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a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, 1835. He was buried in the churchyard of Ettrick, near to which he was born; a plain stone, with name and dates and harp, shows his grave. He left a widow with one son and four daughters, the children all young, and very little for their subsistence. What private beneficence may have done for the poor family, who by their husband and father had such strong claims on the national gratitude, I know not; but eighteen years elapsed before a royal pension was granted to Mrs. Hogg-giving her and her young ones ample time to perish of starvation! In 1860 a monument was erected to him midway between the loch of the Lowas and St. Mary's Loch. "There, upon a square pedestal, about ten feet in height, and adorned with characteristic emblems and inscriptions, sits the figure of the poet upon an oak-root, his head slightly depressed towards St. Mary's Loch, which he loved so well, and on the banks of which he was so often visited with his best inspiration, while his favourite dog Hector is couched lovingly at his feet." Even Lockhart, embittered beyond his usual bitterness, terms him "perhaps the most remarkable man that ever wore the maud of a shepherd;" and says of him when Scott first met him in 1801: As yet his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any of the dangerous flatteries of the world; his heart was pure-his enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child; and well as Scott knew that reflection, sagacity, wit, and wisdom were scattered abundantly among the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with
a quaintness of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded him more entertainment, as I have heard him say, than the best comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." The national monument came somewhat earlier than Christopher North, in 1824, predicted: "My beloved shepherd, some halfcentury hence your effigy will be seen on some bonny green knowe in the forest, with its honest face looking across St. Mary's Loch, and up towards the Grey Mare's Tail, while by moonlight all your own fairies will weave a dance round its pedestal."
In the "Memoir of Robert Chambers," already cited, an article is reprinted from Chambers's Journal (started in 1832), entitled "The Candlemaker Row Festival," written by him soon after the death of the Shepherd, and giving some pleasant particulars concerning him when about sixty years old. I select and condense from this the following: Hogg in his latter days visited Edinburgh for a week or two once or twice a year; nominally staying at Watson's Selkirk and Peebles Inn, in Candlemaker Row, really dining, supping, and breakfasting with his many friends. These were of all stations, from Scott and the Blackwood men to humble shopkeepers, poor clerks, and poorer poets; and amongst all the Shepherd was the same plain, good-humoured, unsophisticated man as he had been thirty years when tending his flocks among his native hills. (This agrees not with Lockhart's implication; and I would here rather take the word of the printer than of his offended high mightiness of the Quarterly.) Feeling uneasy that his residence at Watson's was thus reduced to a mere affair of lodging, he made up for it by gathering on
the last night of his stay a very multitude to sup with him, of all ranks and ages and coats, of course for the good of the house at the expense of himself. In the forenoon, making his farewell calls, he would mention incidentally that two or three were to meet him at night, at nine, and that the friend to whom he was speaking, with any of his friends, would be welcome. All the warning Watson got was a hint from Hogg as he went out that twae-three lads had been speaking of supping there that night. Watson knew of old what twae-three meant, and laid out his largest room with a double range of tables, enough for sixty or seventy guests. Hogg stood in the corner of one of the largest bedrooms to receive his company; each friend as he brought in his train trying to introduce each separately, parried by Hogg with a "Ou ay, we'll be a' weel acquent by-and-by." Having filled chairs, bed, and standing space, another and yet another bedroom had to be thrown open for the reception. About ten, when nearly the whole house seemed "panged," supper was announced, and a grand rush ensued. The local officials took the places of honour; the Commissioner of Police for the ward-a very great man-in the chair, the Bailie and the Moderator of the Society of High Constables (what swelling titles the bodies have!) croupiers. The rest seat themselves as they can, and many are left seatless till a new table is rigged up along the side of the room. A mixed company! Meal-dealers from the Grassmarket, genteel young men from the Parliament House, printers from the Cowgate, booksellers from the New Town; advocates, grocers, bakers, shop-lads from the Luckenbooths; a young probationer, doubting whether he
ought to be there, and dreading a late sitting; young swells with eyeglasses, and among them a rough type of a horse-dealer, shouting out full-bodied jokes to a crony about thirteen men off on the same side; Selkirkshire store-farmers, Mr. Watson himself, and nearly all the people staying in his house at the time. Supper over, the chairman gave, with all the honours, the approved toasts, King, Royal Family, Army, Navy; then the toast of the evening, with a genuine bumper, and such eloquent eulogy as this: "Mr. Hogg is an old acquaintance of mine [let us hope only at such merry meetings], and I have read his works. He has had the merit of raising himself from a humble station to a high place amongst the literary men of his country. When I look around me, gentlemen, at the respectable company here assembled --when I see so many met to do honour [at his expense] to one who was once but a shepherd on a lonely hill-I cannot but feel, gentlemen, that much has been done by Mr. Hogg, and that it is something fine to be a poet. (Great applause.)" The toast drunk enthusiastically, the Shepherd made his usual acknowledgment: "Gentlemen, I was ever proud to be called a poet, but I never was so proud as I am this nicht,” &c. There is now for two hours no more of Hogg; the municipal bodies have the ball among them, and no one else can get a kick at it. The Chairman gives the Magistrates of Edinburgh; the Bailie answers for them, and gives the Commissioners of Police; the Chairman answers for them, and gives some other officials; every public body in the city, from the University to the Potterow Friendly Society, is toasted and responded for by one and another. Then come
individuals: a croupier proposes the Chairman, the Chairman proposes the croupiers; the other croupier proposes the ex-resident commissioner of police for the next ward. Amidst the storm of civic toasts a little thickish man, with a faded velvet waistcoat and strong-ale nose, rises solemnly and reminds the company of a remarkable omission: "Some, perhaps, are not aware of an incident of a very interesting nature which has taken place in the family of one of our worthy croupiers this morning [him of the swelling title, Moderator of the Society of High Constables]. It has not yet been announced in the papers: I need only say, 'Mrs. Gray, of a daughter.' (Cheering from all parts of the house.) On such an occasion, gentlemen, you will not think me unreasonable if I ask you to get up, and drink, with all the honours, a bumper to Mrs. Gray and her sweet and interesting charge." (Drunk with wild joy by all present.)
Hitherto the literary and professional friends of Hogg have been overwhelmed and stuffed by the roaring, ramping deluge of shopkeeping Bumbledom. About two, after the second reckoning has been called and paid by general contribution, Heaven be praised! the Chairman retires, and a young advocate takes his place; then the croupiers and other citizenly men glide off; the mirth increases, the thinned company gathers in a serried cluster of intense fun and goodfellowism around the chair. Hogg now for the first time shines out in all his lustre; tells stories, sings, and makes all life and glee. "Laird o' Lamington," the "Women Folk," and "Paddy O'Rafferty," he gives with irresistible force and fire. About this time,