win it and you need not therefore be under any alarm of becoming “Mrs Captain Goose”. How well it would sound announced at Whittinghame! or any other fine place such as that. Jemmy drove me out here where we found his Lordship pretty well. My Grannie and I have had a gossip, which has ended by her rejoicing much in the prospect of seeing you tomorrow and by my envying her the sight very much. Moreover as they do not come back till Tuesday, and as I don’t like to leave my father alone, I shall not be able to come to you again till Wednesday at breakfast. This is very tiresome and indeed I see but little of you, compared

99 with what I could wish but you know, sweet love, that I would rather be at your side than in any spot this universe contains, and that it is only sheer necessity which keeps me away. However this will soon be over; and you are too good a girl not to like me better for sacrificing what you know to be my most eager wishes to my father’s comfort and you will be ready to remember that if I make a good son I shall be more likely to be a good husband. Lady Tweeddale and my mother will I hope fix something like the day, but what between the Gordons and the two clergymen from England, and your drawing room, and our house, it will not be before the beginning of January. I’m sure for my part, I wish it was to be tomorrow, but wishing is of no use. Great dinners don’t agree with Dr Jephson, and tho’ I did not transgress in the line of solids I was not quite so well behaved about liquids. For you see there were divers toasts to which it was a matter of conscience to take a bona fide bumper. There was yours (a proper fellow) and Lady Tweeddale and the Duchess and Buccleuch himself, which together with the necessity of keeping up my fainting spirits once or twice, drove me considerably beyond the 4 glasses allowed and consequently I have been a little piano [i.e. subdued] today, but I am better now, thank you. The dinner ended most admirably. Every man left the room at half past eleven when we did, and there was not a single person tipsy. So you see we have been decorous as well as friendly and complimentary. I am pleased to death by another letter to-day about a Masonic meeting on Friday, again which I must go to, for I have a reply for them from the Duke of Sussex to whom they sent an address;[2] and this I am obliged to deliver. I do with all my heart wish Edinburgh was at Jericho and Jericho at the foot of Arthur’s Seat. I should have some peace then for I have no acquaintance with the ten pounders of Jericho.[3] Give my very best of love to Lady Tweeddale, and tell her that I have enclosed in this letter of your’s a piece of a uniform which was worn by one of the Archers who guarded George 4th on landing in Scotland 15th August 1822. She will remember the dispute we had about the fact of whether their uniform was green cloth or tartan; now this will prove my story for tho’ certainly it is a little threadbare still its age is not sufficient to turn new green cloth into old 42nd tartan![4] And whose, do you think, was this coat? Mr Watson again!![5] I begged a bit of his, on purpose to please you by repeating his name. I have been looking at the arm chair by the fireside, and thinking how much better it will look when it is filled by somebody – and altogether how much more furnished my room will appear when it has one more piece of furniture in it! Can you guess what that piece of furniture is?

100 The man who took down in short hand what I said now refuses to copy them out, for it “would not be delicate to Lord Ramsay”. Thus you are still in my power! Tell this to Lady Jane and bid her die, as she said she would do, if there was not a reporter but listen while I whisper in your ear that you shall have a copy, if you wish it, for it is coming to me and I will try and fill it up for you, Now a’nt I a good boy? I saw Aunt Mary in Edinburgh the other day, but thank my stars Miss Georgy is in Edinr Perthshire, not in Edinburgh. I am come to my paper’s end – so good night, my sweet Susan. Jemmy hopes you got his list. Most truly and affectionately thine [illegible] etc.

Ramsay

1 Archers’ Hall, Edinburgh, is the club house of the Royal Company of Archers (for which see Letter 31, note 3). The Goose Medal, more properly known as the Prize of the Goose, is a competition held each season by the Company. First competed for in 1703, the live goose that gave the prize its name has been replaced as the target by a small glass globe. The winner is known for the season as ‘Captain Goose’.

2 Prince Augustus Frederick (1773-1843), duke of Sussex, was the grand master of the United Grand Lodge of England.

3 The 1832 Reform Act had given the vote to men in burghs who paid a yearly rental of £10 or more. They were known as ‘ten pounders’. By ‘Jericho’, Lord Ramsay is probably meaning the district in Oxford, rather than the town in Palestine.

