Ragged Lion

by Allan Massie

  In recent years Jamie has achieved a considerable celebrity as a result of the Conversations, the ‘Noctes Ambrosianae’, which have been appearing in Blackwood’s Magazine. Lockhart had a hand in the early ‘Nodes’, but since he departed to London to edit the Quarterly, they have mostly been the work of John Wilson who appears in the guise of Christopher North. I never cared for Lockhart’s connection with Wilson, who is, though a man of talent and energy, something of what the French call a ‘faux bonhomme’. We do not have an expression in our language that exactly corresponds, though, as Byron remarked in another such case, we do not lack the thing. The ‘Nodes’ purport to be – and to some extent probably are – the records of actual conversations, and there is no doubt that one side of Hogg is well-caught in the character of The Shepherd. But it is only one side of him, and not the better one. Jamie himself, while flattered by the celebrity he has attained in this manner, has too much sense not to be pained by the portrayal. ‘I am neither a drunkard nor an idiot nor a monster of nature,’ he wrote to me. Poor Hogg is indeed none of these things, though, in our native manner, given to drink copiously when the occasion offers. I do not think Wilson has done him service, but I doubt whether he has the resolution to withdraw from that set. I have almost always found Hogg agreeable in the Borders, but his manner, even his character, deteriorates when he crosses Middleton Moor, and Hogg in Edinburgh has frequently irritated me. Yet with all his faults, I love the man, and look forward to seeing him again at Abbotsford when I repair there.

  It was through William Laidlaw, then farming Blackhouse in Yarrow, that I first met Hogg, who had – briefly, I suppose – been his father’s shepherd. Laidlaw was invaluable to me in my ballad-hunting years, and later, when he had run into difficulties on his own account, and I had bought Abbotsford, I invited him to join me as my factor; and have never regretted it. We do not agree on politics, for Willie is inclined to be a Whig, but his good nature, his industry, his resourcefulness, and his perpetual good cheer, all make me love him. Take a difficulty or problem to him, and his reply ‘What for no?’ is like sunshine after rain.

  I have always held by the good old Scots tradition that a man’s servants should also be his friends, even though I have never perhaps gone as far as the Aberdeenshire laird, who, having fallen out with an old servant, nerved himself to tell the man that they must part, only to receive the reply: ‘Aye, aye, laird, and far are ye ga’in?’* Nothing, however, is so offensive to me as to observe the manner in which certain folk who think highly of their consequence treat their dependants, as if they were machines without human feelings or the right to conversation. So Peter Mathieson, my coachman, whom the bairns call ‘Pepe’, Robert Hogg, John Nicholson, my footman who came to me as a boy and whom I have taken care to see is now a well-educated young man, my piper John of Skye (who doubles as a hedger and ditcher when his piping skills are not required), and my butler Dalglish, are all men whom I regard as properly part of my household, and, I may even say, my family.

  Tom Purdie, on account of his admirable independence of mind, has a special place, and has indeed had such since I rescued him from the dock of the Sheriff Court. Tom does not treat me exactly as an equal, but he conceals his deference so well that I have known visitors who thought he treated me as an inferior. I recall one occasion when we had a disagreement concerning the thinning of a young plantation. A certain coolness prevailed. Then, on our return from an expedition, Tom asked me if he could have a bit word. Whereupon he told me that he had thought the matter over, and, on consideration, decided ‘he wad juist tak my advice this time’.

  Tom has all the old Scotch prejudices. Once he took an English friend of mine to try for a fish near Melrose Bridge. On the way to the river he regaled him with the history of the grand fish he had caught himself. By and by my friend, who was an experienced and skilful angler, hooked a vigorous fish, and after playing him nicely, landed him. ‘That’s a fine fish, Tom,’ says he. ‘Oh aye,’ says Tom, ‘a nice eneuch wee grilse.’ ‘A grilse? Why, it must be equal in weight to the heaviest fish you were telling me you had taken in this pool.’ ‘Weel, I wadna say that,’ says Tom; so to settle the matter the fish was weighed, to my friend’s great satisfaction. ‘Weel,’ says Tom, letting the salmon fall to the ground, ‘ye are a muckle fush efter a’ – aye, and a muckle fule to let yoursel be kilt by an Englander.’

