"27Lower Belgrave Place,16th Feb. 1826."My dear James,—It required neither present of book, nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render your letter a most welcome one. You are often present to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man, and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you, carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast of genius about her. One of your very happiest little things is in the Souvenir of this season—it is pure and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in the language to compare to it, save everybody's 'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it—where fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are unrivalled."Often do I tread back to the foot of old Queensberry,[40]and meet you coming down amid the sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my sight—your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my feet—the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as it really was—poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk, and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to Thornhill, and there whilst theglass goes round, and lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me; yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and completing the conceptions of early years."We are both a little older and a little graver than we were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh—at least so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might admonish me of change—of loss of bloom, and abatement of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School, and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to the head, and keep their places. The other three are at their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity for mirth and mischief."I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah—they are more likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season."My brother's[41]want of success has surprised me too. He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his fate would have been different. But he sees nature rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise of those who love singular and curious things. I have said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might have said much, for we hear her household prudence and her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my own dear country—a good assurance of a capital wife and an affectionate mother.My wife and I send her and you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in London during the summer."You have written much, but you must write more yet. What say you to a series of poems in your own original way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition, but purified from its grossness by your own genius and taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a yearly pastoralGazettein prose and verse for ourainnative Lowlands. The thing would take."The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue in every town—let it lay out its money in purchasing an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington, and money could never be laid out more worthily.—I remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,"Allan Cunningham."
"27Lower Belgrave Place,16th Feb. 1826.
"My dear James,—It required neither present of book, nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render your letter a most welcome one. You are often present to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man, and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you, carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast of genius about her. One of your very happiest little things is in the Souvenir of this season—it is pure and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in the language to compare to it, save everybody's 'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it—where fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are unrivalled.
"Often do I tread back to the foot of old Queensberry,[40]and meet you coming down amid the sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my sight—your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my feet—the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as it really was—poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk, and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to Thornhill, and there whilst theglass goes round, and lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me; yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and completing the conceptions of early years.
"We are both a little older and a little graver than we were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh—at least so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might admonish me of change—of loss of bloom, and abatement of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School, and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to the head, and keep their places. The other three are at their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity for mirth and mischief.
"I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah—they are more likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season.
"My brother's[41]want of success has surprised me too. He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his fate would have been different. But he sees nature rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise of those who love singular and curious things. I have said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might have said much, for we hear her household prudence and her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my own dear country—a good assurance of a capital wife and an affectionate mother.My wife and I send her and you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in London during the summer.
"You have written much, but you must write more yet. What say you to a series of poems in your own original way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition, but purified from its grossness by your own genius and taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a yearly pastoralGazettein prose and verse for ourainnative Lowlands. The thing would take.
"The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue in every town—let it lay out its money in purchasing an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington, and money could never be laid out more worthily.—I remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,
"Allan Cunningham."
One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS. was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors ofBlackwood. This ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the Slave Abolition Society, and a man of letters. Forgetting past differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid him in certain literary enterprises:—
"London,May 19, 1827."My dear Sir,—I wrote you a hasty note some time ago, to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly publication, something in the shape of theLiterary Gazette, to be entitledThe London Review. The editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public, though he has been a contributor to several of the first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The editors, knowing that I have the pleasure ofyour acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to their work, either in verse or prose, and they will consider themselves pledged to pay for any contributions with which you may honour them at the same rate asBlackwood. May I hope, my dear sir, that you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them something for their first number, which is to appear in the beginning of June...."I always read your 'Noctes,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa; for though I detestBlackwood'spolitics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly,"Tho. Pringle."
"London,May 19, 1827.
"My dear Sir,—I wrote you a hasty note some time ago, to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly publication, something in the shape of theLiterary Gazette, to be entitledThe London Review. The editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public, though he has been a contributor to several of the first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The editors, knowing that I have the pleasure ofyour acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to their work, either in verse or prose, and they will consider themselves pledged to pay for any contributions with which you may honour them at the same rate asBlackwood. May I hope, my dear sir, that you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them something for their first number, which is to appear in the beginning of June....
