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with singularly obscure perceptions and judgment. During the years he spent at Mount-Benger, a young family had risen around him; and in the society of his wife, a prudent, modest, and amiable woman, he not only enjoyed a high measure of domestic happiness, but had the benefit of a friendly counsellor, who was fortunately able in some measure to make up for his own want of foresight and calculation. He now retired to his little farm of Altrive, designing to live upon what it produced to him, with the addition of his literary gains. Before this period he had become conspicuous, from his frequent introduction as an actor and interlocutor, in the series of whimsical papers entitled Noctes Ambrosiana, which appeared from time to time in Blackwood's Magazine. Far beyond the sphere within which his poetical reputation was confined, he was now known for his eccentric habits and style of conversation, and endeared from the bonhomie which was made to shine through all the humours attributed to him. During his residence at Mount-Benger, and subsequently while living at Altrive, he paid frequent visits to Edinburgh, partly on the score of business, and partly to enjoy the society of his friends, who usually flocked about him in great numbers. He continued to exercise his pen actively, partly in prose, and partly in verse, and thus obtained an income, upon the whole, sufficient to maintain comfort, though it could never be described as regular. He had, while at Mount-Benger, published a succession of rustic tales, under the titles of "Three Perils of Man," and "Three Perils of Woman,” and “Confessions of a Fanatic: to these were now added the "Shepherd's Calendar," ," "Tales of the Wars of Montrose," and "The Queer Book," together with a multitude of shorter pieces contributed to annuals and magazines. A long narrative poem, under the name of "Queen Hynde," appeared in 1826, but failed to attract attention.

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In 1831, the success of the new and cheap edition of the Waverley novels suggested to Mr Hogg a similar re-issue of his own prose fictions. He proceeded to London in order to negotiate for such a publication with individuals who had recently commenced business as publishers. In the great city, this simple child of the Selkirkshire hills found himself a lion of no small magnitude, and he was thus induced to enter largely into miscellaneous society. The attentions which he received were to him a source of immense pleasure, and he ever after spoke of this as the proudest era of his life. An arrangement being made for publishing his works, the first volume of "The Altrive Tales" appeared in the spring of 1832; but the series at that point was stopped by the almost immediate failure of the publishers. This was a severe blow, or would have been so to most men; but to the Ettrick Shepherd it never perhaps occasioned one gloomy hour. He continued to write, as before, for periodical works, and to realise occasional sums from these fruits of his pen; he

also gave to the world one separate volume, and that a very odd one, styled "Lay Sermons."*

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James Hogg was, at all periods of his life, a convivial man'; he delighted to meet his friends, and to regale them with his songs sung by himself, which were usually esteemed a treat of no ordinary kind. His constitution was naturally so strong, that his indulgences never seemed to have the least effect upon it, and many wondered to see him pass his sixtieth year with a robustness of frame, and a ruddiness of complexion, which most young men might have envied. At length he began to show slight symptoms of declining health, which ultimately proved to arise from a latent affection of the liver, and on the 21st of November 1835 he breathed his last.

Although some of the prose fictions and narratives of the bard of Ettrick continue popular among certain classes of readers, his literary reputation rests substantially on the Queen's Wake and his minor poetical pieces. Of the tender and kindly feeling, and the flow of homely yet pleasing imagery characterising these lesser productions, in which we include a few of his songs, a fine example may be given in

I

THE AULD MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS WEE† HOUSE.

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I like ye weel, my wee auld house,

Though laigh thy wa's and flat thy riggin',
Though round thy lum‡ the sourock grows,
And rain-draps gaw thy cozy biggin'.

Lang hast thou happit mine an' me,

My head's grown gray aneath thy kipple,
And aye thy ingle cheek was free

Baith to the blind man and the cripple.

What gart my ewes thrive on the hill,
And kept my little store increasin'?
The rich man never wished me ill,

The puir man left me aye his blessin".

