By the Ettrick Shepherd.
Mr. Hogg proposes to collect and reprint under the above title, the best
of the grave and gay tales with which he has aided the Magazines and
Annuals during the last few years. The Series will extend to fourteen
volumes, the first of which, now before us, preceded by a poetical
dedication and autobiographical memoir. The poem is an exquisite
performance; but the biography, with due allowance for the Shepherd's
claim, is a most objectionable preface. It is so disfigured with
self-conceit and vituperative recollections of old grievances, that we
regret some kind friend of the author did not suggest the omission of
these personalities. They will be neither advantageous to the writer,
interesting to the public, nor propitiatory for the work itself; since
the world care less about the squabbles of authors and booksellers than
even an "untoward event" in Parliament; and if the writer of every book
were to detail his vexations as a preface, the publication of a long
series of "Calamities" might be commenced immediately.
To our way of thinking, the pleasantest part of the Shepherd's memoir is
his reminiscences of men of talent, with whom his own abilities have
brought him in contact. Thus, of
_Southey._
"My first interview with Mr. Southey was at the Queen's Head inn, in
Keswick, where I had arrived, wearied, one evening, on my way to
Westmoreland; and not liking to intrude on his family circle that
evening, I sent a note up to Greta Hall, requesting him to come down and
see me, and drink one half mutchkin along with me. He came on the
instant, and stayed with me about an hour and a half. But I was a
grieved as well as an astonished man, when I found that he refused all
participation in my beverage of rum punch. For a poet to refuse his
glass was to me a phenomenon; and I confess I doubted in my own mind,
and doubt to this day, if perfect sobriety and transcendent poetical
genius can exist together. In Scotland I am sure they cannot. With
regard to the English, I shall leave them to settle that among
themselves, as they have little that is worth drinking.
"Before we had been ten minutes together my heart was knit to Southey,
and every hour thereafter my esteem for him increased. I breakfasted
with him next morning, and remained with him all that day and the next;
and the weather being fine, we spent the time in rambling on the hills
and sailing on the lake; and all the time he manifested a delightful
flow of spirits, as well as a kind sincerity of manner, repeating
convivial poems and ballads, and always between hands breaking jokes on
his nephew, young Coleridge, in whom he seemed to take great delight. He
gave me, with the utmost readiness, a poem and ballad of his own, for a
work which I then projected. I objected to his going with Coleridge and
me, for fear of encroaching on his literary labours; and, as I had
previously resided a month at Keswick, I knew every scene almost in
Cumberland; but he said he was an early riser, and never suffered any
task to interfere with his social enjoyments and recreations; and along
with us he went both days.
"Southey certainly is as elegant a writer as any in the kingdom. But
those who would love Southey as well as admire him, must see him, as I
did, in the bosom, not only of one lovely family, but of three, all
attached to him as a father, and all elegantly maintained and educated,
it is generally said, by his indefatigable pen. The whole of Southey's
conversation and economy, both at home and afield, left an impression of
veneration on my mind, which no future contingency shall ever either
extinguish or injure. Both his figure and countenance are imposing, and
deep thought is strongly marked in his dark eye; but there is a defect
in his eyelids, for these he has no power of raising; so that, when he
looks up, he turns up his face, being unable to raise his eyes; and when
he looks towards the top of one of his romantic mountains, one would
think he was looking at the zenith. This peculiarity is what will most
strike every stranger in the appearance of the accomplished laureate. He
does not at all see well at a distance, which made me several times
disposed to get into a passion with him, because he did not admire the
scenes which I was pointing out. We have only exchanged a few casual
letters since that period, and I have never seen this great and good man
again."
In the Recollections of Wordsworth we find related the affront which led
to Hogg's caricature of Wordsworth's style, an offence which shut out
the Shepherd from the society of the amiable poet of the Lakes.
