" In 1801, a chance visit to Edinburgh, in | had not half enough money to stock it, and charge of a flock of sheep for sale, led to gradually drooped down, until at the age of his engaging" a printer to print sundry sixty, he had "not a sixpence in the world." of his poems. They did not find, nor were Yet, on the whole, he led a happy life they entitled to find, fame; and he contin- "Some may think," he writes, " that I must ued a shepherd until another and a happier have worn out a life of misery and wretch"chance came in his way. edness; but the case has been quite the reverse. I never knew either man or woman who has been so uniformly happy as I have been; which has been partly owing to a good constitution, and partly to the conviction that a heavenly gift, conferring the powers of immortal song, was inherent in my soul. Indeed, so uniformly smooth and happy has my married life been, that, on a retrospect, I cannot distinguish one part from another, save by some remarkably good days of fishing, shooting, and curling on the ice." When Scott was seeking materials for his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," he made the acquaintance of William Laidlaw, a peasant with whom he contracted an enduring friendship. Hogg had been his father's servant, and as Laidlow knew his enthusiasm concerning the subject of Scott's search, he brought them together, being especially anxious to do so because "Jamie's mother "had" by heart" many old Scottish ballads. Scott found a brother poet, a true son of Nature and Genius, and continued to befriend him to the close of his life. Soon after "auspicious fate "thus brought him into connection with Walter Scott, he was cheered and invigorated, for awhile, by the sun of prosperity. Subscribers to his "Mountain Bard," and a sum paid to him for what he calls "that celebrated work, Hogg on Sheep," made him so suddenly rich (for he was master and owner of £300) that he went perfectly mad," took a large pasture farm, lost all his money, and was again as poor as ever; until, in 1810, he wrapt his plaid about his shoulders and marched to Edinburgh to become a man of letters "by profession." The wayward, vain, and erratic man of genius encountered more than the usual impediments. At that period, he wrote of himself that he was "a common shepherd, who never was at school, who went to service at seven years old, and could neither read nor write with any degree of accuracy when thirty;" yet who had set up for a connoisseur in manners, taste, and genius." Thus he alludes to a periodical work, "The Spy," of which he was for a time the editor. 66 He became, therefore, by profession a man of letters." Afterwards, he pursued that "profession through many varied paths-writing plays, poems, and prose, getting money now and then, by fits and starts, but on the whole, " doing badly," and obtaining a large amount of popularity with an infinitesimal portion of actual gain. In 1814, he was presented with the small farm of Altrive Lake, in the wilds of Yarrow," by the Duke of Buccleuch no doubt the suggestion came from Walter Scott; it was a great boon to Hogg, for "it gave him a habitation among his native woods and streams." Here he built a cottage, married, took a large farm, Mount Benger; found he I have great pleasure in again transcribing a few passages from one of his Lay Sermons: "I am an old man, and of course, my sentiments are those of an old man; but I am not like one of those crabbed philosophers who rail sincerity of heart, I believe that hitherto no man at the state which they cannot reach, for, in has enjoyed a greater share of felicity than I have. It is well known in what a labyrinth of poverty and toil my life has been spent, but I never repined, for when subjected to the greatest and most humiliating disdain and reproaches, I always rejoiced in the consciousness that I did not deserve them. I have rejoiced in the prosperity of my friends, and have never envied any man's happiness. I have never intentionally little power I had to do good to others, I never done evil to any living soul; and knowing how missed an opportunity that came within the reach of my capacity to do it. I have not only been satisfied, but most thankful to the Giver of all good, for my sublunary blessings, the highest of all for a grateful heart that enjoys them; and I have always accustomed myself to think more on what I have than on what I want. I have seen but little of life, but I have looked minutely into that little, and I assure you, on have been able to trace the miseries and misforthe faith of a poet and a philosopher, that I tunes of many of my friends solely to the situation in which they were placed, and which other men envied; and I never knew a man happy with a great fortune, who would not have been much happier without it. Nor did I ever know a vicious