  I cannot end this account of my domestic friends without mention of four-footed ones. I have never lived without dogs, and could not happily do so. I like to have a couple with me in the study while I am working, and will break off from time to time to promise them a run when I get to the end of a chapter. My noble cat Hinse of Hinsfeldt is also accustomed to sit on the top of the steps I use to reach the upper shelves of my bookcases, and gives the impression, in the best feline manner, of exercising a sternly critical supervision over all that happens around him. As for the dogs it is invidious to select favourites, for a man should have an equal affection for all his children, among whom – I may say – I really think I include them. Yet human nature being by instinct partial, it is hard for a parent to avoid favouring certain of the bairns above the other, though the wise parent will attempt concealment of his inclination. So, since the poor dogs canna read, I may say that of the many I have had around me – for I do not care to think of owning them – there are two that stand fondest in my memory.

  The first was Camp, a sort of bull-terrier, of uncommon fidelity and sagacity. In his youth he would always accompany me on my rambles in the hills around Ashiestiel, and delighted in showing me the easier route. When on a rock above me, he would lean down and give me a lick to either cheek or hand, as if to encourage me. A sad accident to his back half-crippled him and he could no longer be my companion on these expeditions. It became the custom for someone then to tell him when I was seen returning home, and he would make his way – somewhat painfully, I fear – either to the hill or the ford, never, to my knowledge, mistaking the direction I was taking. When he died and we buried him in the garden behind our house in Castle Street, the whole family stood around the grave, and there was not a dry eye among us.

  Then there was Maida, a noble deerhound, given to me by MacDonald of Glengarry, who of all the Highland chiefs with whom I am acquainted most surely maintains the old habits of patriarchal responsibility towards his clansmen, being more concerned with their well-being than his ain balance at his bankers. Maida was worthy of such a donor, a dog of the greatest dignity, good sense, and kindness. When we set off for a walk with the other dogs, Maida was accustomed to trot gravely a few steps before me, indifferent for the most part to the gambolling and sportive sallies of his fellows; but I always suspected that he would relax his dignity when I was not present, and then romp and engage in mock battle with his companions with sufficient zest. Maida was so often made the subject of the painter’s art that, latterly, wearied – as I am – of such attention and prolonged sittings, the mere production of a sketch-book was sufficient to cause him to take his leave.

  The chief drawing-room dog was my dear Charlotte’s spaniel Fynette, a graceful, engaging, and often naughty, bitch, of a type bred originally in France till the advent of the Revolution caused the Duc de Noailles to send his kennel for safe-keeping to his friend, the Duke of Newcastle at his seat of Clumber Park, whence Lord Montagu obtained Fynette, as a suitable gift for Lady Scott, remarking that the spaniel was from an émigré family also.

  We have always had greyhounds or lurchers and a scattering of terriers of the Dandie type, who in honour of the original of Charlieshope are habitually called by the contents of the cruet-stand: Pepper, Salt, Spice, Nutmeg, Mustard. To this catalogue I might also add a small pig which conceived a violent affection for me, and tried to attach himself to my person whenever possible, and to join the troop of dogs on our expeditions. That did not often serve, but at least I determined that he should be spared the usual fate of the porcine race, and so he grew old in the swinish indolence which is, I suppose
, what nature intended for the breed, till man intervened and converted them to bacon, hams, and chops.

  (I might add that I early formed a repugnance for eating any beast with which I had been personally acquainted; and this feeling has grown stronger with the passage of time. Indeed, around the age of fifty, though I had been in my youth the most enthusiastic sportsman, which I do not regret, I developed a distaste for killing any living thing, and was happy to desist from such activity. This was a purely personal decision which I would not impose on any other, or choose to interfere with their sport.)

  In the last twenty years I have known most of the great men and women of the day. Naturally I stand in a special relationship to the great family of Buccleuch, and Dukes Henry, Charles, and Walter, together with their Duchesses, have been my constant, faithful, and ever generous friends. It is with the pleasure that comes from familial pride that I am happy to add that I know of no great noblemen who have shown themselves better, and kinder, landlords and masters than the chiefs of my own house. Their care for their tenantry and servants, and the paternal responsibility they have exercised throughout the countryside, have been alike exemplary.

