Part 5

"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 lighter. 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 can learn, it had been more brilliant over the mountains and pure waters of Westmoreland than anywhere else. Well, when word came into the room of the splendid meteor, we all went out to view it; and on the beautiful platform of Mount Rydal, we were walking in twos and threes, arm-in-arm, talking of the phenomenon, and admiring it. Now, be it remembered, that there were present, Wordsworth, Professor Wilson, Lloyd, De Quincy, and myself, beside 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 triumphal airch, raised in honor 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 Quincy'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 can not 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 Quincy was _leeing_, for I did not myself hear Wordsworth utter the words."

Whether Wordsworth did utter these words, or De Quincy only quizzed Hogg with them, it is a great pity that poor Hogg's mind was suffered to the last to retain the rankling supposition of it. The anecdote appeared in the Noctes; it was made the subject of much joke and remark, and must have reached Wordsworth's ears. What a thousand pities, then, that, by a single line to Hogg, or in public, he did not take the sting out of it. Nobody was so soon propitiated as Hogg. To have been acknowledged as a brother poet by Wordsworth would have filled his heart with much happiness. Immediately after his death Wordsworth hastened to make such a recognition; but of how little value is posthumous praise! Hogg died on the 21st of November, and on the 30th Wordsworth sent the following lines to the Athenæum, which I quote entire, because they commemorate other departed lights of the age.

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

Extempore Effusion, upon reading, in the Newcastle Journal, the notice of the death of the poet, James Hogg.

"When first descending from the moorland, I saw the stream of Yarrow glide Along a fair and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

"When last along its banks I wandered, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border Minstrel led.

"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid moldering ruins low he lies: And death upon the braes of Yarrow Has closed the shepherd poet's eyes.

"Nor has the rolling year twice measured From sign to sign his steadfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvelous source.

"The rapt-one of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in death; And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

"Like clouds that robe the mountain summits, Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has Brother followed Brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!

"Yet I, whose lids from infant slumbers Were earlier raised, remain to hear A timid voice that asks in whispers, 'Who next will drop and disappear?'

"Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath, On which with thee, O Crabbe, forth-looking, I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.

"As if but yesterday departed, Thou, too, art gone before; yet why For ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, Should frail survivors heave a sigh?

"No more of old romantic sorrows, The slaughtered youth and love-lorn maid; With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their shepherd dead."

These extracts throw a deal of light on the peculiar character of Hogg's mind. Simple, candid to an astonishment, vain without an attempt to conceal it, sensitive to an extreme, with such a development of self-esteem that no rebuffs or ridicule could daunt him, and full of talent and fancy. But, to estimate the extent of all these qualities, you must read his prose as well as his poetry; and these, considering how late he began to write, and that he did not die very old, are pretty voluminous. During the greater part of his literary life he was a very popular contributor to various magazines. Of his collected works he gives us this list.

VOL.

The Queen's Wake 1 Pilgrims of the Sun 1 The Hunting of Badlewe 1 Mador of the Moor 1 Poetic Mirror 1 Dramatic Tales 2 Brownie of Bodsbeck 2 Winter Evening Tales 2 Sacred Melodies 1 Border Garland 1 Jacobite Relics of Scotland 2 The Spy 1 Queen Hynde 1 The Three Perils of Man 3 The Three Perils of Woman 3 Confessions of a Sinner 1 The Shepherd's Calendar 2 A Selection of Songs 1 The Queer Book 1 The Royal Jubilee 1 The Mountain Bard 1 The Forest Minstrel 1 -- Total 31 --

It may be imagined that while the produce of his literary pen was so abundant, that of his sheep-pen would hardly bear comparison with it. That was the case. Hogg continually broke down, as a shepherd and a farmer. He

"Tended his flocks upon Parnassus hill;"

his imagination was in Fairyland, his heart was in Edinburgh, and his affairs always went wrong. To give him a certain chance of support, the Duke of Buccleugh gave him, rent-free for life, a little farm at Altrive in Yarrow, and then Hogg took a much larger farm on the opposite side of the river, which he called Mount Benger. From this it will be recollected that he often dated his literary articles. The farm was beyond his capital, and far beyond his care. It brought him into embarrassments. To the last, however, he had Altrive Lake to retreat to; and here he lived, and wrote, and fished, and shot grouse on the moors. Let us, before visiting his haunts, take a specimen or two of his poetry, that we may have a clear idea of the man we have in view.

