ABBOTSFORD NOTANDA.
Thedeath of Mr William Laidlaw, a man of fine natural powers, and of most estimable character, removed another of the few individuals connected directly and confidentially with the daily life and literary history of Sir Walter Scott, and also with the revival of the antique Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The loss of Hogg, while the twilight from Scott’s departed greatness still shone on the land, was universally regretted; and by the death of Laidlaw, another ‘flower of the forest,’ less bright, but a genuine product of the soil, was ‘wede away.’ As the author of one of our sweetest and most characteristic Scottish ballads,Lucy’s Flittin’, and as a collaborateur with Scott in the collection of the ancient minstrelsy, Laidlaw is entitled to honourable remembrance. Let us never forget those who have added even one wild-rose to the chaplet of Scottish song! It is chiefly, however, as the companion and factor or land-steward of Scott, that William Laidlaw will be known in after-times. During most of those busy and glorious years when Scott was pouring out so prodigally the treasures of his prose fictions, and building up hisbaronial romance of Abbotsford, Laidlaw was his confidential adviser and assistant. From 1817 to 1832, he was resident on the poet’s estate, and emphatically one of his household friends. Not a shade of distrust or estrangement came between them; and this close connection, notwithstanding a disparity in circumstances and opinions, in fame and worldly consequence, is too honourable to both parties to be readily forgotten. The manly kindness and consideration of one noble nature was paralleled by the affectionate devotion and admiration of another; and literary history is brightened by the rare conjunction.
Scott’s early excursions to Liddesdale and Ettrick form one of the most interesting epochs of his life. He was then young, not great, but prosperous, high-spirited, and overflowing with enthusiasm. His appointment as sheriff had procured him confidence and respect. He had given hostages to fortune as a husband and a father, and no one felt more strongly the force and tenderness of those ties. Friends were daily gathering round him; his German studies and ballads inspired visions of literary distinction; and he was full of hope and ambition. In his Border raids, he revelled among the choice and curious stores of Scottish poetry and antiquities. Almost every step in his progress was marked by some memorable deed or plaintive ballad—some martial achievement or fairy superstition. Every tragic tale and family tradition was known to him. The oldpeels, or castles, the bare hills and treeless forest, and solitary streams were all sacred in his eyes. They told of times long past—of warlike feuds and forays—of knights and freebooters, and of primitive manners and customs, fast disappearing, yet embalmed in songs, often rude andimperfect, but always energetic or tender. Thus, the Border towers, and streams, and rocks were equally dear to him as memorials of feudal valour, and as the scenes of lyric poetry and pastoral tranquillity. He contrasted the strife and violence of the warlike Douglases, the Elliots, and Armstrongs, with the peace and security of later times, when shepherds ranged the silent hill, or Scottish maidens sang ancient songs, and, like the Trojan dames,
‘Washed their fair garments in the days of peace.’
‘Washed their fair garments in the days of peace.’
‘Washed their fair garments in the days of peace.’
‘Washed their fair garments in the days of peace.’
Much of this romance was in the scene, but more was in the mind of the beholder.
William Laidlaw’s acquaintance with Scott commenced in the autumn of 1802, after two volumes of theMinstrelsyhad been published, and the editor was making collections for a third. The eldest son of a respectable sheep-farmer, Mr Laidlaw was born at Blackhouse, Selkirkshire, in November 1780. He had received a good education, had a strong bias towards natural history and poetry, was modest and retiring, and of remarkably mild and agreeable manners. The scheme of collecting the old ballads of the Forest was exactly suited to his taste. Burns had filled the whole land with a love of song and poetry, James Hogg was his intimate friend and companion. Hogg had been ten years a shepherd with Mr Laidlaw’s father, had taught the younger members of the family their letters, and recited poetry to the old, and was engaged in everyployand pursuit at Blackhouse, the name of the elder Laidlaw’s farm.
A solitary and interesting spot is Blackhouse!—a wild extensive sheep-walk, with its complement of traditionalstory, and the suitable accompaniment of a ruined tower. The farm lies along the Douglas Burn, a small mountain-stream which falls into the Yarrow about two miles from St Mary’s Loch. Near the house, at the foot of a steep, green hill, and surrounded with a belting of trees, is Blackhouse Tower, or the Tower of Douglas, so called, according to tradition, after the Black Douglas, one of whose ancestors, Sir John Douglas of Douglas-burn, as appears from Godscroft’s history of the family, sat in Malcolm Canmore’s first parliament. The tower has in one corner the remains of a round turret, which contained the stair, and the walls rise in high broken points, which altogether give the ruin a singular and picturesque appearance. It is also the scene of a popular ballad,The Douglas Tragedy, in which, as in the old Elizabethan dramas, blood is shed and horrors are accumulated with no sparing hand. A knightly lover, the ‘Lord William’ of so many ballads, carries off a daughter of Lord Douglas, and is pursued by this puissant noble and his seven sons. All these are slain by Lord William, while the fair betrothed looks on, holding his steed; and the lover himself is mortally wounded in the combat, and dies ere morn. The lady also falls a prey to her grief; and, in the true vein of antique story and legend, we are told
‘Lord William was buried in St Mary’s kirk,Lady Margaret in Mary’s quire;Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,And out o’ the knight’s a brier.’
‘Lord William was buried in St Mary’s kirk,Lady Margaret in Mary’s quire;Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,And out o’ the knight’s a brier.’
‘Lord William was buried in St Mary’s kirk,Lady Margaret in Mary’s quire;Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,And out o’ the knight’s a brier.’
‘Lord William was buried in St Mary’s kirk,
Lady Margaret in Mary’s quire;
Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,
And out o’ the knight’s a brier.’
