or a cleugh that is not famed for some act of romantic chivalry, or tenanted by some supernatural being, or sanctified by the blood of some martyr. In such a country, full of chastened beauty, and dark sublimity, and visionary agency, and glorious recollections, it was the good fortune of Hogg to be born, and to spend the greater part of his life." Notwithstanding these varied aids, Hogg's muse was tardy in bursting into notice; his almost utter want of education, and other circumstances, keeping him in obscurity. Not until his eighteenth year, while serving on the farm of Willenslee, in Peeblesshire, did he obtain the perusal of any kind of books, the Bible excepted; and then it was only the Life of Sir William Wallace and the Gentle Shepherd which fell under his notice. These charmed him; but the rhymes, and the Scottish dialect, which he had not previously seen in print, were puzzling. His mistress afterwards gave him the perusal of some theological treatises, and also the newspapers, which he pored over with great earnestness. To give some further idea of the progress he made in literature at this period, he mentions that, being obliged to write letter to his elder brother, he composed it in letters of the italic alphabet, having forgot what little he had learned of the script hand. At Whitsunday 1790, Hogg left Willenslee, and hired himself to Mr Laidlaw of Black House, with whom he remained as a shepherd till 1800. Mr Laidlaw, a generous and intelligent man, showed him the greatest kindness, and encouraged, to the greatest degree, the peculiar talent with which the young shepherd had been gifted. Mr Laidlaw's library, a respectable one, was placed at the command of Hogg, and served to a certain extent to remedy the early defects of his education. It was while in this situation, in the spring of 1796, that Hogg first made the attempt to write verses. His account of this enterprise is given in the following graphic language: "For several years my compositions consisted wholly of songs and ballads, made up for the lasses to sing in chorus; and a proud man I was when I first heard the rosy nymphs chanting my uncouth strains, and jeering me by the still dear appellation of Jamie the poeter." "I had no more difficulty in composing songs then than I have at present; and I was equally well pleased with them. But then the writing of them!-that was a job! I had no method of learning to write save by following the italic alphabet; and though I always stripped myself of coat and vest when I began to pen a song, yet my wrist took a cramp, so that I could rarely make above four or six lines at a sitting. Whether my manner of writing it out was new, I know not, but it was not without singularity. Having very little spare time from my flock, which * Edinburgh Magazine, vol. ii. 1818. was unruly enough, I folded and stitched a few sheets of paper, which I carried in my pocket. I had no inkhorn, but in place of it I borrowed a small phial, which I fixed in a hole in the breast of my waistcoat; and having a cork fastened by a piece of twine, it answered the purpose fully as well. Thus equipped, whenever a leisure minute or two offered, and I had nothing else to do, I sat down and wrote out my thoughts as I found them. This is still my invariable practice in writing prose. I cannot make out one sentence by study without the pen in my hand to catch the ideas as they arise, and I never write two copies of the same thing. My manner of composing poetry is very different, and, I believe, much more singular. Let the piece be of what length it will, I compose and correct it wholly in my mind, or on a slate, ere ever I put pen to paper; and then I write it down as fast as the A B C. When once it is written, it remains in that state; it being with the utmost difficulty that I can be brought to alter one syllable, which I think is partly owing to the above practice. "The first time I ever heard of Burns was in 1797, the year after he died. One day during that summer a half daft man, named John Scott, came to me on the hill, and, to amuse me, repeated Tam O'Shanter. I was delighted. I was far more than delighted-I was ravished! I cannot describe my feelings; but, in short, before Jock Scott left me, I could recite the poem from beginning to end, and it has been my favourite poem ever since. He told me it was made by one Robert Burns, the sweetest poet that ever was born; but that he was now dead, and his place would never be supplied. He told me all about him: how he was born on the 25th of January, bred a ploughman, how many beautiful song's and poems he had composed, and that he had died last harvest, on the 21st of August. This formed a new epoch of my life. Every day I pondered on the genius and fate of Burns. I wept, and always thought with myself-what is to hinder me from succeeding Burns? I, too, was born on the 25th of January, and I have much more time to read and compose than any ploughman could have, and can sing more old songs than ever ploughman could in the world. But then I wept again because I could not write. However, I resolved to be a poet, and to follow in the steps of Burns." The friend and confidant of the Shepherd on the important step of writing verses was Mr William Laidlaw, one of the sons of his employer. This ingenious and simple-hearted young man was a kindred spirit; "like himself, an unspoiled pupil of nature, who to a vigorous imagination added an acute judgment, and soon discovered the genius of the future poet through the ungainly exterior that concealed it. With a knowledge of charac ter almost intuitive, he saw, under the unpretending simplicity of the Shepherd, a mind of strong originality, and capable of extraordinary things. He admired him to enthusiasm, and roused him to a sense of his own importance, cheering him in his poetical attempts, and zealously propagating his fame; and though many of those to whom he showed his verses received them with indifference or condemnation, he continued unshaken in his judgment of the powers of his friend. Some time after the period of which we have been speaking, Mr (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott and Mr Leyden began to make their collections for the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. They had heard of Mr Laidlaw as a man likely to assist them in the object of their search. To him they applied, and by him Hogg was introduced to Mr Scott. He was at first rather surprised to hear that the poems to which he had been accustomed to listen to with such delight from his infancy, and which he supposed were little known out of his own glens, were sought after with such avidity by the learned and ingenious; yet he was proud to comply with the requisition, and wrote out several ballads for insertion in that work. Some of his own poetry was shown to Mr Scott, who approved of it. This was a sanction from which there was no appeal; and the most infidel of his acquaintances among the farmers and shepherds now began to discover merit in those productions which had lately been the subject of their ridicule. His fame now began to spread, and he was spoken of in Edinburgh and other places as a surprising man for his opportunities. At the first meeting between him and Mr Scott, that gentleman, after spending some hours in his company, declared that he had never met a man of more originality of genius, and henceforth became his zealous friend. From the time he began to write poetry, he had never doubted of his ultimate success. He felt within him the stirrings of inspiration so strong, that he could not doubt of his vocation. Yet the countenance of such a man was a triumph to him and his friend for which they had hardly dared to hope. All that he now wanted was a little mechanical skill, and he applied to his beloved art with the natural warmth of his temperament, kindled into enthusiasm by applause so highly valued, and was naturally enough led to the imitation of the Border ballad."