4 The uniform of the Royal Company of Archers at the time of George IV’s visit was made from the green Government tartan, as also worn by the 42nd Highlanders (the Black Watch).

5 Probably Henry Watson, who was at that time the treasurer of the Royal Company of Archers.

101 Appendix

COULSTON AND YESTER

The estates of Colstoun and Yester lie just ten miles apart. Both are long established with rich histories. Colstoun is said to be the oldest house in Scotland to be continually inhabited by the same family. It was built in 1200 and has expanded and shrunk over time along with the needs of the family, giving today’s Colstoun House a number of special features, rooms and passages. The marriage of James and Susan was not the first between the two estates. Sir David Broun of Colstoun and Marion Gifford of Yester were married in 1270 and their marriage gave rise to one of the most interesting legends of the Broun family. On their way to the church, the father of the bride, Hugh Gifford, picked a pear from a tree and presented it to his daughter in place of a dowry. Reputed to be something of a local wizard, he told her that so long as the pear was kept safe, the owners of Colstoun would prosper. However, in 1692 when George Broun married Elizabeth McKenzie she could not resist a bite of the pear, which looked as fresh and tasty as ever. The pear turned as hard as rock and disaster befell the family. George ran up huge debts and had to sell the estate to his brother Robert. Robert died on Colstoun estate after drowning alongside his two sons in a stream. The pear remains at Colstoun House to this day. Susan could trace her ancestry back to the wizard Hugh Gifford. In the early fifteenth century, the heiress of Gifford married into the Hay family, who later were granted the titles earl of Tweeddale and then marquess of Tweeddale, of which Susan’s father was the 8th. Yester House, Susan’s family home, was built at the beginning of the eighteenth century, replacing an earlier ancestral home of Yester Castle, which was now in ruins. It was built by James Smith and later remodelled by the Adam family. Today it is in private hands, while Colstoun estate operates as a cookery school and events venue, with Ludovic Broun- Lindsay, James’ three-times great grandson, still in residence there.

Fran Woodrow East Lothian Archives

102 Further Reading

The original letters are to be found at the John Gray Centre, Haddington, where they form part of a large collection of documents and images that tell the story of East Lothian and its people. There are three lengthy biographical works about James Broun Ramsay: Hunter, W W. The Marquess of Dalhousie, K.T., Oxford, 1890; Trotter, L I. Life of the Marquis of Dalhousie, London, 1889; and Lee-Warner, W. The Life of the Marquess of Dalhousie, 2 vols, London, 1904. The last of these provides the most detail about the period covered by the present collection of letters. A succinct account of Ramsay’s life is provided by Howlett, D J. ‘Ramsay, James Andrew Broun, first marquess of Dalhousie (1812-1860)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford, 2004. The ODNB also contains short biographies on various other people mentioned in the letters, from the 8th marquis of Tweeddale to Solomon Malan. For Susan Hay and her family, see Nettleford, C. The Lords of Yester, Pewsey, 2014. Contemporary descriptions of Dalhousie and Yester, and their environs, can be found in the entries for the parishes of Cockpen and Yester in the Second (New) Statistical Account for Scotland, 15 vols, Edinburgh, 1845. See also Chambers, R & W. The Gazetteer of Scotland, 2 vols, Edinburgh, 1838. Descriptions of Colstoun (or Coalstoun, as Ramsay styled it) House, Dalhousie Castle and Yester House can be found in McWilliam, C. The Buildings of Scotland: Lothian, except Edinburgh, London, 1980. For a brief account of Leamington during the time of Ramsay’s visit, and in particular the role of Dr Henry Jephson, see the Leamington History Group website: http://leamingtonhistory.co.uk/dr-henry-jephson/. For Oxford, and Christ Church in particular, see Curthoys, J. The Cardinal’s College: Christ Church, Chapter and Verse, London, 2012; and Brock, M G and Curthoys, M C. History of the University of Oxford. Volume VI: Nineteenth- Century Oxford, Oxford, 1997. Other relevant works can be found in the notes to the Introduction and to the letters.

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