person, or one who scoffed at religion, happy." We have other testimony beside his own "A pardonable vanity," writes Lockhart, "made him convert his cottage into an unpaid hostelrie for the reception of endless troops of thoughtless admirers; the natural consequence was mesh of pecuniary difficulties from which he was never disentangled. "Much it testified for his home affections that, while spending a season in London, where he was fêted and flattered by all parties, he sent down A New Year's Gift for his children,' in the form of a few simple prayers and hymns, written expressly for their use. I cannot forget him as the kind master of a household, indulgent perhaps to a fault, and how he was wont, as the Sabbath evening came round, to take down the big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride,' for the worship of God, and to exercise his domestics in the Shorter Catechism. I cannot forget the attractions of his social companionship, his lively fancy, or his flashes of merriment that set the table in a roar. I cannot forget his intense sympathy with the joys and sorrows of cottage-life, nor his generous aid in bringing the means of education (all the more valued from his own early disadvantages) within the reach of the shepherds and peasantry around him." Perhaps the name of the Ettrick Shepherd was made more famous in England by the lavish and sometimes inconsiderate use of it in Blackwood's Magazine, than by all his many poems and tales in prose and verse. Few read now-a-days, his "Mountain Bard," or his "Queen's Wake;" and "Bonny Kilmeny" is known chiefly by its pleasant sound, while the "Brownie of Bodsbeck and his "Tales of the Covenanters" were long ago laid on the shelf. The Shepherd is, however, immortalised in the "Noctes." It is understood that Hogg protested against the "too much familiarity that breeds contempt." and it is certain that he was often "shown up" in a way that could not have been agreeable; but of a surety, it gave notoriety, if it did not bring him fame; and it is not improbable that he preferred thus to be talked about to the not being talked him * A very beautiful editios of Hogg's works, poetry and prose, was published in 1865, in two large volumes, by Messrs. Blackie of Glasgow. It is a worthy monument to his memory; far more enduring than the statue that stands by St. Mary's Loch. The illustrations, of which there are many, are from the admirable pencil of D. O. Hill; the landscapes, that is to say; for there are several capital figureprints by an artist of rare merit with whom we are too little acquainted, K. Halswelle. The biography is by the Rev. Thomas Thomson; it is charmingly written, with a genuine love of the subject, a thorough appreciation of the man, and an earnest desire to do him justice. Altogether, no writer of our time has been more satisfactorily dealt with, as regards editor, artists, and publisher. [about at all. That his friend Wilson meant him no serious wrong is certain, for Wilson was of those who most esteemed and regarded him. In one of his letters to Hogg, Wilson promises to abstain from introducing him into the "Noctes; if, indeed, that be disagreeable to you." "But," he adds, "all the idiots in existence shall never persuade me that in those dialogues you are not respected and honoured, and that they have not spread the fame of your genius and your virtues all over Europe, America, Asia, and Africa." Like Wordsworth's Pedlar, he was Thus he is described by one who loved him much, and whose name might have been associated with the foremost worthies of his country, had not an evil destiny" placed him, while yet young, in a position of independence- -to whom "letters" have, therefore, ever since been a relaxation and not a pursuit; but who, sometimes, supplies proof that Scotland in obtaining a valuable sheriff lost a rare poet. I refer to Henry Glasford Bell, who, on the occasion of inaugurating the statue of Hogg, thus pictured his friend: "We remember his sturdy form, and shrewd, familiar face; his kindly greetings, and his social cheer, his summer angling, and his winter curling, his welcome presence at kirk and market, and border game; and, above all, how his grey eye sparkled as he sang, in his own simple and unadorned fash-~ ion, those rustic ditties in which a manly vigour of sentiment was combined with unexpected grace, sweetness, and tender ness. " This is Lockhart's portrait ("Peter's Letters "): :- His hair is of the true Sicambrian yellow; his eyes are of the lightest, and at the same time of the clearest, blue; his forehead is finely, but strangely, shaped, the regions of pure fancy and of pure wit being largely developed; his countenance is eloquent, both in its gravity and levity," and he adds, "he could have undergone very little change since he was a herd on Yarrow." The