When you and your men durstna come see.”[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?[4] As 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 of death 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 ‘_Scottish Pastorals, 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 called _Auld
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, containing _Auld Maitland_ exactly 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.’[5] These services of the olden time were marked
by reciprocal kindness and attachment, not unworthy of the patriarchal
age. Son succeeded father in tending the _hirsel_ or 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 was _Archie
Park_, a brother of the traveller. Our new sheriff was accompanied by
a friend, and as they retired to the usual station of the inspecting
officer previous to the charges, the wonderful _springs_ and 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!”’
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 of _Auld
Maitland_. Leyden seemed inclined to lay hands on the manuscript, but
the sheriff said gravely that _he_ would 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, so
that his _burr_ became 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?”
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 house
While my house will keep me.”
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 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.’
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 Beattie of Meikledale’s
_Tamlane_. 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.”
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 of _The Monk_. To complete the
fragment, Laidlaw added the 6th, 12th, 17th, and 18th stanzas; and
those who consult the ballad in Scott’s _Minstrelsy_ will 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 we
entered 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
irrecoverable ballad--
“Oh swiftly gar speed the berry-brown steed
That drinks o’ the Teviot clear!”--
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 ran over 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 and _savant_ opened 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 occasional _lacunæ_
and mistakes; and all are now lost--
‘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 of _The Eve of St John_ and _Glenfinlas_,
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 greyhound which 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 in _mouthing_, 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
of _Marmion_--
“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.”’
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. The _Laird o’ Logie_ is 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 one called _Ochiltree_. _Geordie_ I
have seen before: the ballad is curious, though very rude. _Ormond_
may be curious, but is modern. The story of _Confessing the Queen
of England_ is published by Bishop Percy, so I will neither trouble
you about that nor about _Dundee_. “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 of _Lamington_ or _Lochinvar_, which I incline to adopt as
better than that in the _Minstrelsy_. 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 the _Goshawk_, in which were some excellent various
readings. I am so anxious to have a complete Scottish _Otterburn_,
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’s _bonhomie_ and 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.[6] Dryhope
Tower, so intimately associated with the memory of Mary Scott, the
‘Flower of Yarrow,’ made the travellers stop for a brief space; and
_Dhu 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 the _naïveté_ of
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, the horsemen 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 long _cleugh_ or _hope_,
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 old _place_ of 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) came _to 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 which _Jamie_,
as he was called, 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 their _forbears_
looked 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, the _lasses_ (on whom Jamie always
turned an expressive _espiègle_ glance) looked towards him with envy
and admiration. He doubtless thought of himself as the Gaelic bard did
of Allan of Muidart--
‘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.’