In all Hogg's poetry there is none which has been more popular than the Legend of Kilmeny, in the Queen's Wake. It is the tradition of a beautiful cottage maiden, who disappears for a time and returns again home, but, as it were, glorified and not of the earth. She has, for her purity, been transported to the land of spirits, and bathed in the river of immortal life.

"They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walked in the light of a sunless day: The sky was a dome of crystal bright, The fountain of vision and fountain of light: The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on Heaven when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wandered by. And she heard a song, she heard it sung, She kenned not where, but so sweetly it rung, It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn; O! blest be the day that Kilmeny was born. Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them traveling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed away; When the sinner has gaed to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!"

But Kilmeny longs once more to revisit the earth and her kindred at home, and,

"Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek of the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; When the ingle glowed with an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloaming Kilmeny came hame! 'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought baith holt and den; By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree, Yet ye are hailsome and fair to see. Where gat ye that joup o' the lily scheen? That bonny snood o' the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?' "Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her ee, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, As the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock ne'er crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew!"

But on earth the spell of heaven was upon her. All loved, both man and beast, the pure and spiritual Kilmeny; but earth could not detain her.

"When a month and a day had come and gone, Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene; There laid her down on the leaves so green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But O the words that fell from her mouth Were words of wonder, and words of truth! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kennedna whether she was living or dead. It was not her hame, and she couldna remain; She left this world of sorrow and pain; And returned to the land of thought again."

The Legend of Kilmeny is as beautiful as any thing in that department of poetry. It contains a fine moral; that purity of heart makes an earthly creature a welcome denizen of heaven; and the tone and imagery are all fraught with a tenderness and grace that are as unearthly as the subject of the legend.

There is a short poem introduced into the Brownie of Bodsbeck, worthy of the noblest bard that ever wrote.

DWELLER IN HEAVEN.

"Dweller in heaven high, Ruler below! Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know! How can a mortal deem, how it may be, That being can ne'er be but present with thee? Is it true that thou sawest me ere I saw the morn? Is it true that thou knewest me befere I was born? That nature must live in the light of thine eye? This knowledge for me is too great and too high!

"That, fly I to noonday or fly I to night, To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light, The light and the darkness to thee are the same, And still in thy presence of wonder I am! Should I with the dove to the desert repair, Or dwell with the eagle in cleugh of the air; In the desert afar--on the mountain's wild brink-- From the eye of Omnipotence still must I shrink!

"Or mount I, on wings of the morning, away, To caves of the ocean, unseen by the day, And hide in the uttermost parts of the sea, Even there to be living and moving in thee! Nay, scale I the clouds, in the heaven to dwell, Or make I my bed in the shadows of hell, Can science expound, or humanity frame, That still thou art present, and all are the same?

"Yes, present forever! Almighty! Alone! Great Spirit of Nature! unbounded! unknown! What mind can embody thy presence divine? I know not my own being, how can I thine? Then humbly and low in the dust let me bend, And adore what on earth I can ne'er comprehend: The mountains may melt, and the elements flee, Yet a universe still be rejoicing in thee!"

The last that we will select is one which was written for an anniversary celebration of our great dramatist; yet is distinguished by a felicity of thought and imagery that seem to have sprung spontaneously in the soul of the shepherd poet, as he mused on the airy brow of some Ettrick mountain.

TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE.

"Spirit all-limitless, Where is thy dwelling-place? Spirit of him whose high name we revere! Come on thy seraph wings, Come from thy wanderings, And smile on thy votaries who sigh for thee here!