Rev. Mr. Thomson, his biographer, thus pictures him. "In height he was five feet, ten inches and a half; his broad chest and square shoulders indicated health and strength, while a well-rounded leg, and small ankle and foot, showed the active shepherd who could outstrip the runaway sheep." His hair in his younger days was auburn, slightly inclining to yellow, which afterwards became dark brown mixed with "The grey; his eyes, which were dark blue, were The following tribute to the memory of "Who is there that has not heard of the Ettrick Shepherd-of him whose inspiration descended as lightly as the breeze that blows along the mountain sides - who saw, amongst the lonely and sequestered glens of the south, from eyelids touched with fairy ointment, such visions as are vouchsafed to the minstrel alone there was not one dry eye amongst the hundreds that lingered round his grave." I quote the testimony of Professor Wilson, in respect to the peculiar character of his poetic power: "Whenever he treats of fairy-land, his language insensibly becomes, as it were, soft, mild, and aerial - we could almost think that we heard the voice of one of the fairy folk-still and serene images seem to rise up with the wild music of the inspiration, and the poet deludes us for the time into an unquestioning and satisfied belief in the existence of those 'green realms of bliss,' of which he himself seems to be a native minstrel. In this department of pure poetry, the Ettrick Shepherd has, among his own countrymen at least, no competitor. He is the poet-laureate of the Court of Faery. The pastoral valleys of the south of Scotland look to him as their best-beloved poet-all their wild and gentle superstitions have blended with his being." "Bird of the wilderness, Oh! to abide in the desert with thee! and Southey ever a safe guide writes of James Hogg as "a worthy fellow, and a man of very extraordinary powers; Wordsworth pays a graceful and grateful compliment to one who was his "guide when first he saw "the stream of Yarrow." -the dream of sweet Kilmeny, too spiritual for the taint of earth? I shall not attempt any comparison for I am not here to criticisebetween his genius and that of other men, on whom God, in His bounty, has bestowed the great and the marvellous gift. The songs and the poetry of the Shepherd are now the nation's own, as indeed they long have been, and amidst the minstrelsy of the choir who have made the name of Scotland and her peasantry familiar throughout the wide reach of the habitable world, the clear, wild notes of the forest will for ever be heard to ring. I have seen him many times by the banks of his own romantic Yarrow; I have sat with him in the calm and sunny weather by the margin of St. Mary's Lake; I have seen his eyes sparkle and his cheek flush as he spoke out some old heroic ballad of the days of the Douglas and the Graeme; and I have felt as I listen d to the accents of his manly voice, that whilst Scotland could produce Mrs. Hall, in one of her Recollections, amongst her children such men as him beside describes an evening-party at her house, in me, her ancient spirit had not departed from which, among the guests, were James Hogg, her, nor the star of her glory grown pale. For Maria Edgeworth, Allan Cunningham, Colhe was a man, indeed, cast in nature's happiest onel James Glencairn Burns, Lætitia Lanmould. True-hearted, and brave, and generous, and sincere; alive to every kindly impulse, and don, Procter, Miss M. J. Jewsbury, Emma fresh at the core to the last, he lived among his Roberts, William Jerdan, Mrs. Hofland, native hills the blameless life of the shepherd Laman Blanchard, Richard Lalor Shiel, and and the poet; and on the day when he was laid Sir David Wilkie. Others, no doubt, might beneath the sod in the lonely kirkyard of Ettrick, I be called to mind who there met on that The poet also wrote some memorable lines when he learned the death of one he esteemed and valued - when "Ettrick mourned her Shepherd dead." evening. They have all (excepting Proc-| tor and Jerdan) passed from earth. This Is the portrait she then drew of Hogg:"I can recall James Hogg sitting on the sofa-his countenance flushed with the excitement and the 'toddy (he had come 66 "Thee I'll sing, and when I dee, Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me. Pausing swains will say, and weep, 'Here our Shepherd lies asleep.' Thus, the shepherd sleeps among his kindred, his friends, his companions-associates from youth to age-in the bosom of Ettrick Dale, so often the subject of his fervid song. The debt he asked for has been paid; the green turf of his native valley covto us from a dinner with Sir George War-ers the clay that enclosed the lofty, genial, render, whom some wag spoke of as Sir and generous spirit of a truly great man: — George Provender)-expressing wild earnestness, not, I