The tower and legend interested Scott as they had done Laidlaw. He listened attentively to the traditionary narrative, and, like the lovers in the ballad,
‘He lighted down to take a drinkOf the spring that ran sae clear,’
‘He lighted down to take a drinkOf the spring that ran sae clear,’
‘He lighted down to take a drinkOf the spring that ran sae clear,’
‘He lighted down to take a drink
Of the spring that ran sae clear,’
and visited the seven large stones erected upon the neighbouring heights of Blackhouse to mark the spot where the seven brethren were slain.
Mr Laidlaw was prepared for Scott’s mission. He had heard from a Selkirk man in Edinburgh, Mr Andrew Mercer—a Border rhymester, and connected with theEdinburgh Magazine—that the sheriff was meditating a poetical raid into Ettrick, accompanied by John Leyden, and he had written down various ballads from the recitation of old women and the singing of the servant-girls. He had also enlisted the Ettrick Shepherd into this special service. The following is one of Hogg’s rambling bizarre epistles, which relates chiefly to the ballad of the Outlaw Murray:
‘Dear Sir—I received yours, with the transcript, on the day before St Boswell’s Fair’ [17th of July], ‘and am sorry to say it will not be in my power to procure you manuscripts of the two old ballads, especially as they which Mr Scott hath already collected are so near being published. I was talking to my uncle concerning them, and he tells me they are mostly escaped his memory, and they really are so—in so much, that of the whole long transactions betwixt the Scottish king and Murray, he cannot make above half-a-dozen of stanzas to metre, and these are wretched. He attributed it to James V., but as he can mention no part of the song or tale from whence this is proven, I apprehend, from some expressions, it is much ancienter. Upon the whole, I think the thing worthy of investigation—the more so as he’ [Murray of the ballad] ‘was the progenitor of a veryrespectable family, and seems to have been a man of the utmost boldness and magnanimity. What way he became possessed of Ettrick Forest, or from whom he conquered it, remains to me a mystery. When taken prisoner by the king at Permanscore, above Hanginshaw, where the traces of the encampments are still visible, and pleading the justice of his claim to Ettrick Forest, he hath this remarkable expression:“I took it from the Soudan TurkWhen you and your men durstna come see.â€3Who the devil was this Soudan Turk? I would be very happy in contributing any assistance in my power to the elucidating the annals of that illustrious and beloved though now decayed house, but I have no means of accession to any information. I imagine the whole manuscript might be procured from some of the connections of the family. Is it not in the library at Philiphaugh?4As to the death of the Baron of Oakwood and his brother-in-law on Yarrow, if Mr Mercer or Mr Scott, or either of them, wisheth to see it poetically described, they might wait until my tragedy is performed at the Theatre-royal; and if that shall never take place, they must sit in darkness and the shadow ofdeath for what light the poets of Bruce’s time can afford them!‘I believe I could get as much from these traditions as to make good songs out of them myself. But without Mr Scott’s permission this would be an imposition; neither would I undertake it without an order from him in his own handwriting, as I could not bring my language to bear with my date. As a supplement to his songs, if you please, you may send him the one I sent last to you: it will satisfy him, yea or nay, as to my abilities. Haste; communicate this to him; and ask him if, in his researches, he hath lighted on that of John Armstrong of Gilnockie Hall, as I can procure him a copy of that. My uncle says it happened in the same reign with that of Murray, and if so, I am certain it has been written by the same bard. I could procure Mercer some stories—such as the tragical, though well-authenticated one of the unnatural murder of the son and heir of Sir Robert Scott of Thirlstane, the downfall of the family of Tushilaw, and the horrid spirit that still haunts the Alders. And we might give him that of John Thomson’s Aumrie, and the Bogle of Bell’s Lakes.‘My muse still lies dormant, and with me must sleep for ever, since a liberal public hath not given me what my sins and mine iniquities deserved.—I am yours for ever.James Hogg.‘July 20th, 1801.’
‘Dear Sir—I received yours, with the transcript, on the day before St Boswell’s Fair’ [17th of July], ‘and am sorry to say it will not be in my power to procure you manuscripts of the two old ballads, especially as they which Mr Scott hath already collected are so near being published. I was talking to my uncle concerning them, and he tells me they are mostly escaped his memory, and they really are so—in so much, that of the whole long transactions betwixt the Scottish king and Murray, he cannot make above half-a-dozen of stanzas to metre, and these are wretched. He attributed it to James V., but as he can mention no part of the song or tale from whence this is proven, I apprehend, from some expressions, it is much ancienter. Upon the whole, I think the thing worthy of investigation—the more so as he’ [Murray of the ballad] ‘was the progenitor of a veryrespectable family, and seems to have been a man of the utmost boldness and magnanimity. What way he became possessed of Ettrick Forest, or from whom he conquered it, remains to me a mystery. When taken prisoner by the king at Permanscore, above Hanginshaw, where the traces of the encampments are still visible, and pleading the justice of his claim to Ettrick Forest, he hath this remarkable expression:
“I took it from the Soudan TurkWhen you and your men durstna come see.â€3
“I took it from the Soudan TurkWhen you and your men durstna come see.â€3
“I took it from the Soudan TurkWhen you and your men durstna come see.â€3
“I took it from the Soudan Turk
When you and your men durstna come see.â€3
Who the devil was this Soudan Turk? I would be very happy in contributing any assistance in my power to the elucidating the annals of that illustrious and beloved though now decayed house, but I have no means of accession to any information. I imagine the whole manuscript might be procured from some of the connections of the family. Is it not in the library at Philiphaugh?4As to the death of the Baron of Oakwood and his brother-in-law on Yarrow, if Mr Mercer or Mr Scott, or either of them, wisheth to see it poetically described, they might wait until my tragedy is performed at the Theatre-royal; and if that shall never take place, they must sit in darkness and the shadow ofdeath for what light the poets of Bruce’s time can afford them!