"I always read your 'Noctes,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa; for though I detestBlackwood'spolitics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly,
"Tho. Pringle."
A similar request for contributions was made the year following by William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of the Society of Friends.
"Nottingham,12th mo., 20th, 1828."Respected Friend,—Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us."I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery,—of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, botha pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature,—are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, inmountainousscenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me about your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend,"W. Howitt."
"Nottingham,12th mo., 20th, 1828.
"Respected Friend,—Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us.
"I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery,—of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, botha pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature,—are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, inmountainousscenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me about your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend,
"W. Howitt."
In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever ready to propagatetales of misfortune, had busily circulated the report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of "Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter, intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his contendings with adversity:—
"Devongrove,27th June 1829."My dear Friend James Hogg,—I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your 'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you indeed, at times, in theLiterary Journal; I see you inBlackwood, fighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory—but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakspeare cellars[42]—but you may rest yourself under the shadow ofthe Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly."To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours,"Wm. Tennant."
"Devongrove,27th June 1829.
"My dear Friend James Hogg,—I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your 'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you indeed, at times, in theLiterary Journal; I see you inBlackwood, fighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory—but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakspeare cellars[42]—but you may rest yourself under the shadow ofthe Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.
"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours,
"Wm. Tennant."
The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns, published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs, which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication of his wholeworks. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and fêted at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three months' residence in London.
Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number ofBlackwood's Magazinefor 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated "Noctes," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subjectwe are privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by Professor Wilson:—
"30th April."My dear Mr Hogg,—After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced thatIought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a 'Noctes,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series."If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things,angling, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to the £50 which you will receive for your 'Noctes.' I hope you will do so."I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings.—With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,"John Wilson."
"30th April.
"My dear Mr Hogg,—After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced thatIought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a 'Noctes,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series.
"If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things,angling, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to the £50 which you will receive for your 'Noctes.' I hope you will do so.
"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings.—With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,
"John Wilson."
During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles, the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could exclaim that surely he had found it at last!
The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety, as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London, a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and, though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman. He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill." The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.
The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the district. Of his literary friends—owing to the remoteness of the locality—Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the first to lament hisdeparture. The following verses from his pen appeared in theAthenæumof the 12th of December:—
"When first descending from the moorlands,I saw the stream of Yarrow glide,Along a bare and open valley,The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide."When last along its banks I wander'd,Through groves that had begun to shedTheir golden leaves upon the pathway,My steps the Border Minstrel led."The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;And death, upon the braes of Yarrow,Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.* * * * *"No more of old romantic sorrows,For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid,With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"
"When first descending from the moorlands,I saw the stream of Yarrow glide,Along a bare and open valley,The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
"When last along its banks I wander'd,Through groves that had begun to shedTheir golden leaves upon the pathway,My steps the Border Minstrel led.
"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;And death, upon the braes of Yarrow,Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.
* * * * *
"No more of old romantic sorrows,For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid,With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"
Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell, "pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land, many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains ofThe Ettrick Shepherd. And a verse of one of the songs of his early days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified, when he says—
'Flow, my Ettrick! it was theeInto my life that first did drop me;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.'"
'Flow, my Ettrick! it was theeInto my life that first did drop me;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.'"
As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance[43]presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even toa fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land.[44]Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith. From the strict rules ofmorality he may have sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.
It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45]of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:—"He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man,—the greatest man in the world."[46]Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of angerwith Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements?
Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,[47]"he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faëry: the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, andbefore the splendour of his genius. His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.
Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48]who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in hisadvanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable man that ever wore themaudof a Shepherd."[49]
Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,—the journals of his Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London. Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works, illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A pension on the Civil List of £50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg, the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she has received an annuity of £40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are comfortably settled in life.
Air—"Woo'd, and married, and a'."