* In 1801, and while still untrained in writing, Hogg had the boldness, or, more properly, the recklessness, to print some of his productions, in order, as he says, "to appeal to the world at once. This noble resolution was no sooner taken than executed; a proceeding much of a piece with many of my subsequent transactions. Having attended the Edinburgh market one Monday with a number of sheep for sale, and being unable to dispose of them all, I put the remainder into a park until the market on Wednesday. Not knowing how to pass the interim, it came into my head that I would write a poem or two from my memory, and get them printed. The thought had no sooner * Edinburgh Magazine, vol, ii. 1818. was unruly enough, I folded and stitched a few sheets of paper, which I carried in my pocket. I had no inkhorn, but in place of it I borrowed a small phial, which I fixed in a hole in the breast of my waistcoat; and having a cork fastened by a piece of twine, it answered the purpose fully as well. Thus equipped, whenever a leisure minute or two offered, and I had nothing else to do, I sat down and wrote out my thoughts as I found them. This is still my invariable practice in writing prose. I cannot make out one sentence by study without the pen in my hand to catch the ideas as they arise, and I never write two copies of the same thing. My manner of composing poetry is very different, and, I believe, much more singular. Let the piece be of what length it will, I compose and correct it wholly in my mind, or on a slate, ere ever I put pen to paper; and then I write it down as fast as the A B C. When once it is written, it remains in that state; it being with the utmost difficulty that I can be brought to alter one syllable, which I think is partly owing to the above practice. "The first time I ever heard of Burns was in 1797, the year after he died. One day during that summer a half daft man, named John Scott, came to me on the hill, and, to amuse me, repeated Tam O'Shanter. I was delighted. I was far more than delighted-I was ravished! I cannot describe my feelings; but, in short, before Jock Scott left me, I could recite the poem from beginning to end, and it has been my favourite poem ever since. He told me it was made by one Robert Burns, the sweetest poet that ever was born; but that he was now dead, and his place would never be supplied. He told me all about him: how he was born on the 25th of January, bred a ploughman, how many beautiful song's and poems he had composed, and that he had died last harvest, on the 21st of August. This formed a new epoch of my life. Every day I pondered on the genius and fate of Burns. I wept, and always thought with myself-what is to hinder me from succeeding Burns? I, too, was born on the 25th of January, and I have much more time to read and compose than any ploughman could have, and can sing more old songs than ever ploughman could in the world. But then I wept again because I could not write. However, I resolved to be a poet, and to follow in the steps of Burns." The friend and confidant of the Shepherd on the important step of writing verses was Mr William Laidlaw, one of the sons of his employer. This ingenious and simple-hearted young man was a kindred spirit; "like himself, an unspoiled pupil of nature, who to a vigorous imagination added an acute judgment, and soon discovered the genius of the future poet through the ungainly exterior that concealed it. With a knowledge of character almost intuitive, he saw, under the unpretending simplicity of the Shepherd, a mind of strong originality, and capable of extraordinary things. He admired him to enthusiasm, and roused him to a sense of his own importance, cheering him in his poetical attempts, and zealously propagating his fame; and though many of those to whom he showed his verses received them with indifference or condemnation, he continued unshaken in his judgment of the powers of his friend. Some time after the period of which we have been speaking, Mr (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott and Mr Leyden began to make their collections for the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. They had heard of Mr Laidlaw as a man likely to assist them in the object of their search. To him they applied, and by him Hogg was introduced to Mr Scott. He was at first rather surprised to hear that the poems to which he had been accustomed to listen to with such delight from his infancy, and which he supposed were little known out of his own glens, were sought after with such avidity by the learned and ingenious; yet he was proud to comply with the requisition, and wrote out several ballads for insertion in that work. Some of his own poetry was shown to Mr Scott, who approved of it. This was a sanction from which there was no appeal; and the most infidel of his acquaintances among the farmers and shepherds now began to discover merit in those productions which had lately been the subject of their ridicule. His fame now began to spread, and he was spoken of in Edinburgh and other places as a surprising man for his opportunities. At the first meeting between him and Mr Scott, that gentleman, after spending some hours in his company, declared that he had never met a man of more originality of genius, and henceforth became his zealous friend. From the time he began to write poetry, he had never doubted of his ultimate success. He felt within him the stirrings of inspiration so strong, that he could not doubt of his vocation. Yet the countenance of such a man was a triumph to him and his friend for which they had hardly dared to hope. All that he now wanted was a little mechanical skill, and he applied to his beloved art with the natural warmth of his temperament, kindled into enthusiasm by applause so highly valued, and was naturally enough led to the imitation of the Border ballad." " In 1801, and while still untrained in writing, Hogg had the boldness, or, more properly, the recklessness, to print some of his productions, in order, as he says, "to appeal to the world at once. This noble resolution was no sooner taken than executed; a proceeding much of a piece with many of my subsequent transactions. Having attended the Edinburgh market one Monday with a number of sheep for sale, and being unable to dispose of them all, I put the remainder into a park until the market on Wednesday. Not knowing how to pass the interim, it came into my head that I would write a poem or two from my memory, and get them printed. The thought had no sooner * Edinburgh Magazine, vol, ii. 1818. |