‘I believe I could get as much from these traditions as to make good songs out of them myself. But without Mr Scott’s permission this would be an imposition; neither would I undertake it without an order from him in his own handwriting, as I could not bring my language to bear with my date. As a supplement to his songs, if you please, you may send him the one I sent last to you: it will satisfy him, yea or nay, as to my abilities. Haste; communicate this to him; and ask him if, in his researches, he hath lighted on that of John Armstrong of Gilnockie Hall, as I can procure him a copy of that. My uncle says it happened in the same reign with that of Murray, and if so, I am certain it has been written by the same bard. I could procure Mercer some stories—such as the tragical, though well-authenticated one of the unnatural murder of the son and heir of Sir Robert Scott of Thirlstane, the downfall of the family of Tushilaw, and the horrid spirit that still haunts the Alders. And we might give him that of John Thomson’s Aumrie, and the Bogle of Bell’s Lakes.
‘My muse still lies dormant, and with me must sleep for ever, since a liberal public hath not given me what my sins and mine iniquities deserved.—I am yours for ever.
James Hogg.
‘July 20th, 1801.’
The ‘liberal public’ had given a reception ‘the north side of friendly,’ as Bailie Nicol Jarvie says, to a small publication which made its appearance about six months before the date of the above letter, entitled ‘ScottishPastorals, Poems, &c., by James Hogg, Farmer at Ettrick’—a most unlucky speculation.
Mr Laidlaw was constantly annoyed, he said, to find how much the affectation and false taste of Allan Ramsay had spoiled or superseded many striking and beautiful old strains of which he got traces and fragments, and how much Scott was too late in beginning his researches, as many aged persons, who had been the bards and depositaries of a former generation, were then gone.
‘I heard,’ he says, ‘from one of our servant-girls, who had all the turn and qualifications for a collector, of a ballad calledAuld Maitland, that a grandfather of Hogg’s could repeat, and she herself had several of the first stanzas (which I took a note of, and have still the copy). This greatly aroused my anxiety to procure the whole, for this was a ballad not even hinted at by Mercer in his list of desiderata received from Mr Scott. I forthwith wrote to Hogg himself, requesting him to endeavour to procure the whole ballad. In a week or two, I received his reply, containingAuld Maitlandexactly as he had copied it from the recitation of his uncle, Will Laidlaw of Phawhope, corroborated by his mother, who both said they learned it from their father, a still older Will of Phawhope, and an old man called Andrew Muir, who had been servant to the famous Mr Boston, minister of Ettrick.’5These services of theolden time were marked by reciprocal kindness and attachment, not unworthy of the patriarchal age. Son succeeded father in tending thehirselor herding the cows, while in the case of ‘the master,’ the same hereditary or family succession was often preserved.
The person of the sheriff was not unknown to the new friend with whom he was afterwards destined to form so intimate a connection. ‘I first saw Walter Scott,’ Laidlaw used to relate, ‘when the Selkirk troop of yeomanry met to receive their sheriff shortly after his appointment. I was on the right of the rear rank, and my front-rank man wasArchie Park, a brother of the traveller. Our new sheriff was accompanied by afriend, and as they retired to the usual station of the inspecting officer previous to the charges, the wonderfulspringsand bounds which Scott made, seemingly in the excitation and gaiety of his heart, joined to the effect of his fine fair face and athletic appearance, were the cause of a general murmur of satisfaction, bordering on applause, which ran through the troop. Archie Park looked over his shoulder to me, and growled, in his deep rough voice: “Will, what a strong chield that would have been if his right leg had been like his left ane!â€â€™
Scott and Leyden duly appeared at Blackhouse, carrying letters of introduction. They put up their horses, and experienced a homely unostentatious hospitality, which afterwards served to heighten the delightful traits of rustic character in the delineation of Dandie Dinmont’s home at Charlies-Hope. If the sheriff did not ‘shoot a blackcock and eat a blackcock too,’ the fault was not in his entertainers. After the party had explored the scenery of the burn, and inspected Douglas Tower, Laidlaw produced his treasure ofAuld Maitland. Leyden seemed inclined to lay hands on the manuscript, but the sheriff said gravely thathewould read it. Instantly both Scott and Leyden, from their knowledge of the subject, saw and felt that the ballad was undoubtedly ancient, and their eyes sparkled as they exchanged looks. Scott read with great fluency and emphasis. Leyden was like a roused lion. He paced the room from side to side, clapped his hands, and repeated such expressions as echoed the spirit of hatred to King Edward and the Southrons, or as otherwise struck his fancy. ‘I had never before seen anything like this,’ said the quiet Laidlaw; ‘and, though the sheriff kept his feelings under, he, too, was excited, sothat hisburrbecame very perceptible.’ The wild Border energy and abruptness are certainly seen in such verses as these:
‘As they fared up o’er Lammermore,They burned baith up and down,Until they came to a darksome house;Some call it Leader-Town.“Wha hauds this house?†young Edward cried,“Or wha gies’t ower to me?â€A gray-haired knight set up his head,And crackit right crousely:“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house;He pays me meat and fee;And I will keep my gude auld houseWhile my house will keep me.â€They laid their sowies to the wall,Wi’ mony a heavy peal;But he threw ower to them agenBaith pitch and tar barrel.With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,Among them fast he threw;Till mony of the EnglishmenAbout the wall he slew.Full fifteen days that braid host lay,Sieging auld Maitland keen,Syne they hae left him, hail and fair,Within his strength of stane.’
‘As they fared up o’er Lammermore,They burned baith up and down,Until they came to a darksome house;Some call it Leader-Town.“Wha hauds this house?†young Edward cried,“Or wha gies’t ower to me?â€A gray-haired knight set up his head,And crackit right crousely:“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house;He pays me meat and fee;And I will keep my gude auld houseWhile my house will keep me.â€They laid their sowies to the wall,Wi’ mony a heavy peal;But he threw ower to them agenBaith pitch and tar barrel.With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,Among them fast he threw;Till mony of the EnglishmenAbout the wall he slew.Full fifteen days that braid host lay,Sieging auld Maitland keen,Syne they hae left him, hail and fair,Within his strength of stane.’