My name it is Donald Macdonald,I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,Wherever my master[50]has land.When rankit amang the blue bonnets,Nae danger can fear me ava;I ken that my brethren around meAre either to conquer or fa':Brogues an' brochin an' a',Brochin an' brogues an' a';An' is nae her very weel aff,Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?What though we befriendit young Charlie?—To tell it I dinna think shame;Poor lad! he cam to us but barely,An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.'Twas true that our reason forbade us,But tenderness carried the day;Had Geordie come friendless amang us,Wi' him we had a' gane away.Sword an' buckler an' a',Buckler an' sword an' a';Now for George we 'll encounter the devil,Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!An' O, I wad eagerly press himThe keys o' the East to retain;For should he gie up the possession,We 'll soon hae to force them again,Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,Though it were my finishing blow,He aye may depend on Macdonald,Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:Knees an' elbows an' a',Elbows an' knees an' a';Depend upon Donald Macdonald,His knees an' elbows an' a'.Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,Auld Europe nae langer should grane;I laugh when I think how we 'd gall himWi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane;Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and GarnyWe 'd rattle him off frae our shore,Or lull him asleep in a cairny,An' sing him—"Lochaber no more!"Stanes an' bullets an a',Bullets an' stanes an' a';We 'll finish the Corsican callanWi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.For the Gordon is good in a hurry,An' Campbell is steel to the bane,An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald,Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!Brogues and brochin an' a',Brochin an' brogues an' a';An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
My name it is Donald Macdonald,I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,Wherever my master[50]has land.When rankit amang the blue bonnets,Nae danger can fear me ava;I ken that my brethren around meAre either to conquer or fa':Brogues an' brochin an' a',Brochin an' brogues an' a';An' is nae her very weel aff,Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?
What though we befriendit young Charlie?—To tell it I dinna think shame;Poor lad! he cam to us but barely,An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.'Twas true that our reason forbade us,But tenderness carried the day;Had Geordie come friendless amang us,Wi' him we had a' gane away.Sword an' buckler an' a',Buckler an' sword an' a';Now for George we 'll encounter the devil,Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!
An' O, I wad eagerly press himThe keys o' the East to retain;For should he gie up the possession,We 'll soon hae to force them again,Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,Though it were my finishing blow,He aye may depend on Macdonald,Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:Knees an' elbows an' a',Elbows an' knees an' a';Depend upon Donald Macdonald,His knees an' elbows an' a'.
Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,Auld Europe nae langer should grane;I laugh when I think how we 'd gall himWi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane;Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and GarnyWe 'd rattle him off frae our shore,Or lull him asleep in a cairny,An' sing him—"Lochaber no more!"Stanes an' bullets an a',Bullets an' stanes an' a';We 'll finish the Corsican callanWi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
For the Gordon is good in a hurry,An' Campbell is steel to the bane,An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald,Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!Brogues and brochin an' a',Brochin an' brogues an' a';An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea,The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim;The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he:The conflict is past, and our name is no more—There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!The target is torn from the arm of the just,The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue,Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea,The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim;The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he:The conflict is past, and our name is no more—There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just,The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue,Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry,Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades,Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry!Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald—For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee! &c.I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee!&c.Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore,Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry,Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades,Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?
I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry!Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald—For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee!&c.
Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore,Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Bless'd is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and mountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Bless'd is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and mountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!
Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock,Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind—Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,Though bleak thy dun islands appear,Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,That roam on these mountains so drear!A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,Could never thy ardour restrain;The marshall'd array of imperial RomeEssay'd thy proud spirit in vain!Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,Of genius unshackled and free,The Muses have left all the vales of the south,My loved Caledonia, for thee!Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,Where loveliness slumbers at even,While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps,A calm little motionless heaven!Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave—Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,And the land of my forefathers' grave!
Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock,Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind—Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,Though bleak thy dun islands appear,Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,That roam on these mountains so drear!
A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,Could never thy ardour restrain;The marshall'd array of imperial RomeEssay'd thy proud spirit in vain!Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,Of genius unshackled and free,The Muses have left all the vales of the south,My loved Caledonia, for thee!
Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,Where loveliness slumbers at even,While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps,A calm little motionless heaven!Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave—Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,And the land of my forefathers' grave!
Air—"Over the Border."