"This anecdote has been told and told again, but never truly; and was
likewise brought forward in the 'Noctes Ambrosianæ,' as a joke; but it
was no joke; and the plain, simple truth of the matter was thus:--
It chanced one night, when I was there, that there was a resplendent
arch across the zenith from the one horizon to the other, of something
like the aurora borealis, but much brighter. It was a scene that is well
remembered, for it struck the country with admiration, as such a
phenomenon had never before been witnessed in such perfection; and, as
far as I could learn, it had been more brilliant over the mountains and
pure waters of Westmoreland than any where else. Well, when word came
into the room of the splendid meteor, we all went out to view it; and,
on the beautiful platform at Mount Ryedale we were all walking, in twos
and threes, arm-in-arm, talking of the phenomenon, and admiring it. Now,
be it remembered, that Wordsworth, Professor Wilson, Lloyd, De Quincey,
and myself, were present, besides several other literary gentlemen,
whose names I am not certain that I remember aright. Miss Wordsworth's
arm was in mine, and she was expressing some fears that the splendid
stranger might prove ominous, when I, by ill luck, blundered out the
following remark, thinking that I was saying a good thing:--'Hout,
me'em! it is neither mair nor less than joost a treeumphal airch, raised
in honour of the meeting of the poets.' 'That's not amiss.--Eh?
Eh?--that's very good,' said the Professor, laughing. But Wordsworth,
who had De Quincey's arm, gave a grunt, and turned on his heel, and
leading the little opium-chewer aside, he addressed him in these
disdainful and venomous words:--'Poets? Poets?--What does the fellow
mean?--Where are they?' Who could forgive this? For my part, I never
can, and never will! I admire Wordsworth; as who does not, whatever they
may pretend? but for that short sentence I have a lingering ill-will at
him which I cannot get rid of. It is surely presumption in any man to
circumscribe all human excellence within the narrow sphere of his own
capacity. The '_Where are they?_' was too bad! I have always some hopes
that De Quincey was _leeing_, for I did not myself hear Wordsworth utter
the words."
Appended to this anecdote is a characteristic observation on the poetry
of Wordsworth.
"It relates to the richness of his works for quotations. For these they
are a mine that is altogether inexhaustible. There is nothing in nature
that you may not get a quotation out of Wordsworth to suit, and a
quotation too that breathes the very soul of poetry. There are only
three books in the world that are worth the opening in search of mottos
and quotations, and all of them are alike rich. These are, the Old
Testament, Shakspeare, and the poetical works of Wordsworth, and,
strange to say, the 'Excursion' abounds most in them."
We chanced to fall upon the Shepherd's allusion to the liberties taken
with his name in _Blackwood's Magazine_, which work owes its
establishment and much of its early success to Mr. Hogg's co-operation.
We believe it to be pretty well known that the offensive language
attributed to the Shepherd in the "Noctes" has no more to do with Mr.
Hogg than by attempting to imitate his conversational style. This
impropriety, which is beyond a literary joke, was reprobated some months
since by the _Quarterly Review_, but here the offending parties are
properly visited with a burst of honest indignation which may not pass
unheeded. Mr. Hogg says
"For my part, after twenty years of feelings hardly suppressed, he
has driven me beyond the bounds of human patience. That Magazine of
his, which owes its rise principally to myself, has often put words
and sentiments into my mouth of which I have been greatly ashamed,
and which have given much pain to my family and relations, and many
of those after a solemn written promise that such freedoms should
never be repeated. I have been often urged to restrain and humble
him by legal measures as an incorrigible offender deserves. I know I
have it in my power, and if he dares me to the task, I want but a
hair to make a tether of."
The Shepherd appears to have written since 1813, fifteen volumes of
poetry and as many volumes of prose, besides his contributions to
periodical works; and, what is not the less extraordinary he was forty
years of age before he wrote his first poem.
The Tales in the present volume are the Adventures of Captain Lochy, the
Pongos, and Marion's Jock.
* * * * *