"Come, O thou spark divine! Rise from thy hallowed shrine! Here in the windings of Forth thou shalt see Hearts true to nature's call, Spirits congenial, Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee!

"Here with rapt heart and tongue, While our fond minds were young, Oft thy bold numbers we poured in our mirth; Now in our hall for aye This shall be holyday, Bard of all nature! to honor thy birth.

"Whether thou tremblest o'er Green grave of Elsinore, Stayest o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover, Bosworth, or Shrewsbury, Egypt, or Philippi; Come from thy roamings the universe over.

"Whether thou journeyest far, On by the morning star, Dreamest on the shadowy brows of the moon, Or lingerest in Fairyland, Mid lovely elves to stand, Singing thy carols unearthly and boon:

"Here thou art called upon, Come, thou, to Caledon! Come to the land of the ardent and free! The land of the lone recess, Mountain and wilderness, This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!

"O, never, since time had birth, Rose from the pregnant earth Gems, such as late have in Scotia sprung;-- Gems that in future day, When ages pass away, Like thee shall be honored, like thee shall be sung!

"Then here, by the sounding sea, Forest, and greenwood tree, Here to solicit thee, cease shall we never. Yes, thou effulgence bright, Here must thy flame relight, Or vanish from nature forever and ever!"

Such strains as these serve to remind us that we go to visit the native scenes of no common man. To reach Ettrick, I took the mail from Dumfries to Moffat, where I breakfasted, after a fresh ride through the woods of Annandale. With my knapsack on my back, I then ascended the vale of Moffat. It was a fine morning, and the green pastoral hills rising around, the white flocks scattered over them, the waters glittering along the valley, and women spreading out their linen to dry on the meadow grass, made the walk as fresh as the morning itself. I passed through a long wood, which stretched along the sunny side of the steep valley. The waters ran sounding on deep below; the sun filled all the sloping wood with its yellow light. There was a wonderful resemblance to the mountain woodlands of Germany. I felt as though I was once more in a Suabian or an Austrian forest. There was no wall or hedge by the way: all was open. The wild raspberry stood in abundance, and the wild strawberries as abundantly clothed the ground under the hazel bushes. I came to a cottage and inquired,--it was _Craigieburn Wood_, where Burns met "The lassie wi' the lintwhite locks."

But the pleasure of the walk ceased with the sixth milestone. Here it was necessary to quit Moffat and cross over into Ettrick dale. And here the huge hills of Bodsbeck, more villainous than the Brownie in his most vindictive mood, interposed. I turned off the good road which would have led me to the Gray-Mare's-Tail, to the inn of Innerleithing (St. Ronan's Well), and St. Mary's Lake on Yarrow, and at Capel-gill forsook Moffat water and comfort at once.

And here, by the by, as all the places in these dales are called gills, and hopes, and cleughs, as Capel-gill, Chapel-hope, Gamel-cleugh, etc., I may as well explain that a hope is a sort of slight ravine aloft on the hillside, generally descending it pretty perpendicularly; a cleugh, a more deep and considerable one; and a gill, one down which a torrent pours, continuing longer after rains than in the others. At least, this was the definition given me, though the different terms are not, it seems, always very palpably discriminative.

Turning off at Capel-gill, I crossed the foot-bridge at the farm of Bodsbeck, where the Brownie used to haunt, and began to ascend the hill, assuredly in no favor with the Brownie. These hills are long ranges, inclosing deep valleys between them; and there are but few entrances into the dales, except by crossing the backs of these great ridges. I found the ascent of the Bodsbeck excessively steep, rugged, boggy, stony, and wet, and far higher than I had anticipated. A more fatiguing mountain ascent I never made. I was quite exhausted, and lay down two or three times, resolving to have a good long rest and sleep on the grass, with my knapsack for a pillow; but the Brownie came in the shape of rain, and woke me up again. I suppose I was two hours in getting to the summit; and then I did lie down, and slept for a quarter of an hour; but the Brownie was at me again with a bluster of wind and rain, and awoke me.