thought, unmixed with irascibility. He was then, certainly, more like a buoyant Irishman than a steady son of the soil of the thistle, as he shouted forth, in an untuneable voice, songs that were his own But the grave-stone at Ettrick is not the especial favourites; giving us some account only monument to James Hogg. "Auld of the origin of each at its conclusion. One Scotland," after pausing, perhaps, too long, I particularly remember-The Woman made a move; and a statue of the Ettrick Folk.' Ha, Ha!' he exclaimed, echoing Shepherd was erected in Ettrick Dale. our applause with his own broad hands, 'that song, which I am often forced to sing to the leddies, sometimes against my will, that song will never be sung so well again by any one after I be done wi' it.'" remember Cunningham's comment, That's because you have the nature in you!"" I Hogg's birth-place and his grave are but a few hundred yards asunder. Ettrick kirk is modern; but the kirkyard is so old that the rude forefathers of Ettrick have been laid there for many centuries. A plain headstone marks the poet's grave, it contains this inscription: "James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who was born at Ettrick Hall in 1770, and died at Altrive Lake the 21st day of November, 1835." The place of his death was some miles distant from that of his birth and burial; but there his people lay; there he desired to lie, and to that kirk-yard his widow rightly conveyed him; his widow - for in 1820, he married Miss Margaret Phillips, a young lady of respectable family; "and," writes his generous biographer, "no choice he ever made was so wise, and at the same time, so fortunate."* She survived him, and so did one son and three daughters. When he was interred in Ettrick kirkyard, a thoughtful and loving friend, a peasant, as he himself had been, brought some clumps of daisies from one of the far off nooks he loved, to plant upon his grave; and by its side stood Professor Wilson; as one of Hogg's friends writes, "It was a sight to see that grand old man, head uncovered, his long hair waving in the wind; the tears streaming down his cheeks." Margaret, the widow of James Hogg, received in January, 1854, one of the crown pensions, £50 a year, "in consideration of her husband's poetical talent," and in February, 1858, an annual sum from the same source was awarded to Jessie P. Hogg, "in consideration of the literary merits of her father." root That monument is the work of Mr. Andrew Currie, R.S.A., and was erected in 1860, by subscription, mainly owing to the efforts of the Rev. Charles Rogers, LL.D. The bard of Ettrick is seated on 66 an oak- an appropriate relic of the Forest." enveloped in his plaid, which crosses one The poet's well-knit muscular form is partly shoulder, and falls gracefully upon his finelymoulded limbs. His coat is closely buttoned; he plants his sturdy staff firmly on the ground with his right hand, and holds in his left a scroll, inscribed with the last line of the "Queen's Wake" "Hath taught the wandering winds to sing." "Hector," the Poet's favourite dog, rests lovingly at his feet, with head erect, surveying the hills behind, as if conscious of his duties in tending the flocks during the poetic reverie of his master. The panels of the pedestal contain appropriate inscriptions from "The Queen's Wake." The statue stands on an elevation, midway between two lakes St. Mary's Loch and the Lowes Loch. They are in the centre of a district renowned in picture and in song, rich in traditionary lore and consecrated by Yarrow pours its waters into St. Mary's heroic deeds in the olden time. Legendary Lake. It was "lone St. Mary's silent lake," that specially delighted the poet Wordsworth, visiting Yarrow; suggesting the of ten quoted lines: "The swan on still St. Mary's lake It was the lake that moved the muse of 'Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink, And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land." The poet while he lived must have often looked from that very spot over the grand view thence obtained of fertile land and clear water; and here, no doubt, if his spirit is permitted to revisit earth, he often wanders- about the scenes he has commemorated in prose and in verse. These are the eloquent words of Sheriff Bell, at the festival when the statue was inaugurated: "And now that monument is there before you, adding a new feature to this romantic land; announcing to all comers that Scotland never forgets her native poets; teaching the lowliest labourer that genius and the rewards of genius are limited to no rank or condition; upholding in its Doric and manly simplicity the dignity of humble worth; and bidding the Tweed, and the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Teviot, and the Gala, sparkle more brightly, as they roll on their way;' for the Shepherd