‘As they fared up o’er Lammermore,They burned baith up and down,Until they came to a darksome house;Some call it Leader-Town.
‘As they fared up o’er Lammermore,
They burned baith up and down,
Until they came to a darksome house;
Some call it Leader-Town.
“Wha hauds this house?†young Edward cried,“Or wha gies’t ower to me?â€A gray-haired knight set up his head,And crackit right crousely:
“Wha hauds this house?†young Edward cried,
“Or wha gies’t ower to me?â€
A gray-haired knight set up his head,
And crackit right crousely:
“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house;He pays me meat and fee;And I will keep my gude auld houseWhile my house will keep me.â€
“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house;
He pays me meat and fee;
And I will keep my gude auld house
While my house will keep me.â€
They laid their sowies to the wall,Wi’ mony a heavy peal;But he threw ower to them agenBaith pitch and tar barrel.
They laid their sowies to the wall,
Wi’ mony a heavy peal;
But he threw ower to them agen
Baith pitch and tar barrel.
With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,Among them fast he threw;Till mony of the EnglishmenAbout the wall he slew.
With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,
Among them fast he threw;
Till mony of the Englishmen
About the wall he slew.
Full fifteen days that braid host lay,Sieging auld Maitland keen,Syne they hae left him, hail and fair,Within his strength of stane.’
Full fifteen days that braid host lay,
Sieging auld Maitland keen,
Syne they hae left him, hail and fair,
Within his strength of stane.’
Scott valued this ballad and his other lyrical acquisitions highly. In a letter to Mr Laidlaw, dated 21st January 1803, he remarks as follows: ‘Auld Maitland, laced and embroidered with antique notes and illustrations, makes a most superb figure. I have got, through the intervention of Lady Dalkeith, a copy of Mr Beattieof Meikledale’sTamlane. It contains some highly poetical stanzas descriptive of fairy-land, which, after some hesitation, I have adopted, though they have a very refined and modern cast. I do not suspect Mr Beattie of writing ballads himself; but pray, will you inquire whether, within the memory of man, there has been any poetical clergyman or schoolmaster whom one could suppose capable of giving a coat of modern varnish to this old ballad. What say you to this, for example?
“We sleep on rose-buds soft and sweet,We revel in the stream,We wanton lightly on the wind,Or glide on a sunbeam.â€
“We sleep on rose-buds soft and sweet,We revel in the stream,We wanton lightly on the wind,Or glide on a sunbeam.â€
“We sleep on rose-buds soft and sweet,We revel in the stream,We wanton lightly on the wind,Or glide on a sunbeam.â€
“We sleep on rose-buds soft and sweet,
We revel in the stream,
We wanton lightly on the wind,
Or glide on a sunbeam.â€
This seems quite modern, yet I have retained it.’
Laidlaw had procured a version of another ballad,The Demon Lover, which he took down from the recitation of Mr Walter Grieve, then in Craik, on Borthwick Water. Grieve sung it well to a singularly wild tune; and the song embodies a popular but striking superstition, such as Lewis introduced into his romance ofThe Monk. To complete the fragment, Laidlaw added the 6th, 12th, 17th, and 18th stanzas; and those who consult the ballad in Scott’sMinstrelsywill see how well our friend was qualified to excel in the imitation of these strains of the elder muse. After the party had ‘quaffed their fill’ of old songs and legendary story, they all took horse, and went to dine with Mr Ballantyne of Whitehope, the uncle of Laidlaw.
‘There was not a minute of silence,’ says Mr Laidlaw’s memorandum, ‘as we rode down the narrow glen, and over by the way of Dryhope, to get a view of St Mary’s Loch and of the Peel or Tower. When weentered the Hawkshaw-doors, a pass between Blackhouse and Dryhope, where a beautiful view of the lake opens, Leyden, as I expected, was so struck with the scene that he suddenly stopped, sprung from his horse (which he gave to Mr Scott’s servant), and stood admiring the fine Alpine prospect. Mr Scott said little; but as this was the first time he had seen St Mary’s Loch, doubtless more was passing in his mind than appeared. Often, when returning home with my fishing-rod, had I stopped at this place, and admired the effect of the setting sun and the approaching twilight; and now when I found it admired by those whom I thought likely to judge of and be affected with its beauty, I felt the same sort of pleasure that I experienced when I found that Walter Scott was delighted with Hogg. Had I at that time been gifted with a glimpse—a very slight glimpse—of the second-sight, every word that passed, and they were not few, until we reached Whitehope or Yarrow Church, I should have endeavoured to record. Scott, as all the world knows, was great in conversation; and Leyden was by no means a common person. He had about him that unconquerable energy and restlessness of mind that would have raised him, had he lived, very high among the remarkable men of his native country. I cannot forget the fire with which he repeated, on the Craig-bents, a half-stanza of an irrecoverableballad—
“Oh swiftly gar speed the berry-brown steedThat drinks o’ the Teviot clear!â€â€”
“Oh swiftly gar speed the berry-brown steedThat drinks o’ the Teviot clear!â€â€”
“Oh swiftly gar speed the berry-brown steedThat drinks o’ the Teviot clear!â€â€”
“Oh swiftly gar speed the berry-brown steed
That drinks o’ the Teviot clear!â€â€”
which his friend, when finally no brother to it could be found, adopted in the reply of William of Deloraine to the Lady of Branksome.’
