MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH SIR
WALTER SCOTT.
_By the Ettrick Shepherd_.
One fine day in the summer of 1801, as I was busily engaged working in the
field at Ettrick House, Wat Shiel came over to me and said, that "I boud
gang away down to the Ramseycleuch as fast as my feet could carry me, for
there war some gentlemen there wha wantit to speak to me."
"Wha can be at the Ramseycleuch that wants me, Wat?"
"I couldna say, for it wasna me that they spak to i' the byganging. But
I'm thinking it's the Shirra an' some o' his gang."
I was rejoiced to hear this, for I had seen the first volumes of "The
Minstrelsy of the Border," and had copied a number of old things from my
mother's recital, and sent them to the editor preparatory for a third
volume. I accordingly went towards home to put on my Sunday clothes, but
before reaching it I met with THE SHIRRA and Mr. William Laidlaw coming to
visit me. They alighted and remained in our cottage for a space better
than an hour, and my mother chanted the ballad of Old Maitlan' to them,
with which Mr. Scott was highly delighted. I had sent him a copy, (not a
very perfect one, as I found afterwards, from the singing of another
Laidlaw,) but I thought Mr. Scott had some dread of a part being forged,
that had been the cause of his journey into the wilds of Ettrick. When he
heard my mother sing it he was quite satisfied, and I remember he asked
her if she thought it had ever been printed, and her answer was, "Oo, na,
na, sir, it was never printed i' the world, for my brothers an' me learned
it frae auld Andrew Moor, an' he learned it, an' mony mae, frae are auld
Baby Mettlin, that was housekeeper to the first laird o' Tushilaw."
"Then that must be a very auld story, indeed, Margaret," said he.
"Ay, it is that! It is an auld story! But mair nor that, except George
Warton and James Steward, there was never ane o' my sangs prentit till ye
prentit them yoursell, an' ye hae spoilt them a'thegither. They war made
for singing, an' no for reading; and they're neither right spelled nor
right setten down."
"Heh--heh--heh! Take ye that, Mr. Scott," said Laidlaw.
Mr. Scott answered by a hearty laugh, and the recital of a verse, but I
have forgot what it was, and my mother gave him a rap on the knee with her
open hand, and said, "It was true enough, for a' that."
We were all to dine at Ramseycleuch with the Messrs. Brydon, but Mr. Scott
and Mr. Laidlaw went away to look at something before dinner, and I was to
follow. On going into the stable-yard at Ramseycleuch I met with Mr.
Scott's liveryman, a far greater original than his master, whom I asked if
the Shirra was come?
"O, ay, lad, the Shirra's come," said he. "Are ye the chiel that mak the
auld ballads and sing them?"
"I said I fancied I was he that he meant, though I had never made ony very
_auld_ ballads."
"Ay, then, lad, gae your ways in an' speir for the Shirra. They'll let ye
see where he is. He'll be very glad to see you."
During the sociality of the evening, the discourse ran very much on the
different breeds of sheep, that curse of the community of Ettrick Forest.
The original black-faced Forest breed being always called _the short
sheep_, and the Cheviot breed _the long sheep_, the disputes at that
period ran very high about the practicable profits of each. Mr. Scott, who
had come into that remote district to preserve what fragments remained of
its legendary lore, was rather bored with the everlasting question of the
long and the short sheep. So at length, putting on his most serious
calculating face, he turned to Mr. Walter Brydon and said, "I'm rather at
a loss regarding the merits of this _very_ important question. How long
must a sheep actually measure to come under the denomination of _a long
sheep_?"
Mr. Brydon, who, in the simplicity of his heart, neither perceived the
quiz nor the reproof, fell to answer with great sincerity,--"It's the woo,
sir--it's the woo that makes the difference. The lang sheep hae the short
woo, and the short sheep hae the lang thing; and these are just kind o'
names we gie them like." Mr. Scott could not preserve his grave face of
strict calculation; it went gradually away, and a hearty guffaw followed.
When I saw the very same words repeated near the beginning of the _Black
Dwarf_, how could I be mistaken of the author? It is true, Johnnie
Ballantyne persuaded me into a nominal belief of the contrary, for several
years following, but I could never get the better of that and several
similar coincidences.
The next day we went off, five in number, to visit the wilds of Rankleburn,
to see if on the farms of Buccleuch there were any relics of the Castles
of Buccleuch or Mount-Comyn, the ancient and original possession of the
Scotts. We found no remains of either tower or fortalice, save an old
chapel and churchyard, and a mill and mill-lead, where corn never grew,
but where, as old Satchells very appropriately says,
Had heather-bells been corn of the best,
The Buccleuch mill would have had a noble grist.