  My southern acquaintance has been too extensive to list, and I may say only that I count myself fortunate to have been granted such opportunity to acquire some understanding of the habits and manners of our sister kingdom. There have been particular friends like Mr Morritt and poor Heber, who share my antiquarian interests, and there have been brother-poets – if I may so flatter myself – like Wordsworth and Southey from whose companionship and friendship I have had both pleasure and, in an intellectual sense, profit.

  Friendship is a balm that softens and sweetens the asperities of our progress to the grave. Yet its chain, however bright, does not stand the attrition of constant close contact. I agree with the old lady who said that three days was just the right length of a visit.

  It is otherwise with family. You choose your friends but your family is the gift of God and your own work. For one reason or another my relations with my brothers slackened as we passed into manhood, separated from each other by distance and a diversity of interest. Of Lady Scott and of my mother I have already written in this memoir; and there is nothing I can now add, beyond repeating my sense of my own good fortune in being born of one and finding the other. I have been equally fortunate as a father.

  My elder son and heir Walter is not a clever lad, but he is a good one, which is more important. He has now laid aside youthful follies, and is making a brave career for himself in his regiment of Hussars. The tranquillity of his company has always delighted and soothed me, and if in his early days as a lieutenant in Dublin I occasionally had to speak to him harshly, it was only my duty to ensure that he did his. He is a notable sportsman, and will, I am certain, make a good and benevolent laird of Abbotsford when I am dead. He has made a happy marriage to a sweet girl possessed of a good fortune, the niece of my friend Adam Fergusson’s wife. It is true that the girl’s mother is a sour Presbyterian blister, and a snob, though her husband made his fortune by pickling herrings in Dundee; I was much amused when one reported to me that she had declared herself not altogether satisfied with the match, and had only let it go forward because the young couple were so attached to each other. Otherwise, says she, her dear Jane might hae looked higher: ‘It is only a baronetcy, ye ken, and quite a late creation.’ Miss Austen or Miss Edgeworth, I fancy, might have made much of Walter’s mama-in-law.

  My daughters are good girls. Sophia, my eldest child, has a nature of uncommon sweetness, and she has given me grandchildren who are my delight as I feel age grip me. Her tenderness has made her into a most accomplished coddler of the bairns; well, better that than harshness. More children suffer from a deficiency of love than from an excess; aye, and suffer more harm too from coldness than from warmth.

  Anne has a satirical touch which I have tried – in vain – to check. I call her Beatrice sometimes after Shakespeare’s heroine of the ready wit. She is perhaps of a somewhat nervous disposition, and inclined to be strict with me. But she has shown fortitude in the calamities that have fallen upon us, though she was surprised, even indignant, one day to come upon me and Will Clerk laughing in the study a few days after the great Crash. ‘Why, papa,’ says she, ‘you would not think to hear you, that you have lost a fortune and Mr Clerk a sister . . .’ Well, for my part I should hope not: agere et pati Romanum est. Still, I fear it is a dull life for the child tied to this ragged lion who must consume the hours, that might be given to pleasant conversation, in unremitting toil.

  I fear my youngest child Charles is one of the lilies of the field rather than a toiler. Intelligent, charming, amusing, brought up in the plenitude of my fortune, he has lacked the spur that drove me on in my youth. Once he even suggested, during his residence at Brasenose College, Oxford, that he might become a parson. ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘if you really feel disposed for the chimney-corner of life, and like to have quails drop upon you ready-roasted, be a parson in the name of God! I have nothing to say against it, for there must be parsons, but it is against my principles and feelings to recommend it. I consider that taking Holy Orders is a sneaking and disreputable line unless its adoption is dictated by a strong feeling of Principle, such as you, my dear, have never evinced.’ The boy took the hint, and I have been able, by appealing to the benevolence of His Majesty, to secure him the promise of a place in the Foreign Office, where I daresay he will do very well, since I believe that his charm, intelligence, and good manners will secure him a degree of success in that department which his indolence, lack of strong convictions of any sort, and dilettantism, will do nothing to impede.