The regret that Laidlaw here expresses at having omitted to note down the conversation of his friends is extremely natural, but few men could be less fitted for such a task. He had nothing of Boswell in his mind or character. He wanted both the concentration of purpose and the pliant readiness of talent and power of retention. At Abbotsford he had ample opportunities for keeping such a record, and he was often urged to undertake it. Scott himself on one occasion, after some brilliant company had left the room, remarked half jocularly, that many a one meeting such people, and hearing such talk, would make a very lively and entertaining book of the whole, which might some day be read with interest. Laidlaw instantly felt it necessary to put in a disclaimer. He said he would consider it disreputable in him to take advantage of his position, or of the confidence of private society, and make a journal of the statements and opinions uttered in free and familiar conversation. We may respect the delicacy and sensitiveness of his feelings, but society, collectively, would lose much by the rigid observance of such a rule. The question, we think, should be determined by the nature and quality of the circumstances recorded. It must be a special, not a general case. There is nothing more discreditable in noting down a brilliant thought or interesting fact, than in repeating it in conversation; while to play the part of a gossiping and malicious eavesdropper, is equally a degradation in life and in literature. It would have been detestable (if the idea could for a moment be entertained) for Mr Laidlaw to pry into the domestic details and personal feelings or failings of his illustrious friend at Abbotsford; but we may wish that his pen had been as ready as his ear when Scott ranover the story of his literary life and opinions, or discriminated the merits of his great contemporaries—when Davy expatiated on the discoveries and delights of natural philosophy—when Miss Edgeworth painted Irish scenes and character—when Moore discoursed of poetry, music, and Byron—when Irving kindled up like a poet in his recollections of American lakes, and woods, and old traditions—when Mackintosh began with the Roman law, and ended in Lochaber—when some septuagenarian related anecdotes of the past—when artists and architects talked of pictures, sculpture, and buildings—or when some accomplished traveller andsavantopened up the interior of foreign courts and the peculiarities of national manners. Many a wise and witty saying and memorable illustration—the life-blood of the best books—might thus have been preserved, though with occasionallacunæand mistakes; and all are nowlost—
‘Gone glittering through the dream of things that were’—
‘Gone glittering through the dream of things that were’—
‘Gone glittering through the dream of things that were’—
‘Gone glittering through the dream of things that were’—
and cannot be recalled. Surely society is the worse for the loss of these racy, spontaneous fruits of intellect, study, and observation.
While dinner was getting ready at Whitehope, Laidlaw and Leyden strolled into the neighbouring churchyard of Yarrow, and saw the tomb of Mr Rutherford, the first minister of that parish after the Revolution, and the maternal great-grandfather of Scott. Leyden recited to his companion the ballads ofThe Eve of St JohnandGlenfinlas, which naturally impressed on the hearer a vivid idea of the poetical talents of the sheriff, and Laidlaw felt towards him as towards an old friend. This was increased by Scott’s partiality for dogs. He was struck with a very beautiful and powerful greyhoundwhich followed Laidlaw, and he begged to have a brace of pups from the same dog, saying he had now become a forester, as sheriff of Ettrick, and must have dogs of the true mountain breed. ‘This request,’ said the other, ‘I took no little pains to fulfil. I kept the puppies till they were nearly a year old. My youngest brother, then a boy, took great delight in training them; and the way was this: he took a long pole having a string and a piece of meat fastened to it, and made the dogs run in a circular or oval course. Their eagerness to get the meat gave them, by much practice, great strength in the loins, and singular expertness in turning, besides singular alertness inmouthing, for which they were afterwards famous. Scott hunted with them for two years over the mountains of Tweedside and Yarrow, and never dreamed that a hare could escape them. He mentions them in the Introduction to the second canto ofMarmion—
“Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?O’er holt or hill there never flew,From slip or leash there never sprang,More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.â€â€™
“Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?O’er holt or hill there never flew,From slip or leash there never sprang,More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.â€â€™
“Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?O’er holt or hill there never flew,From slip or leash there never sprang,More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.â€â€™
“Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?
O’er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.â€â€™
After this visit, Laidlaw doubled his diligence in gathering up fragments of the elder Muse, and the sheriff was profuse in acknowledgments:
‘My dear Sir—I am very much obliged to you for your letter and the enclosure. TheLaird o’ Logieis particularly acceptable, as coming near the real history. Carmichael, mentioned in the ballad, was the ancestor of the Earl of Hyndford, and captain of James VI.’s guard, so that the circumstance of the prisoner’s being in his custody is highly probable. I will adopt the whole of this ballad instead of the common onecalledOchiltree.GeordieI have seen before: the ballad is curious, though very rude.Ormondmay be curious, but is modern. The story ofConfessing the Queen of Englandis published by Bishop Percy, so I will neither trouble you about that nor aboutDundee. “Glendinning†is a wrong reading: the name of the Highland chief who carries off the lady is Glenlyon, one of the Menzieses. Among Hogg’s ballads is a curious set ofLamingtonorLochinvar, which I incline to adopt as better than that in theMinstrelsy. Who was Katherine Janfarie, the heroine? She could hardly be a damsel of rank, as the estate of Whitebank is an ancient patrimony of the Pringles. I don’t know what to make of Cockburn’s name, unless it be Perys, the modern Pierce, which is not a common name in Scotland. I am very much interested about the Tushilaw lines, which, from what you mention, must be worth recovering. I forgot to bring with me from Blackhouse your edition of theGoshawk, in which were some excellent various readings. I am so anxious to have a complete ScottishOtterburn, that I will omit the ballad entirely in the first volume, hoping to recover it in time for insertion in the third. I would myself be well pleased to delay the publication of all three for some time, but the booksellers are mutinous and impatient, as a book is always injured by being long out of print. As to the Liddesdale traditions, I think I am pretty correct, although doubtless much more may be recovered. The truth is that, in these traditions, as you must have observed, old people are usually very positive about their own mode of telling a story, and as uncharitably critical in their observations on those who differ from them.—Yours faithfully,Walter Scott.’
