Currie, a native of Ettrick Forest, represents the bard seated on an oak root, and in the attitude of contemplation. The figure rests on a pedestal, about ten feet in height, adorned with appropriate inscriptions and emblems.

Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance* presented the peculiarity of a straight cheek-bone; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with grey. He was rather above the middle height, and was well built; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways: in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language: never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles. He was benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land. Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds: the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the enthusiasm with which he sung compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education: he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith.

It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been accused of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, one of his best benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost efforts to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy: "He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent.

Hogg used to say that his face was "out of all rule of drawing," as an apology for artists, who so generally failed in transferring a correct representation of him to canvas. There were at least four oil-paintings of the poet: the first executed by Nicholson in 1817, for Mr Grieve; the second by Sir John Watson Gordon for Mr Blackwood; the third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. + See Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844.

See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man, the greatest man in the world."* Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements?

Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in the region of the supernatural he stands alone. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,† "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faery: the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius. His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another ballad in the "Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads and songs are sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high: many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are often disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers while a love for rural habits, and the arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.

Of the Shepherd, it has been recorded by one who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age: he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and exercises of his youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he

* "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by James Hogg," p. 118. Glasgow, 1834. 16mo. Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iv., p. 521. Mr H. S. Riddell.

was famous alike on the moor and by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable man that ever wore the maud of a shepherd."*

Hogg left a widow and five young children. For their benefit the public raised a considerable sum by subscription, and the Duke of Buccleuch bestowed on Mrs Hogg an annuity of forty pounds. In November 1853, the editor of this work, ascertaining that Mrs Hogg did not enjoy any pension from the State, brought her claims under the notice of the Premier, Lord Aberdeen. A memorial to his lordship was cordially subscribed by upwards of forty eminent persons, including the late Earl of Eglinton, the present Lord Justice-General, Lord Neaves, Sir Archibald Alison, Bart., Sir Adam Ferguson, the Right Hon. Sir John M'Neill, Sir John Watson Gordon, Sir George Harvey, Sir Noel Paton, and Alfred Tennyson, the Poet-Laureate. Presented to the Premier by the present Earl of Dalhousie, the memorial was favourably entertained, and Mrs Hogg received a civil-list pension of £50. Lord Palmerston subsequently bestowed a pension of £40 on the poet's eldest daughter. Mrs Hogg still survives: she resides at Linlithgow.

Shortly after the Shepherd's death, a uniform edition of his more esteemed works was issued by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven duodecimo volumes; and more recently, the same enterprising publishers have reproduced his works in two elegant octavo volumes, accompanied with a Memoir of the Poet's Life and Writings, from the pen of the Rev. Thomas Thomson.

* Mr J. G. Lockhart.

DONALD MACDONALD.
AIR-" Woo'd, and married, and a'."

My name it is Donald Macdonald,
I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;
I ha'e follow'd our banner, and will do,
Wherever my master* has land.
When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
Nae danger can fear me ava';
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa':

Brogues an' brochin an' a';
Brochin an' brogues an' a';
An' is nae her very weel aff,
Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?
What though we befriendit young Charlie ?—
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad! he cam' to us but barely,

An' reckon'd our mountains his hame. "Twas true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day;

Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.

Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';

Now for George we'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'!

An' O, I wad eagerly press him

The keys o' the East to retain ;
For should he gi'e up the possession,
We'll soon ha'e to force them again;
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishing blow,
He aye may depend on Macdonald,
Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:

Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
I laugh when I think how we'd gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny
We'd rattle him off frae our shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairny,

An' sing him-"Lochaber no more!"
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

*This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the confidence to alter it.

Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin: Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren
Seize, then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,