It must have been used for grinding the chief's blackmails, which it is
known, were all paid to him in kind. Many of these still continue to be
paid in the same way; and if report says true, he would be the better of a
mill and kiln on some part of his land at this day, as well as a sterling
conscientious miller to receive and render.
Besides having been mentioned by Satchells, there was a remaining
tradition in the country, that there was a font stone of blue marble, in
which the ancient heirs of Buccleuch were baptized, covered up among the
ruins of the old church. Mr. Scott was curious to see if we could discover
it; but on going among the ruins we found the rubbish at the spot, where
the altar was known to have been, digged out to the foundation,--we knew
not by whom, but no font had been found. As there appeared to have been a
kind of recess in the eastern gable, we fell a turning over some loose
stones, to see if the font was not concealed there, when we came upon one
half of a small pot, encrusted thick with rust. Mr. Scott's eyes
brightened, and he swore it was an ancient consecrated helmet. Laidlaw,
however, scratching it minutely out, found it covered with a layer of
pitch inside, and then said, "Ay, the truth is, sir, it is neither mair
nor less than a piece of a tar pat that some o' the farmers hae been
buisting their sheep out o', i' the auld kirk langsyne." Sir Walter's
shaggy eyebrows dipped deep over his eyes, and suppressing a smile, he
turned and strode away as fast as he could, saying, that "We had just rode
all the way to see that there was nothing to _be_ seen."
I remember his riding upon a terribly high spirited horse, who had the
perilous fancy of leaping every drain, rivulet, and ditch that came in our
way; the consequence was, that he was everlastingly bogging himself, while
sometimes his rider kept his seat despite of his plunging, and at other
times he was obliged to extricate himself the best way he could. In coming
through a place called the Milsey Bog, I said to him, "Mr. Scott, that's
the maddest deil of a beast I ever saw. Can ye no gar him tak a wee mair
time? He's just out o' ae lair intil another wi' ye."
"Ay," said he, "we have been very oft, these two days past, like the Pechs;
we could stand straight up and tie our shoes." I did not understand the
joke, nor do I yet, but I think these were his words.
We visited the old castles of Thirlestane and Tushilaw, and dined and
spent the afternoon, and the night, with Mr. Brydon, of Crosslee. Sir
Walter was all the while in the highest good-humour, and seemed to enjoy
the range of mountain solitude, which we traversed, exceedingly. Indeed I
never saw him otherwise. In the fields--on the rugged mountains--or even
toiling in Tweed to the waist, I have seen his glee not only surpass
himself, but that of all other men. I remember of leaving Altrive Lake
once with him, accompanied by the same Mr. Laidlaw, and Sir Adam Fergusson,
to visit the tremendous solitudes of The Grey Mare's Tail, and Loch Skene.
I conducted them through that wild region by a path, which, if not rode by
Clavers, was, I daresay, never rode by another gentleman. Sir Adam rode
inadvertently into a gulf, and got a sad fright, but Sir Walter, in the
very worst paths, never dismounted, save at Loch Skene to take some dinner.
We went to Moffat that night, where we met with some of his family, and
such a day and night of glee I never witnessed. Our very perils were
matter to him of infinite merriment; and then there was a short-tempered
boot-boy at the inn, who wanted to pick a quarrel with him, at which he
laughed till the water ran over his cheeks.
I was disappointed in never seeing some incident in his subsequent works
laid in a scene resembling the rugged solitude around Loch Skene, for I
never saw him survey any with so much attention. A single serious look at
a scene generally filled his mind with it, and he seldom took another; but
here he took the names of all the hills, their altitudes, and relative
situations with regard to one another, and made me repeat them several
times. It may occur in some of his works which I have not seen, and I
think it will, for he has rarely ever been known to interest himself,
either in a scene or a character, which did not appear afterwards in all
its most striking peculiarities.
There are not above five people in the world who, I think, know Sir Walter
better, or understand his character better, than I do; and if I outlive
him, which is likely, as I am five months and ten days younger, I will
draw a mental portrait of him, the likeness of which to the original shall
not be disputed. In the meantime, this is only a reminiscence, in my own
line, of an illustrious friend among the mountains.
The enthusiasm with which he recited, and spoke of our ancient ballads,
during that first tour of his through the forest, inspired me with a
determination immediately to begin and imitate them, which I did, and soon
grew tolerably good at it. Of course I dedicated The Mountain Bard to him:
Blest be his generous heart for aye;
He told me where the relic lay,
Pointed my way with ready will,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill,
Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wonder'd at my minstrelsy:
He little ween'd a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.
_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
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