‘My dear Sir—I am very much obliged to you for your letter and the enclosure. TheLaird o’ Logieis particularly acceptable, as coming near the real history. Carmichael, mentioned in the ballad, was the ancestor of the Earl of Hyndford, and captain of James VI.’s guard, so that the circumstance of the prisoner’s being in his custody is highly probable. I will adopt the whole of this ballad instead of the common onecalledOchiltree.GeordieI have seen before: the ballad is curious, though very rude.Ormondmay be curious, but is modern. The story ofConfessing the Queen of Englandis published by Bishop Percy, so I will neither trouble you about that nor aboutDundee. “Glendinning†is a wrong reading: the name of the Highland chief who carries off the lady is Glenlyon, one of the Menzieses. Among Hogg’s ballads is a curious set ofLamingtonorLochinvar, which I incline to adopt as better than that in theMinstrelsy. Who was Katherine Janfarie, the heroine? She could hardly be a damsel of rank, as the estate of Whitebank is an ancient patrimony of the Pringles. I don’t know what to make of Cockburn’s name, unless it be Perys, the modern Pierce, which is not a common name in Scotland. I am very much interested about the Tushilaw lines, which, from what you mention, must be worth recovering. I forgot to bring with me from Blackhouse your edition of theGoshawk, in which were some excellent various readings. I am so anxious to have a complete ScottishOtterburn, that I will omit the ballad entirely in the first volume, hoping to recover it in time for insertion in the third. I would myself be well pleased to delay the publication of all three for some time, but the booksellers are mutinous and impatient, as a book is always injured by being long out of print. As to the Liddesdale traditions, I think I am pretty correct, although doubtless much more may be recovered. The truth is that, in these traditions, as you must have observed, old people are usually very positive about their own mode of telling a story, and as uncharitably critical in their observations on those who differ from them.—Yours faithfully,
Walter Scott.’
Before the friends parted, Scott made a note of Hogg’s address, and from that time never ceased to take a warm interest in his fortunes. He corresponded with him, and becoming curious to see the poetical Shepherd, made another visit to Blackhouse, for the purpose of getting Laidlaw along with him as guide to Ettrick. The visit was highly agreeable. The sheriff’sbonhomieand lively conversation had deeply interested his companion, and he rode by his side in a sort of ecstasy as they journeyed again by St Mary’s Loch and the green hills of Dryhope, which rise beyond the wide expanse of smooth water. It was a fine summer morning, and the impressions of the day and the scene have been recorded in imperishable verse.6Dryhope Tower, so intimately associated with the memory of Mary Scott, the ‘Flower of Yarrow,’ made the travellers stop for a brief space; andDhu Linn(where Marjory, the wife of Percy de Cockburn, sat while men were hanging her husband), with Chapelhope and other scenes and ruins famous in Border tradition, deeply interested Scott. At the west end of the Loch of the Lowes, the surrounding mountains close in, in the face of the traveller, apparently preventing all farther egress. At this spot, as Laidlaw was trying to find a safe place where they might cross the marsh through which the infant Yarrow finds its way to the loch, Scott’s servant, an English boy, rode up, and, touching his hat, respectfully inquired, with much interest, where the people got their necessaries! This unromantic question, and thenaïvetéof the lad’s manner, was a source of great amusement to the sheriff. The day’s journey was a favourite theme with Laidlaw. First, after passing the spots we have described, thehorsemen crossed the ridge of hills that separates the Yarrow from her sister stream. These hills are high and green, but the more lofty parts of the ridge are soft and boggy, and they had often to pick their way, and proceed in single file. Then they followed a foot-track on the side of a longcleughorhope, and at last descended towards the Ettrick, where they had in view the level green valley, walled in by high hills of dark green, with here and there gray crags, the church and the oldplaceof Ettrick Hall in ruins, embosomed in trees. Scott was somewhat chafed by having left in his bedroom that morning his watch—a valuable gold repeater, presented to him on the occasion of his marriage—and to Laidlaw’s ejaculations of delight he sometimes replied quickly: ‘A savage enough place—a very savage place.’ His good-humour, however, was restored by the novelty of the scenes and the fine clear day, and he broke out with snatches of song, and told endless anecdotes, either new, or better told than ever they were before. The travellers went to dine at Ramsey-cleugh, where they were sure of a cordial welcome and a good farmer’s dinner; and Laidlaw sent off to Blackhouse for the sheriff’s watch (which he received next morning), and to Ettrick House for Hogg, that he might come and spend the evening with them. The Shepherd (who then retained all his original simplicity of character) cameto tea, and he brought with him a bundle of manuscripts, of size enough at least to shew his industry—all of course ballads, and fragments of ballads. The penmanship was executed with more care than Hogg had ever bestowed on anything before. Scott was surprised and pleased with Hogg’s appearance, and with the hearty familiarity with whichJamie, as he wascalled, was received by Laidlaw and the Messrs Bryden of Ramsey-cleugh. Hogg was no less gratified. ‘The sheriff of a county in those days,’ said Laidlaw, ‘was regarded by the class to whom Hogg belonged with much of the fear and respect that theirforbearslooked up to the ancient hereditary sheriffs, who had the power of pit and gallows in their hands; and here Jamie found himself all at once not only the chief object of the sheriff’s notice and flattering attention, but actually seated at the same table with him.’ Hogg’s genius was sufficient passport to the best society. His appearance was also prepossessing. His clear ruddy cheek and sparkling eye spoke of health and vivacity, and he was light and agile in his figure. When a youth, he had a remarkably fine head of long curling brown hair, which he wore coiled up under his bonnet; and on Sundays, when he entered the church and let down his locks, thelasses(on whom Jamie always turned an expressiveespiègleglance) looked towards him with envy and admiration. He doubtless thought of himself as the Gaelic bard did of Allan ofMuidart—
‘And when to old Kilphedar’s churchCame troops of damsels gay,Say, came they there for Allan’s fame,Or came they there to pray?’