Preparing to set forward, what was my astonishment to see a cart and horse coming over the mountain with a load of people. It was a farmer with his wife and child; and they were about to descend the rugged, rocky, boggy, steep hillside, with scarcely a track! They descended from the cart; the man led the horse; the woman walked behind, carrying the child; and they went bumping and banging over the projecting crags, as if the cart was made of some unsmashable timber, the horse a Pegasus, and the people without necks to break. 'Tis to be hoped that they reached the bottom somehow.

I had supposed by my map that from Moffat to Ettrick kirk would be about six miles. Imagine, then, my consternation at the tidings these adventurous people gave me, that I had still eight miles to go! That, instead of six, it was sixteen from Moffat to Ettrick kirk! There was a new road made all down this side of the mountain; very fair to look at in the distance, but infamous for foot travelers, being all loose, sharp cubes of new broken whinstone. My feet were actually strained with coming up the mountain; and were now so knocked to pieces and blistered in going down it, that I suppose I crawled on at about two miles an hour. In fact, I was seven hours and a half, between Moffat and Ettrick kirk, on foot. Down, down, down I went for eight weary miles, one long descent, with nothing on either hand but those monotonous green mountains which extend all over the south of Scotland. Soft they can look as the very hills of heaven under the evening light, with their white flocks dotting them all over, and the shepherds shouting, and their dogs barking from afar. And dark, beautifully dark, they can look beneath the shadow of the storm, or the thunder-cloud. Wild, drearily wild, they can look when the winds come sweeping and roaring like some broken-loose ocean, fierce and strong as ocean waters, and with this mighty volume fill the scowling valleys, and rush, without the obstacle of house or tree, over the smooth, round heights; and men at ease, especially if in want of a stroll, and in good company, may, and no doubt do, find them very attractive. But to me they were an endless green monotony of swelling heaps; and Ettrick dale, with its stream growing continually larger in its bottom, an endless vale of bare greenness, with but here and there a solitary white house, and a cluster of fir-trees, with scarcely a cultured field even of oats or potatoes for eight miles. It was one eternal sheep-walk; and, for me, eight miles too much of it. Yet the truth is, that every one of these hills, and every portion of this vale, and every house with its hope, or its cleugh, or its plantation, and every part of the river where the torrent has boiled and raged for a thousand years, till it has worn the iron-like whinstone into the most hideous channels and fantastic shapes, has its history and its tradition. There is Phaup, and Upper Phaup, and Gamelshope, and Ettrick-house, and all have their interest; but to me they were then only white houses with black plantations, many of them on the other side of the water, without bridge, or any visible means of access; and with huge flocks of sheep collected and collecting in their yards and pens, with the most amazing and melancholy clamor. It was the time when they prepare for the great lamb fairs, and were separating those they meant to sell; and there was one loud lamentation all through these hills. It is amazing what a sentiment of attachment and distress can exist in mutton!

But no sentimental piece of mutton was ever more in distress than I was. I was quite famished and knocked up; and when at length I saw the few gray houses at Ettrick kirk, I actually gave a shout of exultation. I shouted, however, before I was out of the wood; for Ettrick kirk was not, as I had fancied, a Kirk Ettrick--that is, a village,--it was Ettrick kirk, and nothing more. I knew that Hogg was born and buried here, and that here I must stop; but unluckily I saw no village, no stopping-place. To my left hand stood the kirk, a little elevated on the side of the valley, and what was clearly the manse near it, in a garden. A little farther on was a farmhouse, and then a cottage or two, and that was all. I saw a large, queer sign over a door, and flattered myself that that at least must be a public-house; but a Gipsy with his stockings off in a little stream tickling trout, while his basket and his set of tea-trays stood on the road, soon told me my fortune. "Is that an inn?" "No, sir, the inn is three miles farther down!"

Three miles farther down! It was enough to have finished all Job's miseries! "What! is it not a public-house even?" "No, it is a shop."

And a shop it was; and when I hoped at least to find a shop that sold bread, it turned out to be a tailor's shop!