A VISIT TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

BY AN AMERICAN TOURIST.

AFTER having visited Dryburgh, Melrose, and Abbottsford, I arrived early on an August morning of the year passed, at Selkirk, seven miles south of the last named place. There I made anxious enquiries for the Ettrick Shepherd, as I had a strong desire to see that extraordinary genius. From the best information I could gather, I believed that he was residing at his farm of Altrive Lake, fifteen miles distant. Having no letters of introduction to him, I felt some delicacy in riding thither; but I soon learned that he was always pleased to see strangers, and that he treated every one with courtesy.

I asked the landlord of the hotel at which I put up to provide me a vehicle, and an intelligent driver; one, able to point out the interesting scenes through which we might pass. I started, and to my regret found, that the Jehu knew James Hogg, and the road to his house, but little else. Selkirk stands upon an eminence, that looks down upon a picturesque scene: the Ettrick and Yarrow, unite a little above it, and fall into the Tweed, something less than two miles below it. We proceeded along the west side of the Yarrow, and after about four miles' travel we passed Bowhill, the residence of the Duke of Buccleugh, a young man, one among the richest of the nobility, and one of the most stingy. His grounds are tastefully laid out, but in passing them, there was little in the scenery to interest me, perhaps not so much because it was uninteresting, as because for many weeks before I had ranged among the most romantic portions of Scotland. The country was bare of trees and shrubbery. On each side of the Yarrow, hills rose upon hills, which fed innumerable flocks of sheep. We passed a village or two, where, to be sure, were some clustering trees-but there was little variety, save in the shape and height of the hills, and the windings of the stream. My mind was fixed alone on Altrive-its shepherd poet, I was alone anxious to see: after riding about twelve miles, my stupid driver pointed to a house at a great distance, which the winding of the road brought into view. The driver informed me that it was Mr. Hogg's house. I had long been accustomed to think that the Ettrick shepherd lived in humble style, but I was agreeably surprised to see that his residence was of tolerably spacious dimensions. It seemed like three two story houses of moderate size, and quadrangular shape joined in one, with roofs pyramid-like, covered with dark blue slate, and the walls washed white with Irish lime.-It stands upon low ground on the east bank of the Yarrow, with few or no trees around, and has rather a naked appearance. At half a mile's distance, crossing a fine stone bridge, we ascended a precipitous road, and looked down upon Altrive-there was little improvement apparent around it; it seemed as if art had not been taxed to beautify the spot. In a word, it resembled rather the residence of a farmer, intent on making money, than the residence of a shepherd poet.

We now saw a gentleman, with two ladies, fishing in the stream, and at a distance discovered two gentlemen, one tall the other short, who had

issued from the house, walking by the banks as if to join the anglers. The driver informed me that the taller was Mr. Hogg. They were distant some six or seven hundred yards, being separated by the space betwixt the river and the road. I looked eagerly on him; he seemed five feet eight or nine inches high, and walked with the firm and decided step of one in the prime of life. He was dressed in a Galashiels gray frock coat, with white drilling pantaloons, light vest, and wore a white hat, of comely shape, though of too great rotundity at the top, and too broad in the brim, to be fashionable. On the whole, his appearance was so prepossessing, that I felt strongly the unpleasant situation in which I was placed of visiting a stranger without any voucher to prove my claim to respectability. However, I ordered my Jehu to drive on, determined to trust to fortune, and my self-possession. When we reached the gate, that from the main road leads to the house, I found it as rough and unimproved a one, as ever driver wished to see.-I was not without apprehensions that my vehicle would be overturned: but we reached in safety the Altrive Burn, which flows from the lake of that name; we had to cross this rivulet to approach the mansion: fortunately it was not deep, for the horses had to wade through it, doing no more damage than scaring a few trouts that were sporting in its waters. The driver halted before the east gable, and directed me to ascend a few steps,-which the undulating ground rendered necessary to reach the hall door.-I did as directed, and walked through a gravelled path that divided the house from the garden, and knocked at the door of the west wing. A girl appeared, and requested me to walk in, and said that Mr. Hogg would be sent for. I was shown into a parlour, very plainly, though not uncomfortably furnished. A gentleman sat at a table knitting a silk purse, who rose and received me. In a few moments a sonsie good looking lady, apparently about thirtyfive years of age, with a very agreeable smile on her countenance, entered; it was Mrs. Hogg. I presented my card. She kindly informed me, that seeing me approach the house, she had despatched a messenger to inform Mr. Hogg of my arrival. She soon produced two or three kinds of wine, hinting that I must be fatigued after so long a ride; I drank her health in a glass of very fair cherry. It was not long before the Ettrick Shepherd entered. Mrs. Hogg presented me. Taking my hand, he said, "I'm glad to see you at Yarrow." I said that there were two persons in this part of the country a year ago, who above all other men I wished to see; one, no eye shall ever see again, the other is author of "The Witch of Fife," and "Bouny Kilmeny."