‘And when to old Kilphedar’s churchCame troops of damsels gay,Say, came they there for Allan’s fame,Or came they there to pray?’
‘And when to old Kilphedar’s churchCame troops of damsels gay,Say, came they there for Allan’s fame,Or came they there to pray?’
‘And when to old Kilphedar’s church
Came troops of damsels gay,
Say, came they there for Allan’s fame,
Or came they there to pray?’
Mr Laidlaw thus speaks of the evening at Ramsey-cleugh: ‘It required very little of that tact or address in social intercourse for which Mr Scott was afterwards so much distinguished, to put himself and those around him entirely at their ease. In truth, I never afterwards saw him at any time apparently enjoy company so much, or exert himself so greatly—or probably there was no effort at all—in rendering himself actually fascinating;nor did I ever again spend such a night of merriment. The qualities of Hogg came out every instant, and his unaffected simplicity and fearless frankness both surprised and charmed the sheriff. They were both very good mimics and story-tellers born and bred; and when Scott took to employ his dramatic talent, he soon found he had us all in his power; for every one of us possessed a quick sense of the ludicrous, and perhaps of humour of all kinds. I well recollect how the tears ran down the cheeks of my cousin, George Bryden; and although his brother was more quiet, it was easy to see that he too was delighted. Hogg and I were unbounded laughers when the occasion was good. The best proof of Jamie’s enjoyment was, that he never sung a song that blessed night, and it was between two and three o’clock before we parted.’
Next morning, Scott and Laidlaw went, according to promise, to visit Hogg in his low thatched cottage. The situation is fine, and the opposite mountains, from the grand simplicity of their character, may almost be termed sublime. The Shepherd and his aged mother—‘Old Margaret Laidlaw,’ for she generally went by her maiden name—gave the visitors a hearty welcome. James had sent for a bottle of wine, of which each had to take a glass; and as the exhilarating effects of the previous night had not quite departed, he insisted that they should help him in drinking every drop in the bottle. Had it been a few years earlier in Scott’s life, and before he was sheriff of the county, the request would probably have been complied with; but on this occasion the bottle was set aside. The scene was curious and interesting. ‘Hogg may be a great poet,’ said Scott, ‘and, like Allan Ramsay, come to be thefounder of a sort of family.’ Hogg’s familiarity of address, mingled with fits of deference and respect towards the sheriff, was curiously characteristic. Many years after this, we recollect a gentleman asking Laidlaw about an amusing anecdote told of the Shepherd. Hogg had sagacity enough to detect the authorship of the Waverley novels long before the secret was divulged, and had the volumes as they appeared bound and lettered on the back ‘Scott’s Novels.’ His friend discovered this one day when visiting Hogg at Altrive, and, in a dry humorous tone of voice, remarked: ‘Jamie, your bookseller must be a stupid fellow to spellScotswith twots.’ Hogg is said to have rejoined: ‘Ah, Watty, I am ower auld a cat to draw that strae before.’ Laidlaw laughed immoderately at the story, but observed: ‘Jamie never came lower down thanWalter.’ Lockhart, however, appears to think he did occasionally venture on such a descent.
From Hogg’s cottage the party proceeded up Rankleburn to see Buccleuch, and inspect the old chapel and mill. They found nothing at the kirk of Buccleuch, and saw only the foundations of the chapel. Scott, however, was in high spirits, and, being a member of the Edinburgh Light Cavalry, and Laidlaw one of the Selkirkshire Yeomanry, they sometimes set off at a gallop—the sheriff leading as in a mimic charge, and shouting: ‘Schlachten, meine kinder, schlachten!’ Hogg trotted up behind, marvelling at the versatile powers of the ‘wonderfulshirra.’ They all dined together with a ‘lady of the glen,’ Mrs Bryden, Crosslee; and next morning Scott returned to Clovenford Inn, where he resided till he took a lease of the house of Ashestiel.
Amidst these and similar scenes, Walter Scott inhaledinspiration, and nursed those powers which afterwards astonished the world. The healthy vigour of his mind, and his clear understanding, grew up under such training, and his imagination was thence quickened and moulded. Byron studied amidst the classic scenes of Greece and Italy—Southey and Moore in their libraries, intent on varied knowledge. All the ‘shadowy tribes of mind’ were known to the metaphysical Coleridge. Wordsworth wandered among the lakes and mountains of Westmoreland, brooding over his poetical and philosophical theories, from which his better genius, in the hour of composition, often extricated him. Scott was in all things the simple, unaffected worshipper of nature and of Scotland. His chivalrous romances sprung from his national predilections; for the warlike deeds of the Border chiefs first fired his fancy, and directed his researches. In these mountain excursions he imbibed that love and veneration of past times which coloured most of his compositions; and human sympathies and solemn reflections were forced upon him by his intercourse with the natives of the hills, and the simple and lonely majesty of the scenes that he visited. These early impressions were never forgotten. Nor could there have been a better nursery for a romantic and national poet. Scholastic and critical studies would have polished his taste and refined his verse; but we might have wanted the strong picturesque vigour—the simple direct energy of the old ballad style—the truth, nature, and observation of a stirring life—all that characterises and endears old Scotland. Scott’s destiny was on the whole pre-eminently happy; and when we think of the fate of other great authors—of Spenser composing amidst the savage turbulence of Ireland—ofShakspeare following a profession which he disliked—of Milton, blind and in danger—Dante in exile—and Tasso and Cervantes in prison—we feel how immeasurably superior was the lot of this noble free-hearted Scotsman, whose genius was the proudest inheritance of his country. ‘Think no man happy till he dies,’ said the sage. Scott’s star became dim, but there was only a short period of darkness, and he never ‘bated one jot of heart or hope,’ nor lost the friendly and soothing attentions of those he loved. The world’s respect and admiration he always possessed.