Troth I maun greet wi' thee to part,
Though to a better house I'm flittin';

Sic joys will never glad my heart,
As I've had by thy hallan sittin'. ⠀⠀ to

༈*་

My bonny bairns around me smiled;

My sonsy wife sat by me spinnin';

Ave liltin' o'er her ditties wild,

In notes sae artless, an' sae winnin'.

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A handsome edition of Hogg's poetical works is now published by

Messrs Blackie and Son, Warwick Square, London.

Very little, or very small.

Chimney.

29

Our frugal meal was aye a feast;
Our e'ening psalm a hymn o' joy;
Aye calm and peacefu' was our rest;
Our bliss, our love, without alloy.

I canna help but haud thee dear,
My auld storm-battered hamely sheilin',
Thy sooty lum and kipples clear,
I better loe than gaudy ceilin'.

Thy roof will fa', thy rafters start;

How damp and cauld thy hearth will be !
Ah! sae will soon ilk honest heart,

That erst was bauld and blithe in thee!

I thought to cour aneath thy wa'
Till death had closed my weary een,
Then left thee for the narrow ha',
Wi' lowly roof o' swaird sae green.

Fareweel, my house and burnie clear,
My bourtree bush and bouzy tree;
The wee while I maun sojourn here,
I'll never find a hame like thee.

Of all the songs expressive of serious emotion which the poet ever wrote, the following one, little known, seems to us one of the most affecting

THE FATHER'S LAMENT.

How can you bid this heart be blithe,
When blithe this heart can never be?
I've lost the jewel from my crown-
Look round our circle, and you'll see
That there is ane out o' the ring

Who never can forgotten be-
Ay, there's a blank at my right hand,
That ne'er can be made up to me!

'Tis said as water wears the rock,
That time wears out the deepest line;

It may be true wi' hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
For I have learned to know and feel-
Though losses should forgotten be-
That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!

I blame not Providence's sway,
For I have many joys beside;
And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate'er betide.

A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the Supreme Decree!
Yet oh! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!

In expressing the doubts, and fears, and pains of love, the Ettrick Shepherd is extremely happy, though he more often adopts a semi-burlesque tone than the seriously-plaintive style of Burns. But the following stanzas may be read after the Lass of Ballochmyle, without any risk of detriment to the reputation of Hogg:

BONNY MARY.

Oh, Mary! thou'rt sae mild and sweet,
My very being clings about thee;
This heart would rather cease to beat,
Than beat a lonely thing without thee.
How dear the lair on yon hill cheek,
Where many a weary hour I tarry!
For there I see the twisting reek

Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary.

When Phoebus keeks outowre the muir,
His gowden locks a' streaming gaily-
When morn has breathed her fragrance pure,
And life and joy ring through the valley-
I drive my flocks to yonder brook,

The feeble in my arms I carry,

And every lammie's harmless look

Brings to my mind my bonny Mary.

The exile may forget his home,

Where blooming youth to manhood grew;

The bee forget the honeycomb,

Nor wi' the spring his toil renew;

The sun may lose his light and heat,

The planets in their rounds miscarry,
But my fond heart shall cease to beat
When I forget my bonny Mary.

We take the liberty of offering one more specimen of his lyrics, which has been dictated by a high poetic feeling, and could only have been written by a close observer of nature in her wilder haunts:

THE SKYLARK.

Bird of the wilderness,

'Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

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Wild is thy lay, and loud,
Far in the downy cloud;
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Hogg was particularly successful in producing several songs which, though possessing little poetical merit, became popular from the national feeling incorporated in the composition. Among these may be mentioned "Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg?" and "Charlie is my darling." One circumstance materially distinguishes Hogg's poetry from that of Burns-the Shepherd latterly wrote much that was below mediocrity, and evidently from an unpoetic motive. Urged on by magazine editors, publishers, and also his own necessities, he issued a multitude of perishable things, in place of concentrating his faculties upon works likely to live. Nevertheless, he has left more than enough for the attainment of distinction; and several of his pieces may be said to have secured for him an imperishable fame.

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