where Allan Cunningham still stood, with his weather-beaten cheek toward me, and seizing his hard brawny hand, I gave it a hearty shake, saying something as kind as I was able, and, at the same time, I am sure, as stupid as it possibly could be. From that moment we were friends; for Allan has none of the proverbial Scottish caution about him; he is all heart together, without reserve either of expression or manner: you at once see the unaffected benevolence, warmth of feeling, and firm independence of a man conscious of his own rectitude and mental energies. Young as he was, I had heard of his name, although slightly, and I think seen two or three of his juvenile pieces." . . . . "I had a small bothy upon the hill, in which I took my breakfast and dinner on wet days, and rested myself. It was so small that we had to walk in on all-fours; and when we were in we could not get up our heads any way but in a sitting posture. It was exactly my own length, and, on the one side, I had a bed of rushes, which served likewise as a seat; on this we all three sat down, and there we spent the whole afternoon; and, I am sure, a happier group of three never met on the hill of Queensberry. Allan brightened up prodigiously after he got into the dark bothy, repeating all his early pieces of poetry, and part of his brother's to me." . . . . "From that day forward I failed not to improve my acquaintance with the Cunninghams. I visited them several times at Dalswinton, and never missed an opportunity of meeting with Allan, when it was in my power to do so. I was astonished at the luxuriousness of his fancy. It was boundless; but it was the luxury of a rich garden overrun with rampant weeds. He was likewise then a great mannerist in expression, and no man could mistake his verses for those of any other man. I remember seeing some imitations of Ossian by him, which I thought exceedingly good; and it struck me that that style of composition was peculiarly fitted for his vast and fervent imagination."
Such is the interesting sketch which Hogg has given us of the early life and character of a brother poet and congenial spirit. The full season at length arrived when Allan Cunningham was to burst from his obscurity as a mere rural bard, and emerge into a more public sphere. Cromek, to the full as enthusiastic an admirer of Scottish poetry as himself, was collecting his well-known relics; and in the course of his quest, young Cunningham was pointed out as one who could efficiently aid him in the work. Allan gladly assented to the task of gathering and preserving these old national treasures, and in due time presented to the zealous antiquary a choice collection of apparently old songs and ballads, which were inserted in the "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," published in 1810. But the best of these, and especially the "Mermaid of Galloway," were the production of Cunningham's own pen. This Hogg at once discovered as soon as the collection appeared, and he did not scruple in proclaiming to all his literary friends that "Allan Cunningham was the author of all that was beautiful in the work." He communicated his convictions also to Sir Walter Scott, who was of the same opinion, and expressed his fervent wish that such a valuable and original young man were fairly out of Cromek's hands. Resolved that the world should know to whom it was really indebted for so much fine poetry, Hogg next wrote a critique upon Cromek's publication, which he sent to the "Edinburgh Review;" but although Jeffrey was aware of the ruse which Cunningham had practised, he did not think it worthy of exposure. In this strange literary escapade, the poet scarcely appears to merit the title of "honest Allan," which Sir Walter Scott subsequently bestowed upon him, and rather to deserve the