who murmured by their banks a music sweeter than their own, is to be seen once more by the side of his own Loch Mary. There let it remain in the summer winds and the winter showers, never destined to be passed carelessly by, as similar testimonials too often are in the crowded thoroughfares of cities, but gladdening the heart of many an admiring pilgrim, who will feel at this shrine that the donum naturæ the great gift of song, can only come from on high, and who, as he wends on his way, will waken the mountain echoes with the Shepherd's glowing strains, wedded to some grand old melody of Scotland, one of those many melodies which have given energy to the swords of her heroes, and inspiration to the lyres of her poets!" * Hogg survived but a short time his sympathising and generous friend, Sir Walter Scott. Lockhart says, “It had been better for Hogg's fame had his end been of earlier date; for he did not follow his best benefactor until he had insulted his dust." But that blot upon his memory is not justified by evidence; Lockhart's indignation was excited by Hogg's publication, "The Domestic Manners and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott," published after Scott's death. I have not seen it, and it is not reprinted in Blackie's edition of his works; but I willingly accept the statement of his biographer, that "notwithstanding the little vanity that occasionally peeps out," it is amply re * Professor Wilson, writing as Christopher North, in 1824 ("Noctes Ambrosiane "), thus prophesied the after destiny of Hogg:-"My beloved Shepherd, some half-century hence, your effigy will be seen on some bonny green knowe in the forest, with its honest face looking across St. Mary's Loch and up towards the Grey Mare's Tail, while by moonlight ll your own fairies will dance round its pedestal," deemed by "high and just appreciation of his illustrious mentor, and the affectionate enthusiasm of his details." Neither has there been a reprint of his very singular book, "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding," published by Fraser, in 1834, a copy of which he presented to Mrs. Hall. It is full of practical wisdom, contains some striking anecdotes concerning himself and his experience, and bears the strongest and most conclusive evidence of his trust in Divine Providence and his entire faith in Christianity. I must express my regret that this most beautiful and useful volume has been overlooked by the Rev. Mr. Thomson in republishing the works of James Hogg; and I earnestly counsel Messrs. Blackie to reprint it, not only as an act of justice to the memory of the writer, but as a means of rendering incalculable service to the cause of virtue and religion. Among the worthies of Scotland, James Hogg holds, and will ever hold, a foremost place. A country so fertile of great men and great women may be, as it is, proud of his genius. Among "uneducated poets" he stands broadly out beyond them all; generally they were "poets," and nothing more. The prose of Hogg has many claims to merit; his tales are full of interest, and often manifest great power; and if he wrote much - far more than others of his class' - he wrote much that was good, and nothing- at least so far as general readers know that was bad. † † I have preserved one of his letters to Mrs. Hall: it is characteristic, and I may be justified in printing it. "Mount Benger, May 22, 1830. "MY DEAR MRS. HALL, "It signifies little how much a man admires a woman when he cannot please her. I think it perhaps the most unfortunate thing that can befall him, and of all creatures ever I met with, you are the most capricious and the hardest to please. I wish I had you for a few days to wander with me through the romantic dells of Westmoreland. As this is never likely to happen, so I have no hopes of ever pleasing you. I have received both your flattering letters, and I'll not tell you how much I think of you, for I am very angry with you, and have always been since ever I saw your name first in print, to say nothing of writing, which is far worse; but if the face and form be as I have painted them mentally, and a true index to the mind, you are a jewel. It will be perhaps as good for us both that my knowlpity to spoil a dream so delicious. edge of you never extend further, as it would be a I sent you a very good tale, and one of those with which I delight to harrow up the little souls of my own family. I say it is a very good tale, and ex actly fit for children, and nobody else; and your letter to me occasioned me writing one of the best poems ever dropped from my pen, in ridicule of yours and the modern system of education. Give it to Mr. Hall. As I think shame to put my name to such mere commonplace things as you seem to want, I have sent you a letter from an English widow. "Yours most affectionately, "James Hogg." |