  I cannot leave the subject of my family without animadverting to my son-in-law Lockhart. I do so with a certain hesitation, for he is to have charge of my papers, and there is something disagreeable always for both parties in praising a man to his face. Perhaps it is more seemly to begin with his faults. Lockhart has a withdrawn, proud, and even secretive manner which disguises his natural goodness from the world. He is over-given to the exercise of a sarcastic wit, and like many people who are acutely sensitive where their own feelings are concerned, is often either ignorant or careless of the pain which his sharp tongue can inflict on others. Moreover, I never knew a man of such virtue, sense, and genuine kindness, who had such a capacity for making enemies for himself. Nor is he always wise in his acquaintance; I have already mentioned my distrust of his close friend Wilson. He recently introduced an extraordinary young pup to Abbotsford, a bejewelled and ringletted Jewish Dandy, by name Benjamin D’Israeli. When I heard that a Mr D’Israeli was to visit us, I was happily expecting the pup’s father, Mr Isaac D’Israeli, whose Curiosities of Literature is an erudite work that has offered me both instruction and delight. My first impression of the young Ben was that he was an intolerable coxcomb and popinjay. Moreover he came with a hare-brained scheme to make Lockhart editor of a Daily Paper which he was bent on launching. I deplored this for more than one reason, since it seemed to me impossible that association with such an enterprise could bring Lockhart either honour or profit. To do justice to the pup, I amended my first impression – something I have rarely had occasion to do, since I have usually found that when I had no great liking for a person at the beginning, it has pleased heaven to decrease it on further acquaintance. But this young man – though foppish and exaggerated in every notion – displayed signs of intelligence, if not of taste, and of a curiously sympathetic understanding. I was touched too by the manner in which, in conversation with him, my stiff Lockhart softened and revealed his true, delicate, and judicious self. So there is more perhaps to young Ben than appears at first sight; but, as Tom Purdie observed, ‘Whit a sicht thon is, Shirra’.

  Since Lockhart and Sophia removed to London, I miss them deeply, and find great delight in the summer months they pass at Chiefswood on the Abbotsford estate. He is the only member of my family circle who has ever penetrated my secret world, which I generally guard lik
e a fierce watch-dog, and from which I have been accustomed to draw. Only to Lockhart, I think, could I ever have offered the confession that I could never have brought myself to abandon literature for ten times my income.

  I had thought to calm myself to dwelling on friends and families. But the happy memories thus aroused have a melancholy tinge, and have brought on a sort of fluttering of the heart. I know it is nothing organic and is entirely nervous, but the effects are dispiriting. Is it the body brings it on the mind, or vice versa? I cannot tell; but it is a stiff price to pay for the rewards imagination brings me at other times. It is strange too that thinking on my friends in this manner now makes me conscious of my utter solitude. Our way through life runs on two parallel courses; the one social, the other solitary; and society pleases us as it rescues us for the present hour from our awareness that in the essential matters of life, we have no companion.

  I could not write of Charlotte here, for last night I dreamed that she lay in the bed beside me. I stretched out my waking hand to touch her, and encountered . . . nothing. I rose, shakily, and crossed the room and drew the curtains; but it was still ink-black without. I thought for a moment of repairing to the study, to smoke a cheroot and steady myself with a dram; but I did not do so, for I feared the consequences for the morn. To such a sad state has my way of life sunk! So I retired again, and lay wakeful and restless for what seemed an age, though I daresay it was not above half an hour. Then I slept but fitfully, my mind being disturbed by new and more horrid dreams. In one I saw my dear Will Erskine, who had a horror of sport and an almost feminine delicacy, stretched across a cartwheel, the shirt torn from his back, as if he were about to be flayed; poor Will, who has been in the grave these five years. What mean such images? Whence do they come? I might as well ask, like Macbeth, ‘canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?’ For if my mind should go – as in the night-wastes I sometimes fear will be my fate – what then of my plans for our salvation, what then of my determination to work my passage, what then of the consolations of love, friendship or philosophy? All will be swept away like stooks from a flooded field when Tweed is in spate . . .