"Man, but ye 've taken muckle trouble," he replied, "to see ane no worth the seein'; I'm but a plain body."

Hoot man, dinna mind
Margaret," he con-

I hinted an excuse for coming without letters. that, an honest face needs nae introduction to me. tinued, addressing his wife, "hae ye gien Mr. a glass of wine ?" Being answered in the affirmative, he called for wine, and filling a glass, said, "Ye're health, Mr. and ye're welcome to Yarrow."

I had now had an opportunity of gazing on the face of the Ettrick Shepherd-his poetry has been familiar to me since my earliest days, and I felt an inward satisfaction in his presence. His face was calm, his manner subdued, yet there was a quiet smile playing almost imperceptibly upon

his lip, that convinced me he was gratified to see strangers. The Ettrick Shepherd is sixty-two years old, but he looks fully five years younger. His figure, which seemed to me so erect as he walked at a distance, was slightly bent as he sat. His face is very pleasing, and shows much good nature and self-complacency. His light grey eye, when at rest, would not be distinguished for either quickness or brilliancy; his lips rather large, and not firm, seem to lack decision-if it were not for his noble forehead he might pass in a crowd for an ordinary man-a respectable farmer-but his is a broad and lofty brow, denoting both judgment and imagination. His hair inclines to red, unmingled with a single grey one, and his whiskers, redder, but not thick, extend scarcely below the tip of the ear. His complexion is a reddish brown, just such a one as might be looked for in a man of his age, who has spent most of his life in the country. No picture, that I have ever seen, gives a correct likeness of him.

Upon a sideboard stood a cast from Chantry's bust of Scott-there is a strong resemblance between the two poets, and I could not help remarking it. This seemed to please him, and he said with a smile, Ay man, do you see it-I've been telt sae afore." There is indeed much resemblance in the face of Hogg to that of Scott: the head of the latter from the eyebrows to the crown is much higher, the lips firmer and more compressed; and the arch of the eye more prominent, but still there is a striking resemblance between them.

The gentleman and two ladies whom I had seen fishing now entered the room, accompanied by a young man, a nephew of Mr. Hogg's, and a lady past the middle age. A desultory conversation now arose, in which the poet took little or no part. As I came to see him only and hear him speak, I proposed at the first pause a walk to view his grounds, to which he readily assented. Rising to depart, he said, "Ye'll stay all night." I told him that that was impossible, being obliged to leave Selkirk in the evening for Carlisle. "Ye'll no gang without your dinner, at any rate. Margaret, what hae ye got? Let us hae't by three o'clock." We now took a short stroll together, during the course of which I hinted a project that had been on foot in New York about a year before, to get up an edition of his works for his profit. He seemed at first indisposed to touch on the subject, indeed, so far as I had yet seen him, he was rather retiring, and I began to think that he was not prone to the good natured egotism which has been alleged against him. However he soon became communicative, and told me that he had two correspondents in Albany-the Rev. Mr. S-- and Mr. S. De W. B, who had written to him on the subject. That to these gentlemen he had some time before sent a manuscript entitled "Reminiscences of Sir Walter Scott," which they had advised him would be published in the Mirror. He asked me about that paper; I told him the only paper of note of that name was the New York Mirror. He also mentioned that he had received a letter from a bookseller in Chatham street, requesting permission to publish an uniform edition of his works. "I hae forgotten his name,” said he, "I receive sae mony letters, man, that I canna mind them a' nor answer the half"—he added that his determination was-as I could not speak of a bookseller of note in that street-to pay no attention to the letter. He had heard that the people in the United States believed him poor; on that

ground he led me to infer, that though not rich, he managed to get along. The late Dutchess of Buccleugh-by whom he was much respected-upon her death bed, had requested the Duke to give the Ettrick Shepherd, during life, the farm of Altrive Lake: this was not only obeyed, but a lease of it for ninety-nine years was made out at a nominal rent, and even that rent has never been demanded. When he took possession of the farm, the only dwelling upon it was a low thatched cottage,—now used as a byre,—but after a time he built a stone house; when he married in 1820, requiring more room, he erected a wing to it; as his family increased, he added another, and this accounts for the style in which it now appears.

Speaking of the United States; O man," said he, "I like the American bodies, they are fine fellows; I wad like to gang and see them, but I darna." I asked him why?—he replied, with much näiveté, "I am Scotland's, and she wadna let me gang. I hae a brither there, his name is Robert, I like him weel, but hinna heard frae him for a lang time. I hae written to Albany about him; he was a farmer at the Silver Lake, Susquehanna." He asked many questions about this country, which showed a plentiful lack of information on the subject: I did not wonder at this, for I had often been surprised before to find intelligent men, in every part of Scotland and England, unpardonably ignorant of the geography, government, institutions and laws of the United States.

We returned to the house, and he led me into his library-it was a small square room, in the eastern wing-a few volumes, not exceeding five hundred, were placed upon shelves, not unlike those of booksellers: a round table stood in the centre of the floor, covered with engravings and annuals. His books did not seem to be a tasteful selection, and their bindings were not elegant. "I canna keep books here," said he "there are ay some folks borrowing-but I hae a Hollingshed, and a Ridpath-baith gude, but Ridpath is unco dry." I took from the shelf a volume of "The Casquet,”—a work in four volumes, published by Blackie of Glasgow-a casket it is of literary gems, and turned to "To a Rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk;" looking over my shoulder, he said, "Eh, man, that's a bonny poem." I told him it was by one of our American poets. "Do ye ken him?" I answered in the affirmative, and referred to "Marco Bozzaris," and "Alwick Castle," all printed in the same work anonymously: "What's he's name?" I answered, Halleck. He requested me to write it in full above the poems, which I did. "He's a fine poet," added the Shepherd.

Touching on American literature; I found that he knew as little about it as he did of the country; but he had read the Extracts from Bryant in the Foreign Quarterly and Blackwood, which he admired much. He spoke of Irving and Cooper too-but their works are identified with English literature.

"Do you ken a Lieutenant P——, of the American navy ?" I answered that I did not. He spoke of this gentleman in exalted terms; he had visited Altrive some two or three years before, and spent a few days there. He had sent some letters to the Shepherd, who said they were well written and very interesting letters, but added that he had not heard from him in many a day. I told him that Mr. Woodbury, Secretary of the Navy, was a gentleman, who would give him every information of his friend as to where

abouts; and being himself a man of letters would be pleased to serve a poet of such renown. The Shepherd then said, "When Lieutenant P—— gaed awa, I wrote him twa stanzas, they war very gude-I'm no sure they're no the best I ever wrote; I'll speak them for you." And so he did, but I do not remember them. "They tell me," said he again, "that my writings are kent in America." I answered that they had all been reprinted there, and were as well known and as much esteemed as in Scotland. This pleased him; and he expressed a desire to have a copy of each work. I readily promised to send him an American edition, and shall do so by the first opportunity. Asking him if his address was Altrive Lake, by Selkirk ; "Hout man, no," said he, "write to the Ettrick Shepherd, Scotland, a' the warld kens him."

The subject of ancient ballads now came up. Here he was at home, and his face became more animated, and his tongue more voluble. "The Wife of Auchtermuchie" was his favorite. He spoke of the many interlopators of old ballads, and forgers of new, in terms of reprehension, but added, that not one of them could deceive him. "The Border Minstrelsy" was awhile his theme: he told me that he had pointed out to Scott, all his patchings; and also all his own ballads, which he had published as old ones.

"But," he said, "gie me ae verse o' an auld sang, and the tune, and I'll cheat them a'-I've done it: Wattie Scott could na find me out." Of Allan Cunningham he spoke in warm terms-he exhibited strong feeling when referring to him, and expressed regret that he should ever have had any thing to do with Cromeck, or his "Nithsdale and Galloway Relics."

When he named Scott again, "Ah !" said he "Scott was a fine man, I kent him weel-his death was a great loss-I believe it was the passage o' the reform bill that killed him; he ay said that would bring ruin on the kintra. He was an unco Tory-I'm ane too." Enquiring if he were one of the more than twenty" who knew the secret of the Waverly novels. "No," he replied, "but I kent weel enough that nae body but Scott could hae written them, for there war sae money incidents and sayings in them that I kent Scott kent, and nane forby." Returning again to ballads, he spoke in high terms of Motherwell's work, and of the learning displayed in the introduction and notes, of which, he said Scott thought so highly as to quote much from them. Speaking of Buchan, the Shepherd praised his industry in having rescued so many ballads from oblivion, (his work contains forty-two that had escaped the research of previous collectors, besides perfect versions of many others already printed) but smiled at the ignorance of the man.

The nephew now came into the library followed by three rosy cheeked, fair haired, healthy children. "Here are my bairns," said the Ettrick Shepherd, caressing them with much tenderness. I could not but praise their looks and manners, for they were pretty children, and behaved with great propriety. Observing an old violin, hanging by a nail in the wall, I hinted that I had heard of his playing. "O, I'm no very gude at it, but can scrape a wee bit." The nephew said that his uncle could sing too, and that we might have a verse or two after dinner; "Na," said he, "I'm no a gude singer,-but, I'm the best sang writer in Scotland." I'm no gaun to sing the day, I'm gaun to`speak.”