TheMinstrelsyappeared complete in the spring of 1803—the first two volumes being then reprinted, and a third volume added, containing the editor’s more recent collections. The work was very favourably received: indeed, so valuable a contribution to our native literature had not appeared since the publication of Percy’sReliques. And the Introduction is an admirable historical summary, foreshadowing Scott’s future triumphs as a prose writer.7
The sheriff made four visits to Blackhouse, the fourth time in company with his attached friend, Mr Skene of Rubislaw. All the party turned out to visit a fox-hunt, a successful one, for the fox was killed; and Mr Skenemade a spirited drawing of the scene, including a portrait of old Will Tweedie, the fox-hunter. The visit was closed by the whole party riding to see the wild scenery of the Grey Mare’s Tail and Loch Skene, Hogg and Adam Ferguson being of the party. Laidlaw thus writes of the expedition to Moffatdale:
‘We proceeded with difficulty up the rocky chasm to reach the foot of the waterfall. The passage which the stream has worn by cutting the opposing rocks of grey-wacke, is rough and dangerous. My brother George and I, both in the prime of youth, and constantly in the habit of climbing, had difficulty in forcing our way, and we felt for Scott’s lameness. This, however, was unnecessary. He said he could not perhaps climb so fast as we did, but he advised us to go on, and leave him. This we did, but halted on a projecting point before we descended to the foot of the fall, and looking back, we were struck at seeing the motions of the sheriff’s dogCamp. The dog was attending anxiously on his master; and when the latter came to a difficult part of the rock,Campwould jump down, look up to his master’s face, then spring up, lick his master’s hand and cheek, jump down again, and look upwards, as if to shew him the way, and encourage him. We were greatly interested with the scene. Mr Scott seemed to depend much on his hands and the great strength of his powerful arms; and he soon fought his way over all obstacles, and joined us at the foot of the Grey Mare’s Tail, the name of the cataract.’
This excursion, like most of the others, Scott described inMarmion(Introd. to Canto II.) He was apt, on a journey among the hills, especially if the district was new to him, to fall at times into fits of silence, revolvingin his mind, and perhaps throwing into language, the ideas that were suggested at the moment by the landscape; and hence those who had often been his companions knew the origin of many of the beautiful passages in his future works. Of this Laidlaw used to relate one instance. About a mile down Douglas-burn, a small brook falls into it from the Whitehope hills; and at the junction of the streams, at the foot of a bank celebrated in traditionary story, stood the withered remains of what had been a very large old hawthorn tree, that had often engaged the attention of the young men at Blackhouse. Laidlaw on one occasion pointed out to the sheriff its beautiful site and venerable appearance, and asked him if he did not think it might be centuries old, and once a leading object in the landscape. As the district had been famous for game and wild animals, he said there could be little doubt that the red deer had often lain under the shade of the tree, before they ascended to feed on the open hill-tops in the evening. Scott looked on the tree and the green hills, but said nothing. The enthusiastic guide repeated his admiration, and added, that Whitehope-tree was famous for miles around; but still Scott was silent. The subject was then dropped; ‘but some years afterwards,’ said Laidlaw, ‘when the sheriff read to me his manuscript ofMarmion, I found that Whitehope-tree was not forgotten, and that he had felt all the associations it was calculated to excite.’ The description of the thorn is eminently suggestive and beautiful:
‘The scenes are desert now and bare,Where flourished once a Forest fair,When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon Thorn, perchance, whose prickly spearsHave fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers—Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell.’8
‘The scenes are desert now and bare,Where flourished once a Forest fair,When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon Thorn, perchance, whose prickly spearsHave fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers—Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell.’8
‘The scenes are desert now and bare,Where flourished once a Forest fair,When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon Thorn, perchance, whose prickly spearsHave fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers—Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell.’8
‘The scenes are desert now and bare,
Where flourished once a Forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Yon Thorn, perchance, whose prickly spears
Have fenced him for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers—
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell.’8
We may here notice another poetical scene, theBush aboon Traquair, celebrated in the well-known popular song by Crawford. Burns says that when he saw the old bush in 1787, it was composed of eight or nine ragged birches, and that the Earl of Traquair had planted a clump of trees near the place, which he called ‘The New Bush.’ Laidlaw maintained that the new bush was in reality the old bush of the song. One of the sons of Murray of Philiphaugh used to come over often on foot, and meet one of the ladies of Traquair at theCless, a green hollow at the foot of the hill that overhangs Traquair House. This was the scene of the song. The straggling birches that Burns saw are half a mile up the water, the remains of a wooded bog—out of sight of Traquair House, to be sure, but far out of the way between Hanginshaw, on the Yarrow, and Traquair.
One morning in autumn 1804 was vividly impressed on the recollection of Laidlaw; for Scott then recited to him nearly the whole of theLay of the Last Minstrel, as they journeyed together in the sheriff’s gig up Gala Water. The wild, irregular structure of the poem, the description of the old minstrel, the goblin machinery, the ballads interspersed throughout the tale, and the exquisite forest scenes (the Paradise of Ettrick), allentranced the listener. Now and then, Scott would stop to tell an anecdote of the country they were passing through, and afterwards, in his deepseriousvoice, resume his recitation of the poem. Laidlaw had, the night before, gone to Lasswade, where the sheriff then resided in a beautiful cottage on the banks of the Esk; and on the following morning, after breakfast, they went up the Gala, when Scott poured forth what truly seemed to be an unpremeditated lay. They returned about sunset, and found the sheriff’s young and beautiful wife looking on at the few shearers engaged in cutting down their crop in a field adjoining the cottage. Mrs Scott seemed to Laidlaw a ‘lovely and interesting creature,’ and the sheriff met her with undisguised tenderness and affection. This was indeed his golden prime: