-'*■, -^"W^ , , 
 
 1. I •>»«-
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN
 
 i'' 
 
 I '/I 
 
 ^
 
 ANGLING SONGS
 
 O^VlSirvdA c^-? JCvi/icl QyxA^
 
 ANGLING SONGS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS TOD STODDART 
 
 Mltb a /llbcmoir 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA M. STODDART 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXXXIX 
 
 All Rights restntLi
 
 IS ^3
 
 To 
 
 Sir George Douglas, Bart., of Springwood Park, 
 Kelso; and to My Father's Old Friends, James Tait, 
 Esq., of Langrigg ; James Elliot, Esq., Galalawj 
 and Robert Frain, Esq., as -well as to those of 
 his Brother Anglers of Tweed and Teviot who sur- 
 vive hi/n, and hold him in kindly remembrance, 
 
 THIS MEMOIR IS DEDICATED BV 
 
 Anna J/. Stood art.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Mkmoir 
 
 Elegy 
 
 ANGLING SONGS— 
 
 THE angler's vindication 
 
 TROLLING SONG . 
 
 THE ANGLKR's complaint 
 
 TO THE NAIRN . 
 
 SONG .... 
 
 THE HOLY-WELL POOL 
 
 MUSINGS 
 
 SONNET— CONAN FALLS 
 
 THE TAKING OF THE SALMON 
 
 SKEK YE WHAR THE BURNIE TRAVELS 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CUCKOO 
 
 O WAKEN, WINDS, WAKEN ! 
 
 SONNET — THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD 
 
 THE RIVER . 
 
 TROLLING SONG . 
 
 THE SEA-TROUT GKEV 
 
 AN angler's RAMBLES 
 
 DRINKING SONG . 
 
 I 
 
 194 
 
 201 
 204 
 206 
 20S 
 210 
 212 
 
 217 
 21S 
 222 
 224 
 226 
 22S 
 229 
 
 233 
 235 
 23S
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Angling Songs — 
 
 the yellow fins o' yarrow 
 a picture .... 
 a peck o' troubles . 
 
 THE angler's benediction 
 
 SONNET — THE RIVER EDEN 
 
 WHEN THE STREAMS RISE . 
 
 BRING THE ROD, THE LINE, THE REEL! 
 
 THE FLEE .... 
 
 THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE 
 
 THE laird's CAST 
 
 SONNET .... 
 
 THE GENTLE CRAFT . 
 
 YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS 
 
 THE angler's JOYS 
 
 THE BONNIE TWEED . 
 
 THE BREEZE IS ON 
 
 THE angler's invitation. 
 
 I SIT BY THE RIVER . 
 
 THE angler's choice 
 
 TO THE TWEED . 
 
 THE PIKE .... 
 
 SONNET .... 
 
 THE HAPPY ANGLER . 
 
 SONNET .... 
 
 THE STREAMS OF OLD SCOTLANI 
 
 MY AIN WEE FISHER BOY . 
 
 GOOD CHEER ! BROTHER ANGLE! 
 
 A LOCH SCENE 
 
 OWER AT THE CAULD-FOOT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 240 
 242 
 
 243 
 
 246 
 
 248 
 
 249 
 
 252 
 254 
 
 255 
 257 
 
 260 
 261 
 
 263 
 265 
 268 
 
 271 
 
 274 
 
 27s 
 277 
 280 
 284 
 
 287 
 288 
 
 290 
 291 
 
 293 
 294 
 
 296 
 
 300
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 Angling Songs — 
 
 THE angler's grave . 
 
 drinking song . 
 the fairy angler . 
 
 fairy's SONG 
 
 ANGLING ON A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 WE PART NOT THUS . 
 
 THE BURNING OF THE WATER 
 
 THE LYNNS OF GLENDEVON 
 
 SONNET — THE FINDHORN . 
 
 FISHER WATTY . 
 
 I'AfiE 
 306 
 
 310 
 311 
 
 3'4 
 316 
 
 319 
 321 
 
 322
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 My father called one day on Henry Glassford 
 Bell, and the genial Sheriff hailed him with the 
 very natural question, " Well, Tom, and what 
 are you doing now ? " With a moment's re- 
 sentment, my father brought his friend to his 
 bearings. "Doing? Man, I'm an angler." 
 
 That answer sounded the keynote of his life, 
 and suggested at once its ambitions and their 
 realisation. His wishes, his tastes, his skill, his 
 character all helped to make him what he was — 
 an angler ; and the bias that found support in 
 these presided over his lot, and led him to choose 
 for its conditions just those which were most in 
 its favour. His happiness was to be near the 
 two beloved streams of Tweed and Teviot ; his
 
 2 MEMOIR. 
 
 glory was to know them in every mood, to be 
 familiar with their every current and eddy and 
 tributary, their sleepy willow-shaded pools and 
 glancing silvery reaches, their still waters and 
 noisy caulds, their swift red spates and stagnant 
 shallows, the birds that haunted their banks, 
 the very sedges and forget-me-nots that fringed 
 their margins. However far afield he went — 
 and at one time and another he fished almost 
 every river, loch, and burn in Scotland — he 
 came back to his Tweedside home with bound- 
 less content. The Tweed was the best of rivers 
 to his thinking, and next best was the Teviot, 
 and he did not care to stay long away from 
 them. Only one other river-valley vied in his 
 regard with theirs — the Vale of Yarrow and its 
 lochs. 
 
 Besides these, other streams had their qualities, 
 could be fished for passing pleasure, could be 
 critically discussed and catalogued in his diary, 
 could furnish adventures, and even give good 
 sport ; but their waters had no music in their
 
 MEMOIR. 3 
 
 murmur, no thrill of countless recollections in 
 their rush. 
 
 As his best hours were passed in their neigh- 
 bourhood, he seldom left it ; so that his life is 
 that of a man who stayed chiefly at home, and 
 found all needful variety in the gentle and un- 
 exciting changes which brighten home and coun- 
 try life. 
 
 Along with his devotion to angling, there is 
 most worthy of note his gift of unwearied friend- 
 ship. The men who won his regard in his youth 
 retained it while they lived ; and when they died, 
 they took away with them the sources of much 
 of his constant happiness, leaving behind them 
 memories on which he touched from time to time 
 with tender reverence. He had the great endow- 
 ment of a heart to warm and freshen every stage 
 of his life ; and if at times it invited and accen- 
 tuated its griefs and losses, still it did not fail him 
 even in these, but helped him to store up their 
 wreckage, and to mantle it with associations. 
 
 The poems which follow this short Memoir
 
 4 MEMOIR. 
 
 reveal him in both these characters. The cir- 
 cumstances which I have now to relate only 
 confirm the self-revelation of his childlike, single- 
 minded, impulsive, loyal and gifted nature. 
 
 Early in this century a number of documents 
 relating to the Stoddart family were left in the 
 charge of an eccentric old lady, a Miss Helen 
 Stoddart, who lived in Leith. It occurred to her 
 that she was bewitched, and that the evil influ- 
 ence came from the seals and decorated initials 
 of the family papers. She cut some of these off 
 and burned them ; but finding herself no better, 
 and still suspecting the papers, she tossed a num- 
 ber of them wholesale into the fire. The oldest 
 looked most dangerous, and were therefore first 
 sacrificed, and many of those she spared were 
 torn and defaced. The few remaining papers 
 give data of the family during the seventeenth 
 and eighteenth centuries. Beyond the year l6oo 
 we have to trust to oral traditions and to the in- 
 formation of a well-known Border antiquarian, the 
 late Mr. Scott of Raeburn. These tell us that the
 
 MEMOIR. 5 
 
 old name was Stoutheart ; tliat in the fourteenth 
 and fifteenth centuries the Stouthearts were well 
 known in both Liddesdale and Ettrick ; that a 
 Stoutheart was laird of Comiston in Liddesdale, 
 and another was laird of Kershope in Northum- 
 berland ; while the churchyard which overhangs 
 St. Mary's Loch bore evidence half a century 
 ago to the existence of Stouthearts in Ettrick in 
 1462. The lettering on this ancient tombstone 
 is no longer legible. They were Border people, 
 excitable and litigious, but bearing a high char- 
 acter for honesty in rough and treacherous 
 times, when self-interest was the rule of con- 
 duct, and lawless aggression its manifestation. 
 Mr. Scott's researches in Border history led him 
 to the conclusion that at a time when lands 
 changed their lords for many a reason, — con- 
 fiscation, violence, treachery, favouritism, — the 
 Stouthearts held theirs by the honest right of 
 purchase, a right not so picturesque, perhaps, 
 but certainly more creditable. There is docu- 
 mentary evidence that in 1508 the lands of
 
 O MEMOIR. 
 
 Baillielees and Clowburn, in the Forest of 
 Ettrick, belonged to a branch of the family, 
 as they were sold by the owners to Gilbert 
 Elliot of Stobbs in that year. In 1605, two 
 brothers, John and William Stoddart, descend- 
 ants of the laird of Baillielees, bought the 
 property of Williamhope in Peeblesshire. This 
 land lies on the slope of the watershed between 
 Tweed and Yarrow, and inclines chiefly toward 
 the former. Glenkinnon is at its foot, the 
 streamlet making for the Tweed. The glen 
 gives it the Border term of "hope ; " and it is just 
 possible, as Mr. Craig Brown suggests, that to 
 the death of William, Earl of Douglas, in 1303, 
 close to the spot, it owes the rest of its name. 
 Williamhope belonged to Thomas Ker of Mer- 
 sington, by a grant from Queen Mary, and the 
 Stoddarts bought the land from the Kers. The 
 immediate descendants of the first Stoddarts of 
 Williamhope were strong Covenanters. They 
 added by their own personal sufferings in the 
 cause, and by the protection they gave to per-
 
 MEMOIR. 7 
 
 secuted Covenanters, to the volume of heroic 
 endurance and effort made by the Borderers at 
 tliat time. One laird of Williamhope was seized 
 after the Battle of Drumclog, held captive first 
 by one person, and then by another, his captors 
 making futile efforts to force him to forswear 
 the cause, until, wearying of his obstinacy, they 
 took his money instead of his oath, and he was 
 set at liberty on payment of five hundred merks. 
 His brother was hunted amongst the hills, and 
 died of exposure and starvation. There used 
 to be a large artificial cave in the steep bank of 
 Glenkinnon Burn, a short distance from the 
 house, lined with solid masonry and sixteen feet 
 square, its entrance small and sheltered by the 
 overhanging bank. Here many a fugitive was 
 secured from the soldiery, and easily supplied 
 with food from the house. The laird was sus- 
 pected, and he and his brothers were fined in 
 1679 for harbouring Covenanters. This laird 
 had other claims to notice besides his stubborn 
 Presbyterianism. His name was John Stoddart,
 
 8 MEMOIR. 
 
 and, as well as his own property of Williamhope, 
 he and his brothers farmed Tinnis and Lewins- 
 hope on the Philiphaugh estate. He seems to 
 have lived as much at these farms as at William- 
 hope, and this connection between the Murrays 
 and the Stoddarts led to a neighbourly friend- 
 ship which lasted for some generations. 
 
 John Stoddart was a man of marked individu- 
 ality, both of character and person. A tall man, 
 of immense strength, he excelled all the Selkirk- 
 shire men of his day in athletic feats, and was 
 in high repute for running, wrestling, and 
 carrying weights. His arms were of unusual 
 length and very strong, so that he could lift a 
 stone which tasked five ordinary men at once. 
 This feat won him the nicknames of the " Beetle 
 of Yarrow " and " Long-arms ; " and fifty years 
 ago the memory of his strength still lingered in 
 Yarrow, and the stone in question lay in the 
 manse-garden. He had received a legal educa- 
 tion, and was a man of much natural ability, so 
 that Murray of Philiphaugh, who was hereditary
 
 MEMOIR. 9 
 
 Sheriffof Selkirkshire, secured for him the appoint- 
 ment of ShcrifT-Deputc, and in 1690 he was made 
 Commissioner of Supply to the Scottish Parliament 
 for the town of Lanark, He married early in life, 
 but his wife died, leaving one daughter. For 
 many years he remained a widower, living chiefly 
 at Tinnis with his daughter. Here in 1695 he 
 had a serious illness, and his next of kin arrived 
 in full expectation of his immediate death. His 
 daughter was with him, and in a room close to 
 the sick-room the expectant heirs were assembled. 
 Absorbed in the exciting prospect of inheritance, 
 they began to quarrel over the division of his 
 property, and their voices, raised in unseemly 
 wrath, reached the Sheriff's ears. He got up, 
 and, gaunt and white as he was, clad in his night- 
 shirt, he opened the door of the room in which 
 they were disputing, and lifting his long and 
 bony arm, bade them begone, for they were no 
 heirs of his. They fled from the house, followed 
 by the parting threat that he would marry that 
 very year and thwart their greed. And so he
 
 lO MEMOIR. 
 
 did, by sheer force of will shaking off a malady 
 that seemed mortal, and marrying the widow of 
 Mr. Dalgleish of Fastheugh. This lady's maiden 
 name was Martha Muir, and she was the daughter 
 of Lieutenant-Colonel John Muir of Anniston in 
 Clydesdale, descended from Rowallan, the father 
 of Elizabeth More, who was Robert the Second's 
 wife. She had two sons when she married the 
 Sheriff, and they lived at Tinnis afterwards, and 
 were great favourites with their stepfather. But 
 he prepared a complete outfit for his bride, and 
 would not allow her to wear anything which had 
 the least association with her former husband, all 
 such belongings being packed up and returned 
 to Fastheugh. His threat to his kinsmen proved 
 valid, for he lived long enough to become the 
 father of two sons, John and Thomas, and died in 
 June 1699, three years after his second marriage. 
 His widow married a third time, three years after 
 his death, a son of Mr. Curror of Hartwoodburn, 
 and Dalgleishes, Stoddarts, and Currors lived in 
 amity all together.
 
 MEMOIR. II 
 
 The Sheriffs elder son, John, was well educated, 
 and joined Lord Jedburgh's regiment in 17 15, his 
 commission of captain being signed by the Duke 
 of Buccleugh, In 17 18, when he came of age, 
 he bought the property of Hartwoodburn from 
 the Currors, and made the house on it his chief 
 residence. In 1720 he married Helen Veitch, 
 daughter of Mr. Veitch of the Glen, the well- 
 known Covenanter. They had a large family, 
 but most of the children died young, and the un- 
 healthy situation of Hartwoodburn was blamed 
 for this mortality. John Stoddart tired of the 
 place, and sold it in 1757 to Mr. Pringle. After 
 this he lived at Williamhope and Canobic, and 
 died at the latter place in 1770, he and his wife 
 being both buried in Yarrow churchyard, in the 
 same grave as his father, the Sheriff-Depute. His 
 fifth son, Thomas, succeeded to Williamhope, the 
 others having died in childhood. Thomas Stoddart 
 was at the time of his father's death a middle-aged 
 man, married, and resident in Leith, where he 
 had entered into partnership with his father-in-
 
 12 MEMOIR. 
 
 law, Mr. Tod, a Baltic timber-merchant. He sold 
 Williamhope as soon as he came into possession 
 to Mr. Gilbert Innes of Stow, and the " Summer 
 Hill " above Glenkinnon Burn is now the property 
 of Lady Reay. Mr. Thomas Stoddart made his 
 home in Leith, and brought up there a family of 
 seven sons and five daughters. Although he had 
 severed his connection with Yarrow and William- 
 hope, his youth at Hartwoodburn had left its 
 mark in a strong attachment to his native hills 
 and glens. He had learned the joys of angling 
 in his boyhood, and knew the secrets of every 
 stream in Yarrow and Ettrick, and year after 
 year, while he was able, he returned to them to 
 fish. The old friendship between Murrays and 
 Stoddarts lasted during his hfetime, and his genial 
 nature and pleasant looks made him a favourite 
 at the Hangingshaw, where he often stayed, and 
 where he was a guest when the house was de- 
 stroyed by fire, following which disaster that part 
 of Philiphaugh passed into the hands of Mr. 
 Johnstone of Alva. Indeed, he was better fitted
 
 MEMOIR. 13 
 
 by character and tastes for the life of a country 
 gentleman than for that of a man of business, 
 a certain ingenuousness and simplicity of nature 
 laying him open to the sharp practice which even 
 then invaded the province of commerce, and by 
 which he was worsted in the struggle for wealth. 
 He lived to a great age, dying in 18 16 in his 
 eighty-second year, provided for during the last 
 years of his life by his sons. Of these, two 
 held commissions in the army, and three entered 
 the navy. It is with one of these last that my 
 story has to do. He was the third son, Pringle 
 Stoddart, and was born on 23rd May 1768. 
 As a boy, he went to Catterick in Yorkshire to 
 school, and at the age of fourteen was sent to 
 Madras in an East-Indiaman commanded by Cap- 
 tain Tod. The vessel in which he sailed was 
 detained at the Mother Bank, and while there 
 he saw the sinking of the Royal George with 
 eight hundred persons on board, all drowned. 
 The voyage to Madras took seven months, and 
 the East-Indiamcn sailed as far as Gibraltar
 
 14 MEMOIR. 
 
 with the grand fleet under the command of Lord 
 Howe, bound for the relief of that place. When 
 Captain Tod reached Madras, he strongly recom- 
 mended his young midshipman to enter the 
 Royal Navy, in which men and officers were 
 much needed at the time. Pringle Stoddart and 
 a messmate followed his advice and entered the 
 Exeter as midshipmen. This vessel was one of 
 the fleet under Sir Edward Hughes lying in the 
 roads at Madras. The boy soon began his long 
 experience of active service, for, in the month in 
 which he joined, the fleet sailed to meet the 
 French ships under De Suffrein, and his young 
 comrade was shot in the encounter which followed 
 off Cuddalore. His whole career in the navy 
 was one of unremitting activity. The times were 
 stirring ones for our fleet, and it fell to his share 
 to take part in no fewer than thirteen naval 
 engagements. Our chief foes were the French ; 
 and between the years 1793 and 1807 he was 
 present, under different commanders, at encounters 
 with their fleets in many ditferent parts of the
 
 MEMOIR. 15 
 
 world. Perhaps the most important of his ser- 
 vices were those rendered in Egypt in 1801, 
 while in the Kent. He was mentioned with 
 high praise by both Sir Ralph Abercromby and 
 Sir Sidney Smith. He took part also in the 
 siege of Copenhagen, and Admiral Gambler com- 
 plimented him on the bravery and energy with 
 which he fought in a prolonged contest with 
 a Danish flotilla. How much he did, however, 
 was never known, as these facts are gleaned from 
 the very scanty record he kept of his services, 
 and the stern silence he maintained on all matters 
 relating to them was never broken even to his 
 sons, who would gladly have listened to some 
 account of his adventures. This silence told 
 against his interests. He belonged to a bygone 
 generation, which counted services and sufferings 
 for the country as duties, not as merits to be 
 used, with loud reiteration, as purchase-price for 
 promotion and honours. And so this silent hero, 
 with many others of his time, was not greatly 
 recompensed ; and when he died, at the age of
 
 1 6 MEMOIR. 
 
 eighty, held only the brevet rank of Rear- 
 Admiral, Some incidents of his career filtered 
 out after his death. One of the most interesting 
 of these was, that while second in command of a 
 ship at the Texel, where the fleet lay at anchor, 
 ready to transport our troops so soon as the 
 weather was favourable to the dangerous passage, 
 he tired of the inaction, during which the men 
 were sickening of dysentery, and locking his 
 tipsy commander into his cabin, lightened his 
 ship for the passage, set sail for England, dis- 
 embarked his troops, and returned to his station 
 at the Texel ready for a new cargo. This smart 
 action came under the head of insubordination, 
 so their Lordships administered reproof with one 
 hand and promotion with the other. 
 
 In 1807 Captain Pringle Stoddart married 
 Miss Frances Sprot, a daughter of Mr. James 
 Sprot of Edinburgh. The acquaintance was 
 made in London, where Miss Sprot kept house 
 in Nightingale Lane, Clapham, for her brother 
 John, who realised a large fortune in business.
 
 MEMOIR, 17 
 
 The newly-married couple made their home in 
 Edinburgh, and in Argyle Square, on the 14th 
 of February 1810, my father was born. Their 
 first child was a daughter, called Frances after 
 her mother, but my father was their eldest son ; 
 and the names Thomas Tod, which were given 
 him, combined a compliment to both his grand- 
 parents, who were living in Leith. The house 
 in Argyle Square had been Principal Robertson's, 
 and in it he had written his Histories of Charles 
 V. and of America. The New Town of Edin- 
 burgh was of limited extent in those days, and 
 its West End had hardly made a beginning. As 
 that extended, the squares and streets of the Old 
 Town, in spite of all their associations with the 
 historic and social past of Edinburgh, fell into 
 disrepute, and there was much migration of the 
 respectable across the valley into the handsome 
 stone houses ranged in imposing lines on the 
 north side. The old houses fell lower in the 
 scale of occupants, and as new needs developed, 
 many of them were swept away. Argyle Square
 
 1 8 MEMOIR. 
 
 was a sacrifice of this sort, and very suitably 
 gave place, when its time came, to the buildings 
 of the Industrial Museum. Captain Stoddart's 
 first migration was to Abercromb}' Place, where 
 several of his succeeding children were born ; 
 but feeling the want of out-of-door space for the 
 growing family, he removed after a few years to 
 Kirkbraehead, a house at that time considered to 
 be in the country, and standing on what is now 
 Rutland Square. Here there was a large and 
 delightful garden, containing many attractions, 
 not the least of which was a pond in which perch 
 might be caught. Captain Stoddart was fond of 
 gardening, and shared the prevailing taste for 
 Dutch bulbs. A little girl who came to play in 
 the garden knocked the head off a favourite tulip, 
 and for this Tom got the blame and took a vica- 
 rious thrashing without a word. Thrashings 
 were a familiar feature in his upbringing and 
 that of his brothers. Their father, a stern dis- 
 ciplinarian on board ship, was no less so at home. 
 His own career had been one of duty and endur-
 
 MEMOIR. 19 
 
 ance, and he did his best to bring the experience 
 of his sons up to the same level. The parental 
 severity was sometimes overstrained, and Tom, 
 with a nature all unlike his father's, got from very 
 early years more than his due share of thrash- 
 ings. These would scarcely predispose him to 
 take just the same view of duty as did his father, 
 and the divergence of opinion took expression 
 early. 
 
 The nursery circle increased and was com- 
 pleted during the years spent at Kirkbraehead, 
 four sons and three daughters making up its 
 sum ; and when the land covered by their pleasant 
 home was wanted for the houses of Rutland 
 Square, the family removed first to Albany Street, 
 and then finally, in 1826, to No. 10 Bellevue 
 Crescent. This remained the centre for many 
 subsequent years, and the home-house to which 
 married sons and daughters, and the wanderers 
 which events made of two sons of the house, 
 returned as guests in the years to come. 
 
 My father must have been about nine years
 
 20 MEMOIR. 
 
 old when the family removed from Kirkbraehead 
 to Albany Street, and his education had begun. 
 His first teachers, men of the old school, who 
 believed in the tawse, grounded him well in Latin 
 and English subjects ; but they held short sway, 
 as, when he reached the age of ten, he and one 
 of his brothers were sent to a Moravian school 
 at Fairfield in Lancashire. His recollections of 
 this school were far from pleasant, and he made 
 scant progress during his stay. No doubt the 
 ushers on their part found him somewhat in- 
 tractable ; for while too young to be greatly con- 
 cerned at the classic sufferings of Dido and the 
 invectives of Cicero, his imagination had roused 
 to themes of its own choice, and its ambitious 
 stirrings absorbed all the attention which should 
 have gone to drudgery at the Latin Grammar. 
 At the age of ten, his whole desire was to 
 produce an immortal tragedy. To inspire his 
 mind with plot and material, he saved his pocket- 
 money to buy a kind of literature known then 
 and now as " penny dreadfuls ! " the taste for
 
 MEMOIR, 21 
 
 which revives from time to time, and seems to 
 be deeply rooted in human nature. These sheets 
 were illustrated with the ghastly details of many 
 a murder, shipwreck, feat of brigandage, high- 
 way robbery, and suicide, and formed just such 
 a library of horrors as would excite the impres- 
 sionable fancy of the budding poet. He does 
 not seem to have believed the tales he read, and 
 over which he gloated ; nor was he frightened by 
 them, as many a boy of his age would have been. 
 He reckoned them, with practical philosophy, as 
 so much material, and proceeded to construct his 
 tragedies on the basis of plots which they sug- 
 gested. Every other dramatic form he despised. 
 Blood and battle were the powers with which 
 he worked, and with no meaner tools. At these 
 tragedies he laboured in lesson-time and out of 
 it, much to his disadvantage with the authorities, 
 and doubtless not greatly to his advantage other- 
 wise. Not one of them remains to contrast with 
 the work of his later life. The mood lasted in 
 milder form during a decade of years, and, as
 
 2 2 MEMOIR. 
 
 we shall see, exhausted itself in the " Death- 
 wake " and " Abel Massinger." 
 
 The little dramatist emerged from his labours 
 at the call of patriotism, however, and fought 
 a fierce battle with a Manchester boy who had 
 dared to sneer at Scotland and its natives ; but 
 unhappily he was beaten, and had besides to 
 suffer the indignity of a caning from the German 
 usher for fighting. From Fairfield he soon went 
 home, and was then sent to the Edinburgh High 
 School, where some years of systematic training 
 fitted him for the University of Edinburgh, on 
 whose student-roll he was entered in 1825, at 
 the age of fifteen. 
 
 But the years between Fairfield and the Uni- 
 versity brought other gain besides that of study. 
 Captain Stoddart had gathered from his father 
 both zeal for angling and its art, although the 
 latter was confined in those days to bait-fish- 
 ing. In the preceding century the Water of Leith 
 had been a prime trouting-stream, to which salmon 
 were still attracted ; and it is difficult for those
 
 MEMOIR. 23 
 
 who now see its handful of perturbed water at 
 the mercy of a group of mills to realise that in 
 the past it was deemed worthy of royal protec- 
 tion, and was preserved as a salmon-river by 
 Act of Parliament. In 1780, my grandfather, 
 then a boy twelve years old, had assisted in 
 catching a salmon out of it. His love of fish- 
 ing lasted all his life, and his four sons soon be- 
 came his eager followers. They did his teaching 
 credit, for all were enthusiastic and skilful anglers, 
 although onl}^ in my father's case did the passion 
 become the master of his destiny. The first 
 lesson he got was in some holiday-time before 
 he went to Fairfield, and when the family was 
 in summer-bathing quarters in Elie. Near that 
 town a tiny streamlet falls into the Firth of Forth, 
 known as the Cockle Mill Burn, and out of it 
 he pulled triumphantly his first trout, about half 
 a pound in weight. Many successes followed, 
 trouts, eels, and flounders, and the youngster's 
 fate was fixed. Stern Tragedy might woo him 
 when away from rippling brooks and dimpling
 
 24 MEMOIR. 
 
 lochs, but with the spring and the mayfly, the 
 dagger dipped in gore paled before the supple 
 rod and the dainty midge; for the finer art of 
 fly-fishing soon attracted him, and led him to 
 seek other teachers than those of the older 
 school. The best of these was an old man of 
 the kind to whom boys are inevitably attracted, 
 in the absence of gamekeepers, and the sociable, 
 knowing, casual sportsmen that idle about country 
 places. His name was Bill Dawson, and he kept 
 a little tackle-shop in the High Street of Edin- 
 burgh, in an upper flat of one of its lofty houses. 
 Up the stairs the boys gladly toiled for their 
 lines and hooks, knowing that a valuable gossip 
 with the lame old man would be thrown into 
 the bargain. He was an excellent fly-fisher, 
 and made his own lures, tiny midges dressed 
 with a few threads of fur and feather. He 
 knew every cast in the Water of Leith, and 
 drew out of it many a dish of trout on summer 
 afternoons, always with the fly ; and he taught 
 his little customer every trick and turn of
 
 MEMOIR. 25 
 
 the rod he knew. But it was farther afield 
 that the boy caught his first prize with the fly, 
 and not in Dawson's company. A summer hoh- 
 day at Callander led him to the Teith to make 
 trial of his new knowledge, and here, near the 
 Camp, with a brown hackle, he pulled out a parr 
 as his first success in fly-fishing. Not a burn 
 nor loch near Callander was left untried, and in 
 one of the latter he caught his first pike ; a mighty 
 fish he thought it, for it weighed three pounds. 
 He had tried and proved his rudimentary know- 
 ledge, and so laid the foundation for all the 
 variations and developments of the art which he 
 afterwards practised and described so well. 
 
 The campaigns with France had brought 
 amongst us as prisoners of war many officers 
 of the French army. One of these, well known 
 in Edinburgh during the first part of this 
 century, had elected to make his home there. 
 This was M. Senebier, and amongst the many 
 claims he had to popularit}', his skill as a fisher 
 counted chief with boys. He was adventurous
 
 26 MEMOIR. 
 
 too in the use of bait, and his receipt for pott- 
 ing salmon-roe remained one of the treasured 
 spoils of my father's acquaintance with him. All 
 influences, hereditary and of circumstance, were 
 strengthening the inborn taste ; and although the 
 Tragic Muse still dallied with his fancy, interests 
 were preparing which should finally overcome 
 her attractions, and leave him undisturbed to 
 give his imagination, as well as his mind and 
 his leisure, to the art and literature of angling. 
 
 Midsummer holidays in the country, Saturday 
 holidays by the Water of Leith, these last some- 
 times yielding six and seven dozen dainty full- 
 fed trout, cherished the passion and ripened his 
 skill. There were other haunts of the trout 
 near Edinburgh with which he and his brothers 
 grew familiar — the Almond, the Gogar Burn, the 
 two Esks, and the Compensation Pond. This last 
 was a favourite resort, the walk to and from the 
 Pentland Hills adding enjoyment to the excur- 
 sion. Often the boys started early on Saturday 
 morning, and came home late at night. Very
 
 MEMOIR. 27 
 
 late hours were strictly forbidden, as next day 
 was Sunday; and it is on record that one even- 
 ing, being somewhat belated, and finding an empty 
 and driverless hearse standing at a toll-door, the 
 horses' heads turned towards Edinburgh, they 
 got inside before the tipsy driver came out, and 
 sat in solemn silence till he had driven a short 
 distance, when his ears were assailed with un- 
 earthly howls and shrieks and songs from the 
 hearse, so that in mortal terror he lashed the 
 horses into a gallop, and they rattled along at 
 a most unhol}' pace. A steep ascent near Edin- 
 burgh forced the unhappy man to slacken speed, 
 and the boys, relapsing into silence, slid out one 
 after the other, much refreshed by the rest, and 
 helped on their way by the funereal lift. Four 
 good boys arrived at home in proper time, and 
 without a hint on their ingenuous faces of how 
 they had fared thither. 
 
 The winter holidays were devoted to rhyming. 
 Between his thirteenth and his sixteenth years 
 he fashioned a store of verses, fluent and imitative
 
 28 MEMOIR. 
 
 of necessity — Campbell and Byron the masters 
 of his imagination and the models of his style. 
 He tried them in all their variations, Byron being 
 distinctly the more influential of the two. Spirits, 
 wizards, knights, royalties, nuns, pirates, and 
 " strangers " figure in these effusions, but here 
 and there is a touch of that love of Nature which 
 grew into a characteristic of his ripened powers. 
 At the age of fourteen he wore a rathe willow 
 for some flouting Phyllida, probably a pupil at the 
 boarding-school next door, and filled pages with 
 the rhyme of his love and scorn. 
 
 In 1825 my father began his attendance at 
 college classes. A career at the Scottish Bar 
 was planned for him ; for it is the fate of poetic 
 youths to be bred to the law. But indeed no pro- 
 fession would have suited a temperament which 
 shrank as his did from the details and responsi- 
 bilities of practical business, though it seemed 
 very natural at the time to suppose that a lad 
 with a turn for reading and some gift of eloquence 
 would cut a figure at the Bar. His curriculum at
 
 MEMOIR. 29 
 
 the University included at first the usual classes, 
 and the class-tickets which he preserved are 
 many of them endorsed with the Professors' ap- 
 probation, notably that bearing Professor John 
 Wilson's signature. For it was here that he first 
 came in contact with that brilliant figure which 
 dominated the generation of men of letters fol- 
 lowing Sir Walter Scott. Young as he was, my 
 father felt his fascination, sat spell-bound under 
 an eloquence which owed much of its power to 
 impressive gesture and the free grandeur of his 
 face and form ; and worked with all his heart in 
 Moral Philosophy, the great Professor's subject. 
 Here, too, he met classmates destined to become 
 friends and companions for many a year. William 
 Aytoun and John Wilson, the Professor's son, 
 were, in respect of the bearing they had on his 
 own life and development, the most significant 
 friends he made at this time. Their friendship 
 and his student zeal won him many an invitation 
 to the Professor's house, and by degrees he grew 
 into the habit of intimacy there, and was a familiar
 
 30 MEMOIR. 
 
 form in its home circle. The intimacy was a 
 source of much stimulus to him on every but the 
 practical side ; for if material advancement be the 
 main thing needful, it was perhaps to some extent 
 injurious. In those young days, with a whole 
 world of experiences before him, the unquestioned 
 security of an afQuent home at his back, the sense 
 of growing powers and the widening horizon of 
 contact with men of genius, the future seemed 
 easy and promising — a tournament where the 
 victorious knights wore the visor of genius and 
 slew with the shaft of wit. The hours spent 
 in the Professor's house grew to yield him the 
 keenest pleasure of his life, and the encourage- 
 ment and appreciation which his dreams and 
 desires excited there fostered more and more 
 the individuality which already strongly marked 
 his nature, and which other considerations failed 
 to check. Individuality was at a premium in 
 that house, and the likeness of its intimates 
 chiefly consisted in admiring and displaying each 
 other's unlikeness. Not that they spared each
 
 MEMOIR. 3r 
 
 other's weaknesses ; the free encounter of jeers and 
 gibes ran high, but always tempered by the con- 
 dition of wit ; and so the brilliant battles ended 
 ever in amity. Men, not manners, were culti- 
 vated there, and yet so cultivated that manners 
 were not wanting. The atmosphere of such a 
 house was of necessity a contrast to the well- 
 ordered, conventional home from which thrilling 
 interests were sternly excluded as scarcely reput- 
 able, and where obedience and self-repression 
 were the cardinal virtues of youth. The friends 
 of the home were men like their host, the very 
 thews and sinews of the country in her times of 
 peril, heroes to others of the boys, but to Tom 
 inexpressibly uninteresting. The friends of the 
 house where he loved to spend his leisure were 
 Aytoun, Ferrier, and Gordon, De Quincey, Hartley 
 Coleridge and the Ettrick Shepherd, " Delta " and 
 Henry Glassford Bell — to him the very salt of 
 the earth. It cannot be gainsaid that much 
 might be urged on either side — that the strain 
 was inevitable. Unfortunately, the father and
 
 32 MEMOIR. 
 
 son discussed the difference too often and too 
 obstinately, with too little sympathy on either 
 side. The boy continued to seek the converse 
 and association which answered his nature and 
 roused his capacities, diverting them more and 
 more from the restricted channels which led to 
 worldly success, and firing them with large aims 
 and impulses, glowing with promise of heroic 
 reward, but not calculated to yield a yearly 
 income. 
 
 For the rest, these days of intimacy with the 
 Wilsons heaped up for him a store of lifelong 
 recollections ; and in recalHng them, one seems 
 again to touch the " vanished hand " of that 
 brilliant generation whose influence has passed 
 away. At the Professor's table, vivacious, spark- 
 ling, original conversation was the rule ; guests 
 unable to contribute to it seldom sat there ; sons, 
 daughters, and habitues came primed with fresh 
 and witty comment and story. Eccentricity, 
 recklessness, the freest discussion were permitted ; 
 but all must be with flow of fancy, thought, and
 
 MEMOIR. 33 
 
 racy expression. Only John Wilson himself, or 
 his frequent visitor, Ue Quincey, was allowed at 
 times to dominate the talk ; and my father used to 
 say that when these rare monopolies took place, 
 the rest sat entranced, hanging on the lips of the 
 speaker. De Quincey he often met, an old-look- 
 ing man more than sixty years ago. One day 
 when he was talking to the Professor in the 
 library, De Quincey came in dressed only in a 
 nightshirt, with his arms full of books. lie took 
 no notice of them, but returned the books to the 
 shelves, collected another armful, and left the 
 room. He would lie in bed for da^'s, till he had 
 read all the new books his host possessed, and 
 then he would get up, dress, and behave much as 
 other people. The Wilsons were endlessly kind 
 and forbearing to him, supplying his wants, giving 
 him money, which as often as not he tossed to 
 the first beggar he met, keeping him in their 
 house for weeks and months in spite of every 
 provoking habit, admiring and delighting in him 
 when he joined their meals, and opened out into a
 
 34 MEMOIR. 
 
 flow of fascinating talk, made electrifying sometimes 
 by his power of subtle argument. The Professor 
 had his times of abstraction from the talk of the 
 supper-table. When his article for Blackwood 
 was due, and the printer's devil sat cooling his 
 heels in the hall, he would appear in his accustomed 
 place, but without his accustomed mien, coatless, 
 silent, ominous, with vacant eye, withdrawn in 
 spirit from the bright talk and laughter, which 
 were no whit intermitted, and after eating what he 
 wished, would rise and leave the table without a 
 word, to return an hour or ^o after, clothed and 
 in his usual mind, a free and happy man, disem- 
 burdened for the nonce. No one spoke to him 
 on those occasions, and no one minded him. 
 
 The more important friendships which grew out 
 of this intercourse were one with John Wilson, the 
 Professor's son, which lasted his lifetime, and one 
 with William Aytoun, afterwards the Professor's 
 son-in-law, which was of great interest and import- 
 ance to my father for some ten years or more, 
 but which did not persevere much further. The
 
 MEMOIR. 35 
 
 three lads fell into the habit of making holiday 
 excursions together. They were about the same 
 age, and had the same tastes, amongst these 
 that of fishing. A hereditary tie existed between 
 my father and the hills and streams of Yarrow. 
 Chance and some other circumstances were begin- 
 ning to call into play the strong attraction of the 
 place. The friends went together, accompanied, 
 I believe, by Professor Wilson, to Innerleithen, 
 to see the St. Ronan's Games in 1826. James 
 Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was there, and my 
 father made his acquaintance. The mixture of 
 simplicity, shrewdness, and genius which distin- 
 guished Hogg attracted him greatly, and resulted 
 in a friendship which lasted till Hogg's death. 
 This circumstance alone would have led my 
 father's steps to Yarrow ; but his interest in the 
 district was much stimulated by the visits paid to 
 it about the same time by my grandfather. 
 
 Captain Stoddart had secured from his father 
 as many verbal details of his ancestry as the 
 old gentleman could recollect, and had committed
 
 30 MEMOIR. 
 
 them to writing. He was anxious to supplement 
 them by what information he could glean from 
 the neighbourhood of their old possessions, and 
 to that end opened correspondence with several 
 likely authorities. One of these was Dr. Russell, 
 minister of Yarrow, and from him he learned 
 that the tomb of the Sheriff and his son was 
 in disrepair. He paid the Yarrow churchyard 
 several visits, and his eldest son went with him 
 on at least one occasion, and caught the infection 
 of interest in his Border ancestry. Captain Stod- 
 dart made a careful examination of the church- 
 yards of Yarrow, and restored the headstones 
 and tabular memorial stones which proved to 
 belong to the graves of his forefathers. His 
 quest made some sensation in the quiet valley, 
 and was talked of about a generation later as one 
 of the notable events of the past. Neglect is so 
 surely the portion of the dead, that the spectacle 
 of this tall, stern man searching forgotten graves, 
 and rescuing from oblivion names already effaced 
 and memories that had ceased to be remembered,
 
 MEMOIR. 37 
 
 Startled and excited the country-folk as an ap- 
 parition might have done or a miracle. From 
 some members of his own house he got scant 
 sympathy, and a witty cartoon made its appear- 
 ance in the family, in which he sat grim and 
 silent on a low churchyard wall, rod in hand, 
 fishing in the moonlight in a sea of ruined 
 graves overgrown with nettles, and below the 
 legend ran : — 
 
 " His rod was made of the family tree, 
 His line was a long line of ancestry ; 
 He baited his hook with dead men's marrow. 
 And he sat and he bobbed for the Beetle of Yarrow. 
 He bobbed till the moon rose over the hill, 
 And, for aught that I know, he is sitting there still, 
 Though the wind may blow and the nettles may 
 
 wave, 
 And never a rise can he get from the grave," 
 
 The final restorations were made in 1828, 
 and in the same year William Aytoun, young 
 John Wilson, and my father made their first 
 appearance at St. Mary's Loch and the little 
 cottage belonging to Tibbie Shicls, which was
 
 38 MEMOIR. 
 
 from that time to become so famous. They had 
 another companion, who, I fancy, must have 
 been either Archibald Campbell Swinton or a 
 medical student called Leitch, Mrs. Richardson 
 was then scarcely fifty years old, a shrewd, 
 kindly, comely woman, tenanting the cottage on 
 the strip of land between St. Mary's Loch and 
 the Loch of the Lowes. She had succeeded to 
 the tenancy on the death of her husband, a 
 Dalesman from Westmoreland who had come to 
 Ettrick in Lord Napier's service, and marrying 
 Isabella Shiels, had settled in the little cottage, 
 living long enough to become the father of three 
 sons and three daughters. The youngest of 
 these was about ten years old in 1828, and is 
 now the grey-haired tenant of St. Mary's Cottage, 
 keeping up its hospitable renown. But then he 
 was "just a callant," as he says himself, although 
 old enough to notice the first arrival of the four 
 lads whose coming heralded a season of glory for 
 the place. Mrs. Richardson was by that time a 
 widow, and had reverted in Border fashion to
 
 MEMOIR. 39 
 
 her maiden name in its familiar form of Tibbie 
 Shiels. She had permission to make the cottage 
 a kind of primitive inn, on condition that she 
 sold neither wine nor spirits. And here the 
 four young anglers, who had walked over the 
 hills and through Traquair from Innerleithen, 
 the scene of the St. Ronan's Games, found 
 some eccentric worthies, regular guests at the 
 cottage, already installed. Tibbie made room for 
 the newcomers, however, provided as they were 
 with a recommendation from her friend and 
 neighbour James Hogg ; and here, in the little 
 home sheltered by a rich growth of rowans, 
 hawthorns, laburnums, firs, and sycamores, they 
 lived from the loth of July to the end of the 
 month, delighting in the beauty and unrestraint 
 of the place, and winning by their delight the 
 freedom of the whole neighbourhood. Their quar- 
 ters were cramped enough, and all four slept in 
 a tiny attic with two press-beds, and ate their 
 own trout, supplemented by rashers of bacon and 
 mutton-chops, by the best of scones and butter
 
 40 MEMOIR. 
 
 and milk ; but their withdrawing-rooms were the 
 borders of the lochs and the sides of the grassy 
 hills. The power of Yarrow took them captive, 
 and held them in willing bondage all the years 
 of their lives. Tibbie's heart warmed to them 
 for their enjoyment, and, speaking of them in 
 after 3^ears, she said, " Eh 1 but they were 
 ra'al happy." They were contented in those 
 early days with water or milk. It was some 
 years after, in the Highlands, that they learned to 
 carry the flask as part of an angler's equipment. 
 Amongst the pleasures of their stay were the 
 visits paid to the Shepherd at Mount Benger, 
 when much talk took place of poetry, and tradi- 
 tion, and fairy lore, and angling. Hogg was a 
 keen fisher and a subtle observer, and knew the 
 resources of Yarrow and the Lochs, the whims 
 of their fish and all the favourite lures, and he 
 posted his 3'oung admirers up in all his local lore. 
 This visit initiated a lifelong association with 
 St. Mary's ; and the magnetic recall of the place 
 took effect on my father already that same year.
 
 MEMOIR. 41 
 
 for in September he was back again for a fort- 
 night, fishing for pike in the Loch of the Lowes, 
 where the pike were reckoned finer in quality 
 than elsewhere, and as dainty eating as turbot. 
 
 It was not till the next year, 1829, that Pro- 
 fessor Wilson made his first appearance at St. 
 Mary's Cottage, with which he was greatly taken, 
 and Tibbie and he struck up a friendship on the 
 spot. Many a convivial gathering followed his 
 advent — the Shepherd an indispensable member 
 of the party. Although whisky was not sold on 
 the premises, it made its appearance there simul- 
 taneously with many of the guests, and Tibbie felt 
 free to furnish the hot water, sugar, and spoons. 
 The place was immortalised by providing the scene 
 for one of the " Noctes," and it is also on record 
 that the Professor entertained a number of the 
 county gentlemen at dinner in Tibbie's kitchen, 
 the Shepherd acting as his croupier. Mutton 
 and haggis were the dishes, and the punch-bowl 
 proved enough for dessert, the cooking, dishing, 
 and dining going on simultaneously, while one
 
 42 MEMOIR. 
 
 can fancy what a roar of song, jest, and story 
 made the rafters ring, Alas ! the rafters tell 
 nothing, and Willie Richardson " minds it fine, 
 but was just a callant and didna tak' muckle tent." 
 Christopher North was a prime favourite of 
 Tibbie's, and till the Shepherd's death paid her 
 cottage many a visit. Talking over old days a 
 few years before she died, she said to a lady 
 staying there, " There was mony a ane cam' 
 here, gentle and simple, but 1 aye likit the Cock 
 o' the North best, that was Professor Wilson, ye 
 ken. I likit him and Mr. Tom Stoddart and 
 Hogg. Eh ! but they were the callants for drinkin' ! 
 Mony's the time, when they were at it, I've fried 
 a bit ham and took it to them and said, ' Ye'll 
 just tak this bit ham, gentlemen ; maybe it'll 
 sober ye;' an' they wad eat it, and just on to the 
 drinkin' again." And then, warming to the old 
 associations, she continued : " Yon Hogg, the 
 Shepherd, ye ken, was an awfu' fine man. He 
 should hae ta'en me, for he cam coortin' for years, 
 but he just gaed away and took anither."
 
 MEMOIR. 43 
 
 In spite of this little romance of Tibbie's, Hogg 
 was a family man in those days, but was ever 
 the kindliest neighbour to her and all. My 
 father delighted in his companionship, and paid 
 him many a visit both at Mount Benger and 
 Altrive. The vivid imagination of the older 
 poet attracted him strongly, and reacted some- 
 what on his own ; and the " sweet influences " of 
 Nature, to which both were so susceptible, were 
 softening, and to some extent taking the place 
 of, the grim fancies which had preoccupied his 
 boyish thoughts. Yarrow and Yarrow lore had 
 much to do with this development, but Hogg's 
 poetry availed something also. That he was an 
 angler, won my father's ready companionship ; that 
 he was a poet, won his devotion. For to the coterie 
 of gifted youths who were his intimates, poets 
 stood on a dais of more than mortal greatness, 
 and to reach their level was with one and all of 
 them the highest conceivable aim. Their visits 
 to Yarrow in those years meant long days with 
 rod and creel in Hogg's company, and many a
 
 44 MEMOIR. 
 
 homely, hospitable meal at Altrive. In respect 
 of this poet- worship, my father diverged about 
 this time from the canons of criticism laid down 
 by Professor Wilson, and on his own account 
 opened heart and soul to Shelley and Keats, who, 
 coming after Coleridge, were yet to act with him 
 in opening new channels for the imagination and 
 in stimulating poetic impulse for generations to 
 come. It is a proof of the wholesome wilfulness 
 which marked and freshened his nature, that, at 
 a time when men were blind and deaf to their 
 merits, when Wilson called them " poetasters," 
 and the Quarterly Review outdid itself in deprecia- 
 tion of their poems, my father read them with 
 delight and felt the full force of their inspira- 
 tion. That Robert Browning should have been 
 doing the same at this time is natural enough ; 
 he was their peer and co-heir of renown ; but it 
 seems to me a proof that .the lesser poet also 
 had the fine prospective intuition which both 
 heralds and welcomes the coming order. 
 
 Some touches of the influence of Keats are
 
 MEMOIR. 4 5 
 
 apparent in a long poem in two cantos which 
 belongs to the year 1827, and is called "The 
 Curse of the Dead Sea." Its subject is the grim 
 story of the Cities of the Plain, relieved by the 
 romance of a pair of pastoral lovers called Miriam 
 and Terah. Byron still prevails over Keats, and 
 the nine-lined stanza recalls his favourite form ; 
 but the luscious melancholy of the later poet 
 invades the province of sentiment and horror 
 mainly filled by the tale. Two stanzas on soli- 
 tude in death near the close illustrate this : — 
 
 " Give me a mountain tomb ! a desolate tomb, 
 Where the wild winds shall hush me as they sigh 
 And rustle the dark heaths that o'er me bloom ; 
 Where the young torrent rushes hoarsely by, 
 Watering with spray the rock that lingers nigh. 
 Mossy, and ageless as the stars that shine 
 In the blue oceans of unfathomed sky ; 
 No record chisel and no garland twine, 
 But what in life I loved, in death be ever mine. 
 
 " Give me an ocean tomb ! a foaming shroud, 
 A dark-blue wave to wafi me to and fro ; 
 A pebbled shore, a surge that dashes loud, 
 A tide that wanders silently and slow ;
 
 46 MEMOIR. 
 
 A coral cave that glitters far below 
 The drifting seaweed and the hollow shell ; 
 Give me the dwelling where the mariners go, 
 Where wind and wave shall sound my dreary knell, 
 And the rude rock alone my sepulchre shall tell ! " 
 
 The verses written during the two next years 
 bear a family Hkeness to this, and liis fancies 
 still wandered in vague wildernesses, and had not 
 found the sure and congenial track in which he 
 achieved his undoubted poetic successes. Ease 
 of rhyme and versification helped a production 
 too proHfic to be valuable. The main fact about 
 these years was his delight in poetry and reve- 
 rence for poets. In the June of 1830 he was 
 again in Yarrow, spending most of his time witli 
 Hogg. The Shepherd had contributed a number of 
 articles to Blackwood's Magazine called "The Shep- 
 herd's Calendar," and these had made the public 
 acquainted with his two wonderful collie-dogs. 
 One day when my father went to Altrive, he 
 found there a clever animal-painter called Howe 
 making a rapid picture in oils of two of their 
 descendants. When the work was done, the
 
 MEMOIR. 47 
 
 Shepherd asked him to stay to dinner. They 
 dined on Yarrow trout and roast-mutton, and 
 the artist and his host wound up with a brew of 
 whisky-toddy. Hogg addressed his guest from 
 time to time as Mr. Howie, and unfortunately 
 there was another well-known animal-painter of 
 that name. As the toddy mounted into Howe's 
 head, he grew gradually more and more offended 
 at the inadvertence, till, finally exploding with 
 wrath, he started to his feet, clapped his hat on 
 his head, and brandishing his stick at his host, 
 shouted his farewell : " My name, sir, is Howe, 
 not Howie. I am Howe, sir, the animal-painter ; 
 the only animal-painter in the world. I don't 
 daub signs, boar's heads and Turks, red lions 
 and green crocodiles, like the miserable pauper 
 you confound me with. Good afternoon, Mr. 
 Hogg ; good afternoon, gentlemen. I leave that 
 to correct your ignorance and to teach 3-ou that 
 Howe and Howie are very different men." And 
 pointing to his picture of the dogs, he left the 
 house. The picture was excellent, noting every
 
 48 MEMOIR. 
 
 feature of the famous Ettrick collies, and the 
 Shepherd valued it greatly. 
 
 Next month my father went with the rest of 
 his family to Kincarrathie House, close to Perth, 
 staying there to the end of September. These 
 summer quarters introduced him to the Tay and 
 its tributaries. In the Tay itself he had little 
 faith as a trouting river, considering its trout both 
 scarce and of poor quality. Its feeders yielded 
 him better sport. He was occupied in autumn 
 and winter with his work at college, and this 
 was taking the definite direction of study for the 
 Bar, his class-tickets for the session of 1830-31 
 indicating attendance at Professor Cheape's lec- 
 tures on Civil Law, and Professor Bell's lectures 
 on the Law of Scotland. His holiday hours were 
 devoted as usual to the Muse, and this winter's 
 leisure is responsible for a poem which made 
 some little stir at the time, and which may cer- 
 tainly claim the distinction of being an early pro- 
 duct of the Spasmodic School, and one at all 
 events inspired by vivid if somewhat gruesome
 
 MEMOIR. 49 
 
 imagination. With the touch of bizarre originality 
 natural to him, he defied all precedent in its title, 
 and it was published early in 1831 by Henry 
 Constable as " The Deathwake ; or, Lunacy : a 
 Necromaunt in three Chimeras." 
 
 In " The Deathwake," the poet's imagination, 
 stirred no doubt by Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner," 
 sought the incidents of his story within a range 
 of subjects which excite rather our repulsion than 
 our sympathy. Madness, death's decay, remorse, 
 engross the interest and overwhelm, in the in- 
 tentional reiteration of their grim and painful de- 
 tails, the tenderer touches which seek to relieve 
 their horrors. Had these conceptions been handled 
 with the power of maturity, " The Deathwake " 
 might have breasted repulsion and gained fame in 
 the vanguard of spasmodic poems ; but it cannot 
 be denied that feverishness rather than strensrth 
 distinguishes the sequence of its incidents, and 
 that extravagance destro3's their emphasis. Mad- 
 ness, a passion which demands supreme strength 
 of artistic handling, becomes superb in King
 
 50 MEMOIR. 
 
 Lear, overwhelmed with emotions which no touch 
 of sensuousness enfeebles ; but in the love-sick 
 Julio its wildness and incoherency scarcely im- 
 press us even with pity. 
 
 The story of " The Deathwake " is that of a 
 monk, who having loved a nun in a neighbouring 
 cloister, finds himself assisting at her funeral. 
 His reason gives way at the shock, and at mid- 
 night he exhumes her body, bears it to the shore, 
 and sets sail with it upon the sea. The circum- 
 stances of the slow decay of the once-beautiful 
 Agathe are mingled with the details of his strange 
 voyage. At last he reaches an island, on which 
 the nun's father lives as a hermit, in remorseful 
 expiation of the cruelty which forced his unwill- 
 ing daughter to take the veil. Here, in an inter- 
 val of sanity, Julio shrinks from the now loath- 
 some corpse and tries to tell the hermit his story. 
 His reason collapses once more in the effort; the 
 hermit flies from his presence, and at night the 
 rising tide sweeps the madman and his ghastly 
 charge from the rock on which he has laid her.
 
 MEMOIR. 51 
 
 The hermit finds their bodies washed up on the 
 shore, buries them, and picicing up a jewelled 
 cross upon the sand, remembers it as a gift to 
 his daughter, realises that he has buried her and 
 her lover, and dies upon their grave in an agony 
 of remorse. 
 
 The influences of Coleridge and Shelley are 
 marked, while the passages which treat of the 
 sea at rest or in storm have some suggestion of 
 Byron. 
 
 Professor Wilson, writing in B/ackzvood's Maga- 
 zine (our years later, calls "The Deathwake" "an 
 ingeniously absurd poem — with an ingeniously 
 absurd title, — written in strange namby-pamby 
 sort of style, between the weakest of Shelley and 
 the strongest of Barry Cornwall." He goes on 
 to say : " We have good hopes of Mr. Stoddart 
 as a poet, — if he will only be a little mere 
 rational, and, after his long and intense study 
 of all the poetasters, will but read one or two 
 of the poets of England." 
 
 It is not wonderful that such merits of imagina-
 
 52 MEMOIR. 
 
 tion and poetic expression as may be found in 
 " The Deathwake " escaped recognition from a critic 
 who swept away Keats, Shelle}^, and Barry Corn- 
 wall amongst the " poetasters." As a passage in 
 which these merits are evident, I may quote the 
 opening lines of Chimera II. : — 
 
 " A curse ! a curse ! the beautiful pale wing 
 Of a sea-bird was worn with wandering, 
 And on a sunny rock beside the shore 
 It stood, the golden waters gazing o'er ; 
 And they were heaving a brown, amber flow 
 Of weeds that glitter'd gloriously below. 
 
 "It was the sunset, and the gorgeous ball 
 Of heaven rose up on pillars magical 
 Of living silver, shafting the fair sky 
 Between dark time and great eternity. 
 They rose upon their pedestal of sun, 
 A line of snowy columns ! and anon 
 Were lost in the rich tracery of cloud 
 That hung along magnificently proud, 
 Predicting the pure starlight, that beyond 
 The east was armouring in diamond 
 About the camp of twilight, and was soon 
 To marshal under the fair champion moon, 
 That call'd her chariot of unearthly mist 
 Toward her citadel of amethyst.
 
 MEMOIR. 53 
 
 " A curse ! a curse ! a lonely man is there 
 By the deep waters, with a burden fair 
 Clasp'd in his wearied arms. — 'Tis he ; 'tis he, 
 The brain-struck Julio and Agaihe ! 
 His cowl is back — flung back upon the breeze, 
 His lofty brow is haggard with disease, 
 As if a wild libation had been pour'd 
 Of lightning on those temples, and they shower'd 
 A dismal perspiration, like a rain, 
 Shook by the thunder and the hurricane ! 
 
 " He dropt upon a rock, and by him placed, 
 Over a bed of sea-pinks growing waste, 
 The silent ladye, and he mutter'd wild, 
 Strange words about a mother and no child. 
 ' And I shall wed thee, Agath^ ! although 
 Ours be no God-blest bridal — even so ! ' 
 And from the sand he took a silver shell, 
 That had been wasted by the fall and swell 
 Of many a moon-borne tide into a ring — 
 A rude, rude ring : it was a snow-white thing. 
 Where a lone hermit limpet slept and died 
 In ages far away. ' Thou art a bride. 
 Sweet Agathe ! Wake up ; we must not linger ! ' 
 He press'd the ring upon her chilly finger, 
 And to the sea-bird on its sunny stone 
 Shouted, ' Pale priest that liest all alone 
 Upon thy ocean altar, rise, away 
 To our glad bridal ! ' and its wings of grey
 
 54 MEMOIR. 
 
 All lazily it spread, and hover'd by 
 With a wild shriek — a melancholy cry ! 
 Then, swooping slowly o'er the heaving breast 
 Of the blue ocean, vanished in the west." 
 
 Chimera I. has the following passage : — 
 
 " Oh ! he was wearied of this passing scene ! 
 But loved not death : his purpose was between 
 Life and the grave ; and it would vibrate there, 
 Like a wild bird that floated far and fair 
 Betwixt the sun and sea ! " 
 
 The description of Agathe when the young 
 monk first saw her may be quoted as another 
 specimen : — 
 
 " But there came one — and a most lovely one 
 As ever to the warm light of the sun 
 Threw back her tresses, — a fair sister girl. 
 With a brow changing between snow and pearl, 
 And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew 
 Of tears, — like heaven's own melancholy blue, — 
 So beautiful, so tender ; and her form 
 Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm, 
 Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow. — 
 Oh ! I had fancied of the hues that borrow 
 Their brightness from the sun ; but she was bright 
 In her own self, — a mystery of light !
 
 MEMOIR. 55 
 
 With feelings tender as a star's own hue, 
 Pure as the morning star ! as true, as true ; 
 For it will glitter in each early sky, 
 And her first love be love that lasteth aye ! ' 
 
 Eleven years after its publication, "The Deatli- 
 wake " was printed in America, appearing in 
 several numbers of Grahams Magazine, under 
 the title of " Agatha ; a Necromaunt in three 
 Chimeras," and purporting to be by a certain 
 Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro. This piracy did not 
 come to my father's knowledge till 1876, when Dr. 
 Appleton of the Academy forwarded to him a 
 letter on the subject from Mr. Ingram of the 
 Illustrated London News. He failed to appreciate 
 the compliment which Mr. Tasistro's cool appro- 
 priation implied. 
 
 No sooner was " The Deathwake " off his 
 mind than he began another poem, with the 
 sounding title of " Ajalon of the Winds." Of this 
 I can find no vestige, except the allusion to it in 
 the following letter from Henry Glassford Bell, 
 which I am tempted to quote in full, belonging as
 
 56 MEMOIR. 
 
 it does to the spring of 183 1, and indicating the 
 opinion of the young poet held by a gifted con- 
 temporary, who was to prove a lifelong friend. 
 
 "York House, Hampstead, London, 
 May 2Pih, 1831. 
 
 " My Dear Sir, — I received, about ten days ago, 
 your letter and poem. I have now read 'Ajalon of 
 the Winds,' and think it on the whole decidedly the 
 best thing you have done, though it is not without the 
 obscurities and exaggerations which distinguished ' The 
 Deathwake.' It is pervaded, however, by a bold dash 
 of original genius, and I think if a respectable London 
 bookseller publishes it, would have a fair chance of 
 attracting some attention. I esteem it so well, that 
 I intend having it conveyed to Lockhart ; and if he 
 would take an interest in it and recommend it to 
 Murray, it would appear under the best auspices. Of 
 course I cannot promise that he will do this ; and 
 besides, he is at present in Scotland, but is expected 
 back in a week or two. The delay is of little conse- 
 quence, as nobody is publishing books just now, politics 
 having spread such a panic among the booksellers, that 
 I know of several works lying ready printed in their 
 warehouses, which they are afraid to bring out till the 
 fermentation subsides. Should Lockhart decline re- 
 commending your poem, I shall then hand it to some 
 of the publishers myself; but I would certainly recom-
 
 MEMOIR. 57 
 
 menci that it should be abridged by nearly one fourth, 
 by which means the story would be strengthened and 
 several unnecessary exuberances lopped off. 
 
 " I have no doubt your projected treatise on angling 
 will be good. You know the art well ; and besides, 
 you will express yourself in an original and striking 
 way regarding it. I never flatter people, as you know 
 very well, but I like your prose style from its straight- 
 forward manliness and the healthy interfusion of thought 
 and sentiment. I think you undervalue Hogg's capa- 
 bilities for writing a book on angling. It would be 
 different from yours, but he would be a dangerous 
 rival to you. We have got some ponds in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Hampstead, brown and muddy, where 
 people fish for hours together, never moving from the 
 spot, and keeping their eye intently fixed on their 
 motionless float, till at length, toward evening, it dips 
 a little, and they pull out a — tickleback ! not quite 
 so large as an ordinary-sized minnow. Nevertheless I 
 like Hampstead much. It is one of the most beautiful 
 villages in the neighbourhood of London, which is 
 only three miles distant, and the walks and country 
 round are enchanting. In the immediate vicinity 
 reside Coleridge, and Joanna Baillie, and Malthus, 
 and Lucy Aiken, and others. 
 
 "We contemplate, however, running across in a few 
 weeks to Paris, and will probably visit Edinburgh by 
 September.
 
 58 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Did you whack any of the vile pecus during the 
 late riots ? I should have liked to knock in the 
 breadbaskets of the editors of the Scotsman, the secre- 
 taries of the ' Political Union,' and some other worthy 
 gentlemen. How overwhelmingly appalling was the 
 declaration of some of the constables that they would 
 ' lay down their batons ' unless Jeffrey were returned 
 for Edinburgh ! Only think what would have been 
 the state of Europe if the constables had laid down 
 their batons ! The threat was enough to annihilate 
 Toryism. A constable laying down his baton is pro- 
 bably the most awful object in nature. 
 
 " Present my best remembrances to your father 
 and mother and Miss Stoddart. Give my best regards 
 also to Professor Wilson and his family when you see 
 them, and believe me yours always very sincerely, 
 
 Henry G. Bell." 
 
 In July of this year my father made an 
 extended walking-tour, accompanied during the 
 early part of the month by a friend, but from the 
 16th to the 28th making his w^ay alone. At first 
 his head-quarters were at Perth, and he fished 
 the feeders of the River Devon, which come from 
 the Ochils. When his friend left, he walked up 
 the Tay to Moulinearn, explored its neighbour-
 
 MEMOIR. 59 
 
 hood, fished up the Tummel to Loch Tummel, 
 and stayed all night in the ferryhouse, which 
 was kept by two deaf and dumb brothers. 
 They gave him a Highland supper of oatcake, 
 eggs, trout, and whisky, and a bed of dry 
 heather, and one of them rowed him next morn- 
 ing to the head of the loch. He then walked 
 along the upper river till he reached the head of 
 Loch Rannoch. He slept at the little inn there, 
 and next day fished up the Gawin to Loch 
 Eatach, creeling one hundred small trout on the 
 way. On the following morning early, he started 
 for the L3'on Water across the moor, trackless 
 at tliat time. Mist settled down with rain and 
 wind, and he lost sight of all the land-marks. 
 He pushed forward bravel}', but at the end of 
 ten hours' weary trudge was on the point of 
 yielding to fatigue and of flinging himself down 
 on the drenched heather, when tlie clouds sud- 
 denly parted, the sun outburst as if by miracle, 
 the mist fled in wreaths up the hills, and below 
 him in full flood tore the Lyon Water down a
 
 6o MEMOIR. 
 
 green and sunny valley. Away went fatigue 
 from his limbs like the mist from the hills. In a 
 moment he stood by the river, rod in hand, and 
 late though it was, he did not leave it till he had 
 landed some of its finest prizes. Passing Fortin- 
 gal and its ancient yew-tree in the evening, he 
 made his way to the inn at Cushieville. Next 
 day he fished the Tay as far as Aberfeldy, and 
 reached the foot of Ben Lawers on the loch, to 
 spend a somewhat dismal Sunday there, his 
 Monday's success on the loch in no way com- 
 pensating for the halt. Turning off to Killin, he 
 found the Lochy in better humour, and fished it 
 to its junction with the Dochart, from which he 
 made his way by the latter stream to Luib. From 
 Luib he sought the Trossachs, fishing as he went, 
 and then struck up Glen Falloch to Tyndrum, 
 thence making for the Awe up the valley of the 
 Urchay, and came at last to Loch Awe and 
 Dalmally, where his month's wandering ended, 
 and whence he found his way to Inverary, and 
 taking steamer there, went home.
 
 MEMOIR. 6l 
 
 Such wanderings in lingering communion with 
 moor and stream increased his knowledge of the 
 art he followed all the summer months, and taught 
 him many a different secret of the rivers in their 
 valleys, and how and when to woo and win the trout 
 in each. Enthusiastic, dreamy and unworldly, he 
 passed at once into the intimacy of Nature, and 
 found joy there and instruction. He noted and 
 remembered well ; and rambles such as the fore- 
 going, solitary and observant, heaped up the 
 knowledge on which he drew afterwards for his 
 practical works on angling, while at the time his 
 enjoyment gave his busy fancy impulse, and one 
 fresh lay followed another ; so that before he was 
 twenty-five years old, he had shaped and pub- 
 lished in magazine or book nearly all his best 
 angling songs. His Muse cast her tragic weeds 
 when winter was over and carolled gaily in the sun- 
 shine by the river. Already, too, he was thinking 
 of a treatise on angling, one which should com- 
 municate his acquaintance with the art to those 
 who wished to learn it.
 
 62 MEMOIR. 
 
 In September and October of the same year 
 he was at the Enghsh Lakes. This, except for 
 some visits to London and occasional descents 
 upon Northumbrian streams, seems to have formed 
 his only experience of the English side of the 
 Border ; and but for an invitation to stay with 
 the Wilsons at Elleray, he might scarcely have 
 accomplished even this. The district was full of 
 interest for him, and yet he never cared to return 
 to its becks and waters. He has told the chief 
 incidents of his stay in "An Angler's Rambles." 
 John Wilson the younger and he visited every 
 lake and stream on which a fly could play, and 
 the Professor himself made out their chart ; but 
 Troutbeck and its " Mortal Man " were the only 
 points on which his memory dwelt in the talk 
 of later years. The famous signboard has long 
 since disappeared from the little hostelry at 
 Troutbeck, although the latter still goes by the 
 name of the " Mortal Man." He met Hartley 
 Coleridge and De Quincey at Elleray, but did not 
 have the good fortune to see Wordsworth. The
 
 MEMOIR. 63 
 
 season was too late for successful fishing, and 
 the Wilsons soon after gave up Elleray ; and as 
 his liking for a place depended on his first im- 
 pressions and his personal associations, the Lakes 
 never tempted him to return. 
 
 Towards the end of the year he was admitted 
 as a member of the Speculative Society, to which 
 many of his friends belonged, most of whom were, 
 like himself, studying for the Bar. The young 
 men of his generation who formed the body of 
 the Society and shone in its debates were nearly 
 all destined to distinction in after life. John Hill 
 Burton, William Aytoun, Lord Ardmillan, Pro- 
 fessor Blackie were amongst them, as well as 
 many others successful in their day and interest- 
 ing to each other. The debates were brilliant, 
 and the members were seasoned in giving and 
 taking each other's smart replies. The voices, 
 eloquent and caustic, are hushed now ; the one or 
 two which linger have exchanged youth's racy, 
 combative ring for the wise and unregarded 
 monotone of age. My father's intimates at this
 
 64 MEMOIR. 
 
 time shared with him two noticeable characteristics. 
 They were poets and Jacobite Tories. Such late 
 lingering Jacobites were necessarily poets. Only 
 the poetic mind could picture such posthumous 
 politics of romance. 
 
 An imaginative allegiance to dead and buried 
 princes, whose fair persons and dramatic fates 
 were their sovereign claim to this aesthetic 
 homage, was only possible for poets. As there 
 was no living claimant for the Jacobite vote, they 
 practically supported what poor Toryism the 
 country could substitute, and were, except for 
 purposes of conversational caprice, very loyal and 
 patriotic subjects of the State. 
 
 The winter passed as usual, the law studies 
 making very leisurely progress, while the harvest 
 of summer's busy idleness was threshed and gar- 
 nered. Angling was making a clean sweep of 
 the fancies and ambitions which had disputed 
 his imagination till now. His " Art of Angling " 
 was begun, and he polished into a finer grace 
 some of the lyrics which had taken shape in
 
 MEMOIR. 65 
 
 July. At home, his fishing exploits and expe- 
 riences had willing listeners ; his poetry of every 
 kind was scouted. Only his sister Frances 
 cared for it, and, with the vein of satirical wit 
 which distinguished her, her comments were more 
 often critical than otherwise. She delighted in 
 Nature too, and had found expression for her 
 delight with the pencil and the brush, so she 
 gave ear and appreciation to his poems of the 
 rod and river. 
 
 There was one ingle-neuk besides the Pro- 
 fessor's where he found hearty and sympathis- 
 ing listeners, and was always cheerily hailed as 
 " Poet." This was at Powderhall, a short dis- 
 tance from Bellevue Crescent, where, in those 
 days, Colonel Macdonald, a cousin of my grand- 
 father's, lived and exercised a kindly hospitalit}'. 
 The family group was a large one, including not 
 only the Colonel's wife, but his gifted sister, as 
 well as three sons and several daughters. Young 
 and old were fresh, witty, and unconventional, and 
 welcomed originality in others. The place, too.
 
 66 MEMOIR. 
 
 had its charms — a large, old-fashioned garden, 
 with stone fountain, sun-dial, and fish-pond, with 
 shaded walks and sunny terraces, formed an ideal 
 scene for many a merry gathering of the cousins 
 and their friends. In winter the big fireplaces 
 proved even more attractive, and the circle round 
 them was pretty often sure to include one or 
 other of the Stoddarts. Here my father might 
 rhapsodise as he pleased and read to a chorus of 
 admiration his wildest tales in verse. There was 
 no stint of applause, nor any mortifying doubt 
 of the author's genius. With his fishing poems 
 there was hearty sympathy, for Colonel Macdonald 
 and his sons were accomplished anglers. Here 
 he might be often found taking refuge from dis- 
 putes at home, for his father and he differed 
 radically on many points. It must be admitted 
 that he spoke his mind too mutinously and gave 
 the Admiral cause for displeasure ; but that could 
 scarcely be avoided with natures so unlike. It 
 is on record that one winter evening, after such 
 an altercation, my father flung out of the house
 
 MEMOIR. 67 
 
 with an angry boyish threat that he would drown 
 himself. The threat gave no anxiety at first, but 
 when eleven o'clock struck and there was no sign 
 of his return, my grandfather began to fidget. At 
 midnight his alarm grew uncontrollable, and decid- 
 ing that the nearest water available for drowning 
 was the pond at Powderhall, he rushed thither, 
 determined to have it dragged on the spot. As 
 he burst into the dining-room, where the habitual 
 late hours were spent, he found the culprit 
 comfortably seated in an arm-chair by the fire, 
 holding forth in rhyme and in radiant posses- 
 sion of the ears of the house. Suicide had faded 
 from his mind at the threshold of Powderhall, 
 and his father may well be excused if his relief 
 took the form of a right royal rage. 
 
 The happy days at Powderhall came to an end 
 as " death stepped in and took " one after another 
 of the sons and daughters, and at last only the 
 old people and one daughter survived, never to 
 restore the merriment which once had been part 
 of the very air of the house. Now all are gone,
 
 6S MEMOIR. 
 
 and Powderhall is a restaurant, and its garden a 
 place for public sports. 
 
 On the afternoon of the 4th of May 1832, 
 William Aytoun and my father made their appear- 
 ance at Tibbie's cottage, footsore and weary after 
 a morning at the Tweed and a tramp from 
 Innerleithen. They found the place turned upside 
 down, and the usually hospitable Tibbie by no 
 means glad to see them. " Ye canna bide here," 
 she said, " there's no a room for ye." It turned 
 out that it was her eldest son's wedding-day, and 
 that great preparations were being made for the 
 event, which was to take place in Scotch fashion 
 that evening. The young men flatly refused to 
 be turned off, invited themselves to the wedding, 
 and offered to sleep on tables, chairs, or benches, 
 if they could get no better bed. Tibbie gave way 
 at this, and made them welcome. All afternoon 
 the guests dropped in from Forest farm and 
 hamlet, and when the hour arrived, there came 
 with it not only the minister, but the Shepherd 
 with his maud on his shoulders and a fiddle in
 
 MEMOIR. 69 
 
 its folds. He was master of ceremonies and 
 chief fiddler when the dancing set in, and no 
 better fiddler ever kept a ball going. Supper 
 and whisky were plentiful. Aytoun and my 
 father gave in at midnight, for neither was skilled 
 at reels and country-dances, and they were weary 
 with the morning's walk. They had drunk 
 more healths, too, than their heads were used to, 
 and they crept into bed and fell fast asleep in 
 the very middle of the uproar. Hogg fiddled 
 and the company danced till four in the morning, 
 when a great " skailing " took place in the day- 
 light, and the weary Shepherd rolled into the 
 empty press-bed in the kitchen. But he could 
 not sleep for excitement and thirst, and in the 
 morning his room-fellows were wakened by his 
 shouts for water. He had emptied both jugs in 
 the kitchen, and was bawling, " Tibbie, wuman ! 
 watter's terrible scarce wi' ye ; can ye no fetch 
 in the loch ? " 
 
 Aytoun and my father stayed some days at 
 the Cottage, and found St. Mary's Loch in capital
 
 70 MEMOIR. 
 
 trim for fishing. The latter records a take of 
 five dozen excellent trout on the 7th of May. 
 He had been there already in April, but in that 
 month his best take was three dozen and a half. 
 
 About the middle of June, John Wilson the 
 younger and he started, with rods and baskets, 
 for a walking-tour which lasted till the 14th of 
 July. It was a zigzag ramble, and had its share 
 of vicissitudes. After visiting the Trossachs, 
 they made their way by Glen Falloch to Dalmally, 
 and thence to Glen Etive, where about night- 
 fall they managed to miss their way, and wandered 
 in rough roads till four in the morning, when 
 they reached King's House. Not a loch nor 
 lochlet, not a stream nor burn, escaped their 
 attention on the way, and my father records with 
 pride the splendid baskets of trout secured by 
 his friend. From King's House they fished the 
 Coe to Ballachulish, and thence made their way 
 to the Lochy, where good sport awaited them. 
 The large trout here made havoc of their fishing- 
 gear, and they had to stop at Fortwilliam and
 
 MEMOIR. 7^ 
 
 repair their losses. True anglers can easily 
 find supplies, and a few feathers from the inn- 
 yard, with some threads of green worsted from 
 a ragged carpet-edge, were enough to dress their 
 hooks and furnish them with a new stock of 
 killing flies, which proved their merits with the 
 sea-trout next day. By the Spcan they fished 
 their way to Badenoch, halting at Loch Laggan, 
 where the little inn was the scene of an un- 
 accountable drain upon their travelling resources. 
 They went to bed with their purses in a satis- 
 factory state, and in the morning found their 
 contents strangely shrunk, though not entirely 
 abstracted. This brought about a change of 
 plan, and although they hung about Loch Laggan 
 for a day or two, their unwilling faces were peremp- 
 torily set homeward. 
 
 It was in the autumn of 1832 that Sir Walter 
 Scott died, and his death, associated w'ith the 
 Tweed, which he has made the most beloved 
 river of Scotland, inspired in my father's mind 
 the beautiful lines " To the Tweed," which give
 
 72 MEMOIR. 
 
 early expression and prediction to his own lifelong 
 love for its waters, and enshrine a very exquisite 
 lament for the dead. He never met Sir Walter 
 Scott, although as an Edinburgh boy he knew 
 his figure well going to and from the Parliament 
 House. 
 
 Once in the April of 1830, Hogg invited 
 James Ferrier and him to dinner ; but such kindly 
 hospitality was so frequent, that they carelessly 
 allowed the morning's fishing to preoccupy them 
 till past the hour, and then gave up all thought 
 of Altrive. Deep was their mortification to learn 
 next day, when they went with their excuses, that 
 Scott and Sir Adam Ferguson had unexpectedly 
 dropped in the day before, had dined with the 
 Shepherd, and had been in most genial mood. 
 
 On the 23rd of February 1833, my father was 
 admitted a member of the Faculty of Advocates, 
 but I cannot learn that he ever held a brief. 
 His legal education was of considerable use to 
 him, however, and enabled him to bring both 
 patience and understanding to the study Acts
 
 MEMOIR. "/^ 
 
 of Parliament affecting rivers and fishing, 
 qualities which Acts of Parliament generally 
 repel. He was busy with the papers on the 
 "Art of Angling," already alluded to, which 
 appeared in 1834 in Chajuhcrs^s Journal, and 
 were afterwards published in book form, running 
 through two editions. It is, perhaps, not too 
 much to claim that this little book was the first 
 practical Scotch manual on angling. Stray 
 papers on the subject had appeared from time to 
 time in Scotch magazines, but a treatise of in- 
 struction in the best-known modes of angling in 
 Scotch rivers and lochs was then wanting. The 
 author laid claim " only to scatter his handful of 
 ideas, as he had reaped them from the track of 
 personal experience and investigation." Already 
 he touched on every department of the art, from 
 the angler's equipments to his methods, and the 
 clear and pleasant chapters of information and 
 suggestion were supplemented by breezy angling 
 songs. The little book was heartily welcomed by 
 brothers of the craft, and Professor Wilson gave
 
 74 MEMOIR. 
 
 it a generous meed of appreciation in Blackwood' s 
 Magazine for July 1835, following it up in the 
 August number by an article on " Anglimania," 
 in which he speaks of " the silent trade, so 
 dear to all thoughtful hearts, from old Izaak to 
 young Tom — in surnames from Walton to 
 Stoddart." 
 
 The summer months of 1833 were spent at 
 Crieff, where the family had made their head- 
 quarters that season. Two of the four brothers 
 had by this time left the home circle, one to 
 settle for life in Dantzic, the other to follow his 
 father's profession. There seems to have been 
 no prolonged pedestrian tour this year, but many 
 a successful excursion to Lochs Turret, Freuchie, 
 and Earn, and a thorough survey of the angling 
 resources of the neighbourhood of Crieff. In 
 1834 my father renewed acquaintance with the 
 Tyne in Haddingtonshire, and with the Devon 
 in Clackmannanshire, during a two months' resi- 
 dence at Dollar, thirty of the sixty days being spent 
 at the river-side or at Gartmorn Dam, where he
 
 MEMOIR. 75 
 
 and his youngest brother killed twenty pike apiece 
 in the course of three visits. 
 
 September and part of October were spent 
 in Ettrick with his friends the Wilsons. The 
 Professor had rented Thirlestane House and its 
 shootings during Lord Napier's absence. The 
 weeks were winged which were spent in such 
 companionship and such surroundings, and they 
 added to his store a consummate knowledge of 
 the Ettrick in every mood of autumn. 
 
 Next year's tour was that which influenced 
 his whole succeeding life. Crieff was once more 
 chosen as summer-quarters by the Admiral and 
 his wife, but its neighbourhood was well known 
 to the now experienced angler ; and after paying 
 proper respect to the Earn, he started, rod in 
 hand, for a march through Perthshire to the Spey. 
 He spent some days in Badenoch, pursuing his 
 acquaintance with the country which John Wilson 
 and he had left so summarily three years before ; 
 and then, quitting the valley of the Spey, he made 
 for Inverness, and laid its loch and river under
 
 76 MEMOIR. 
 
 contribution. From the Ness he struck north- 
 wards to Dingwall, intent upon the Beauley on 
 one hand, and the beautiful chain of lochs which 
 lie to the west of Strathpeffer on the other. 
 Early in July he made his way by the Strath to 
 Contin, where a comfortable-looking farmhouse 
 by the roadside offered rest and accomm^odation 
 to travellers. Opposite the house, and across the 
 road, was a garden gay with flowers, and beyond 
 the garden stretched a stately pine-wood. He 
 had crossed a bridge over the Rasay, and knew 
 that a mile farther on lay Loch Achilty, with its 
 pine-clad tor, and farther west still Lochs Garve 
 and Luichart, with their feeders and effluents, 
 and the numerous lily-bordered lochlets in their 
 neighbourhood. He knew that the Strath was 
 full of tempting waters, and that Highland pro- 
 prietors had not yet discovered their value in the 
 Southern market. His rod and he would have 
 kindly access to all, or nearly all ; so he made up 
 his mind for a prolonged halt in the cosy farm- 
 house, which was inn as well. Some girls were
 
 MEMOIR. ']'] 
 
 playing " bedgels " on the road in front of the 
 house, and as he talked to the handsome old 
 farmer at the door, he turned at the sound of 
 their laughter to watch them for a moment. 
 That moment sealed his fate. They were such 
 a bevy of girls as one seldom sees, tall, straight, 
 and graceful, with faces little short of beautiful ; 
 and one of them, "more than common tall," with 
 arched black e3'ebrows, grey eyes, and a cloud of 
 raven hair, riveted his gaze. The girls had taken 
 no notice of the traveller at first, but finding him 
 rapt in admiration of " Bessadh," they took to 
 their heels like a herd of startled deer and fled 
 round the end of the house. Here was a poet's 
 destiny sprung upon him, as it should be, from 
 an ambush primevally planned. He stayed at 
 Contin about three weeks, making acquaintance, 
 not only with the streams and lochs, but with 
 the family at the farm. It was not very easy to 
 pursue his wooing, because Bessie either took to 
 her heels or relapsed into Gaelic at his slightest 
 advance, and as he was genuinely in love, he had
 
 78 MEMOIR. 
 
 to take the father into his confidence and win his 
 help. Old Mr. Macgregor's help was somewhat 
 misleading at times, as he did not very well 
 understand the young Sassenach wooer himself, 
 and the Gaelic compliments with which he fur- 
 nished him gave their object a firm impression 
 that her admirer was a lunatic. Time, however, 
 convinced her that he was not madder than reason ; 
 and when his stay came to an end, her shyness 
 was so far overcome that her father promised 
 he should marry her after a year, if his parents 
 gave their consent. About thirty years after- 
 wards he commemorated the happy Contin days 
 in a poem called " A Dream of the Past," in 
 which he says : — 
 
 " I dreamt of a circle scattered, 
 
 Of thy home 'mid the hills of heather — • 
 Of faces fair that shone out there 
 
 When we cast our lot together. 
 I dreamt of a white-haired patriarch 
 
 Versed in the Celtic tongue, 
 Who took his laugh at the Sassenach 
 
 That courted his daughter young —
 
 MEMOIR. 79 
 
 An ancient 'mong the patriarchs, 
 
 Who can speak to his hundred years, 
 
 And, though reft of sight, is still in the fight, 
 Still in this valley of tears." 
 
 His days at Contin had other incidents than 
 those of love's troubled course. He followed his 
 quest of river and loch with a steadiness which 
 speaks to its power. Perhaps the dreaminess 
 which was always inherent in his disposition led 
 him to carry his romance away from its object 
 to cherish it in solitary musings. At all events, 
 he made good his plan of exploration, and added 
 to his notes a wealth of detail and observation 
 about the rivers of Eastern Ross-shire. 
 
 He had ventured one day up the Rasay, with 
 the intention of trying the series of salmon-casts 
 which lie below the beautiful birch-shaded falls 
 of Rogie, when he was stopped from putting up 
 his rod by a tall and pleasant-looking man, who 
 informed him that this reach of the river was 
 preserved by its proprietor. The friendly warn- 
 ing was given in accents which recalled the banks
 
 So MEMOIR. 
 
 of Tweed and Ettrick, and a little further talk 
 explained that it came from James Laidlaw, the 
 brother of William Laidlaw, Sir Walter Scott's 
 secretary and friend. The meeting on the banks 
 of the Rasay led to an introduction to Mr. 
 William Laidlaw, who was then factor to Mr. 
 Mackenzie of Seaforth and lived at Brahan Castle. 
 Some notes from Mr. Laidlaw show that through 
 his kindly offices my father secured introductions 
 to such local anglers as were versed in the fish- 
 ing lore of the district. He dined and breakfasted 
 on several occasions at Brahan Castle, and had 
 much interesting talk with Mr. Laidlaw, whom 
 he always remembered with special regard. 
 
 It was at this time that he acquired the ex- 
 perience on which was based one of his most 
 popular social accomplishments. On Sundays, 
 when his rod was furled and both leisure and 
 inclination led him to fall in with the custom of the 
 family at Contin, he went with them to the little 
 church where Mr. Downie preached in Gaelic to 
 his parishioners. One Sunday the whole house-
 
 MEMOIR. 8 1 
 
 hold, father, mother, seven daughters and four sons, 
 along with their guest, drove some miles in a 
 large cart to the scene of an open-air communion 
 service. He was much impressed by the singular 
 solemnity of the occasion, by the pathetic earnest- 
 ness of the Highland congregation, most of whom 
 had been toiling from daybreak over moor and 
 mountain to reach the place in time, and to whose 
 naturally pensive faces fatigue and tender devout- 
 ness lent a wistful solemnit}^ of expression most 
 harmonious with the spirit of the hills around them. 
 The preacher w-as a man of note in the North, 
 and the tones of his sermon, now gentle and 
 persuasive, now stern and denunciator}', were in 
 such unison with the scene, that, although my 
 father did not understand a word of it, he followed 
 the sounds and varying emotions with rapt atten- 
 tion, and carried away a vivid remembrance of the 
 whole. 
 
 He was already a fine reader, and recited poetry 
 with an emphasis and art which were distinctly 
 original ; and he practised the sounds which had
 
 82 MEMOIR. 
 
 taken such hold upon him, recalling the preacher's 
 tones and gestures, until he achieved a curiously 
 realistic reproduction of the sermon, not a word 
 of which, except the often-repeated ngiis, was 
 intelligible Gaelic. His ear had caught the bur- 
 den of Gaelic sound, although his understand- 
 ing attached no particular meaning to its words ; 
 and his quick sympathy had grasped the sense 
 of those varied intonations by which the preacher 
 had wrought upon his hearers, with whose hearts 
 he was in closest touch. The " Gaelic sermon " 
 was his own, and in it he had no imitators. 
 He was chary of the occasions on which he gave 
 it, both because it involved an immense effort, 
 and because he did not look upon it as a comic 
 recitation, and liked to choose his audience. 
 He had a way of fixing his eye sternly on some 
 unsuspecting friend at the table, and bringing 
 his name into a passage, of which all that could 
 be gathered was the fierce wrath that inspired it. 
 One night, long years after the open-air ser- 
 vice of 1835, he was in the Clans f nan steamer,
 
 MEMOIR. 83 
 
 rounding the Mull of Cantyre, with a little knot 
 of friends, of whom I believe the late Dr. Nor- 
 man M'Leod was one. They were seated at one 
 table in the cabin, while some Mull drovers were 
 loud in friendly altercation at another. My father 
 was induced to give his "Gaelic sermon," and 
 the drovers subsided into silent and devout at- 
 tention. At the close they expressed themselves 
 delighted. " It wass a goot sermon, ferry goot, 
 and the Gaelic wass peautiful ; but it would not 
 be their Gaelic, — the chentleman would be from 
 Ross-shire." Surely their verdict was a testi- 
 mony to the accurate local character of my father's 
 rendering, as well as to the natural human sus- 
 ceptibility to sound rather than sense. 
 
 The " Gaelic sermon " was much appreciated 
 by Christopher North and his friends, and has 
 fleeting mention in one of the " Noctes," where 
 North, on the tide of an invective, confounds all 
 " unknown tongues," and the Shepherd agrees with 
 him, always excepting " sic as Tam Stoddart's." 
 
 On the 24th of Juh', he bade farewell for a
 
 84 MEMOIR. 
 
 time to Contin and the family which had so 
 suddenly become important to him, and made for 
 the lochs to the west. He has given a detailed 
 account of his adventures by the way in "An 
 Angler's Rambles," and perhaps the only incident 
 which should be dwelt on here is his first attempt 
 at salmon-fishing. Hitherto he had been con- 
 tented with the pursuit of the " starr^'-side," and 
 no man in Scotland knew its haunts and habits 
 better ; but although he had watched the nobler 
 fish at cruive and fall, and noted its doings when- 
 ever he was near a salmon-river, he had not yet 
 dared to arm himself with tackle for its encounter. 
 He carried only a light trouting-rod, a couple of 
 reels with short lengths of line, a store of hooks 
 and floss silks, and, finding feathers as he went, 
 trimmed his flies on days untoward for sport. He 
 had a letter of introduction to Dr. Dickson, whose 
 farm, near Jeantown, lay on the banks of the 
 Carron, and who invited him to stay at the farm- 
 house. The river flowed past the house, a pool 
 below a cruive-dyke forming its nearest reach,
 
 MEMOIR. 85 
 
 and on the morning after his arrival this pool was 
 astir with salmon and grilses trying to climb the 
 cruive. The chance was too tempting, and, all 
 unfit as was his gear, he tried his luck ; hooked 
 three salmon in succession, who severally made 
 off with a hook and some yards of line, and 
 shelved one of his reels. He believed that the 
 shock of surprise at first contact with a salmon 
 made him lose his head and dip the point instead 
 of the butt of his rod, and this seems to happen 
 often with t3Tos at the sport. He was fortunate 
 enough to catch three grilses during his four 
 days' stay, and had much success with sea-trout. 
 From Loch Carron he crossed over the hills to 
 Loch Alsh, and then by the Glomach and the 
 Shiel finished his eventful tour. 
 
 Before him lay the task of announcing his 
 matrimonial intentions to his family, and he 
 seems to have doubted not at all of their glad 
 consent. It was very natural that they should 
 be astounded, for hitherto he had only worn out 
 shoe-Icather on the floor of the Parliament House.
 
 S6 MEMOIR. 
 
 and the Bar scarcely promised to be fairy god- 
 mother to the young couple. Much talk and 
 consultation followed ; dissuasion was useless, for 
 whatever may have been the weak points in my 
 father's character, doubt as to his own mind was 
 not one of them. He wished to marry Miss 
 Macgregor, and that as soon as possible. His 
 parents, in spite of some natural irritation, be- 
 haved in the end with kindness and considera- 
 tion. They began to realise that their son's 
 attitude towards life was genuine, however per- 
 verse and unpractical they had reason to think 
 it ; and they decided that it would be best to 
 allow him a small competency, which would en- 
 able him to marry and to settle in some quiet 
 river-haunted country district, where with rod 
 and pen he might make his life after the pattern 
 he preferred. He asked nothing better, and as 
 the conditions of the engagement were fulfilled, 
 old Mr. Macgregor decided to send his daughter 
 for some months to a school at Inverness, that 
 she might get used to the outlandish tongue of
 
 MEMOIR. Zy 
 
 her Lowland suitor. She was still there when 
 he returned to Ross-shire, taking up his residence 
 for about three months at the Contin Inn. He 
 arrived early in February 1836, the marriage 
 being fixed for the 26th of April. The Laidlaws 
 and old Mr. Downie, the minister of Contin, 
 helped him through the intervening weeks, and 
 occasionally on a Saturday he was allowed to 
 make a trip to Inverness and to pay a visit to 
 his fiancee. 
 
 For the rest, he fished over the ground of the 
 year before, and added a full acquaintance with 
 its spring resources to his summer experiences. 
 On the 17th of February he received a memorable 
 gift from William Laidlaw — a hook, some brown 
 hackles, and a length of white horse-tail hair, 
 part of the fishing-tackle for which Sir Walter 
 Scott was looking in the drawer where he found 
 the manuscript of " Waverley," long cast aside. 
 I have tried in vain to trace the history of this 
 tackle, and can only suppose that my father gave 
 it to some importunate collector. I know that he
 
 88 MEMOIR. 
 
 was a frequent victim to the hunters of autographs, 
 who on several occasions " borrowed " from him 
 valuable manuscripts which they never returned. 
 
 Mr. Downie married the young couple on 
 April 26th, and they left the Strath for Nairn, in- 
 tending to make a short stay amongst the rivers 
 of Morayshire. Of these, my father became best 
 acquainted with the Nairn, " the water of alders," 
 but fished the Findhorn several times, as well 
 as the lochs in its neighbourhood. They liked 
 Nairn well enough to prolong their stay for a 
 year, but by that time its attractions had paled, 
 and a great longing for the streams of the South 
 and the neighbourhood of old friends came over 
 him. They lived in lodgings, so there was no 
 hindrance to stay their steps. An invitation came 
 from Edinburgh, and they went thither in May 
 1837, to spend a fortnight at the home in Bellevue 
 Crescent, It was a trying time for the young 
 wife, but her introduction to her husband's family 
 had the happy result that the Admiral became 
 once for all her staunch friend and admirer, and
 
 MEMOIR. 89 
 
 that from the rest she received then and after- 
 wards unfailing kindness and consideration. 
 
 Kelso had for some months been in my father's 
 thoughts, as an ideal stage in the nomadic life of 
 an angler, and he decided to make trial of it at 
 once. It was in June 1837 that he and his wife 
 arrived in Kelso, scarcely forecasting then that 
 their whole after-lives should be lived and ended 
 there. It would be trite to describe this most 
 beautifully placed of Border towns. The Tweed, 
 which grows majestic at its walls, was the magnet 
 which drew my father ; and the silvery Teviot 
 with its affluents, the capricious streams of the 
 neighbouring hills, and the lochs that lie in their 
 hollows, helped to weave the meshes which kept 
 him a willing captive all his days. At that time 
 something congenial to the angler's nature breathed 
 in the very air of Kelso. Men and bo3's, gentle 
 and simple, plied the rod. The river was to those 
 natives of the place as are the mountains to the 
 mountaineer — first in their thoughts in the morn- 
 ing, last at night. In the early hours they hung
 
 90 MEMOIR. 
 
 over the bridge to observe its moods ; at midday 
 they returned to gaze and speculate ; at evening 
 they went forth rod in hand, or gathered again 
 in contented groups to watch the sunset on its 
 ripples or count the rising trout. This com- 
 munity of anglers boasted its knot of specialists, 
 amongst them Harry Stockwell, Watty Mathieson, 
 John Pyle, Stewart Gray, James Bowhill, and 
 Mr. David Robertson ; and my father's name was 
 soon recognised as worthy to be added to this 
 roll. 
 
 During his stay in Nairn, he had planned 
 and written a series of sketches in the form of 
 colloquies between the members of an Angling 
 Club. John Wilson and Aytoun had visited 
 him, and made the acquaintance of his wife at 
 Nairn, and I am inclined to believe that the 
 friends distinguished the Sunday spent together 
 by an escapade to a lochlet whose name they 
 never divulged, where they secured such a 
 " take " of trout as anglers say is only possible 
 on Sunday. They had not dared to face public
 
 MEMOIR. 91 
 
 opinion in the Highlands by taking their baskets, 
 so that when it was time to go home, they had 
 to hide the silvery heaps amongst the heather. 
 The tale was never told in all its fulness, although 
 in after-life mysterious hints of some such im- 
 pious exploit passed between them. 
 
 The scheme of the new book was shadowed 
 forth in conclave during this visit. By March 
 my father had carried it out, and was in corre- 
 spondence with Mr. Pitcairn of the Edinburgh 
 Printing and Publishing Company, to whom he 
 was introduced by a brilliant and valued friend, 
 Mr. W. B. D. D. Turnbull, popularly known as 
 "Alphabet Turnbull." 
 
 The little book was published in the spring of 
 1837, and its illustrations were due to his artist 
 sister. Unfortunately the Publishing Company 
 failed, and a great part of the edition was not 
 even issued. This is a matter of regret, as the 
 sketches, somewhat in Izaak Walton's vein, have 
 a discursive and interesting flow, with just enough 
 of formality in their style to indicate their literary
 
 92 MEMOIR. 
 
 pedigree. The members of the club, who take 
 part in the river-side rambles, frays with poachers 
 and keepers, encounters of wit around the " social 
 jug," songs, monologues, and disputes, are not all 
 recognisable now, but it is easy to discover the 
 author in "Tom Otter," John Wilson in "Jack 
 Leister," and William Aytoun in " Bill Mayfly," 
 while " Wandle-weir " was probably my father's 
 youngest brother, already an effective angler. 
 The book is very scarce, as the first edition was 
 fragmentary, and no second was issued. It is 
 mentioned in the following letter from William 
 Aytoun : — 
 
 "Edinburgh, 21 Abercromby Place, 
 September 30, 1837. 
 
 " My Dear Stoddart, — I regretted very much not 
 seeing you on your emigration from the breechless 
 regions of the North to the more civilised district of 
 Kelso, but I presume you had so much to do during 
 your short stay here, that you were not easily visible to 
 the eyes of the public. You and I are quite becom- 
 ing strangers, a thing which should not be, and, by 
 our Lady, shall not be \ and I pray you to accept this 
 epistle as proof of my determination to the contrary.
 
 MEMOIR. 93 
 
 Tell me, my beloved Poet, what do you in the South ? 
 what new ' Ajalons ' do you meditate, or what more of 
 piscatory adventure and song ? I read your last book 
 with great interest, which was considerably excited 
 before by the specimens you showed us at Nairn, and 
 as a proof of it, I send you a number of the Sporting 
 Magazine containing my chronicled opinion, and wish 
 it every success. I saw John Wilson last night; he 
 tells me that he is a near neighbour of yours, and sees 
 you frequently. I hope he is happy in his new em- 
 ployment, which astonished me much when first an- 
 nounced. I should have as soon thought of John's 
 becoming an astrologer as a farmer, of his driving 
 Charles's wain as standing between the stilts of a ter- 
 restrial plough. But who shall control destiny ? . . . 
 
 "Are there any hopes of seeing you in town this 
 winter? Kelso is surely not at such an unaccomplish- 
 able distance from Edinburgh that you could not con- 
 trive to pop upon us like a meteor some fine snowy 
 afternoon, and have a cup for auld lang syne. I have 
 now but a dim and shadowy remembrance of your 
 appearance. I can hardly recall the tones of your 
 voice, and have entirely forgotten the idioms of the 
 unknown tongue. Shall these never be refreshed ? 
 Will you present my kind regards and remembrances to 
 Mrs. Stoddart, who I hope continues well ? — Yours ever 
 faithfully, 
 
 " William Edmonstoune Aytoun."
 
 94 MEMOIR. 
 
 John Wilson had decided on the life of a 
 gentleman-farmer ; and as farming in Roxburgh- 
 shire then, as now, was high, he had come to 
 Harrietfield, near Kelso, tenanted by Mr. Ogden, 
 to study its art. The friends were therefore 
 within easy reach of each other for a few years, 
 a circumstance which added strength to the hold 
 Kelso was beginning to take on my father's 
 affections. That he was at first uncertain of 
 the future, and anxious to supplement his 
 limited income by some appointment whose 
 duties would be light enough to leave him large 
 leisure for the rod and the pen, is evident from 
 the following letter, written to him shortly 
 after his arrival in Kelso. The touches of 
 pathos and friendly warmth which make this 
 letter interesting were characteristic of his corre- 
 spondent, a man whose devout Catholicism ex- 
 posed him at the time to gross misunderstanding 
 and injustice. His friendship, as well as that of 
 Alexander Wood, afterwards Sheriff-Substitute of 
 Berwickshire, were the result of old family ac-
 
 MEMOIR. 95 
 
 quaintancc, cemented by daily meetings at Parlia- 
 ment House. 
 
 " Edinburgh, 67 Great King Street, 
 December 20, 1837. 
 
 " My Dear Stoddart, — I feel almost ashamed to 
 write to you and confess myself wholly inadequate to 
 the ceremony of inspecting the date of your last epistle ; 
 but I do most sincerely assure you that the reason 
 for my silence consists neither in indifference to your 
 welfare, nor unwillingness to prove by deeds that friend- 
 ship towards you which I feel cannot be suitably 
 expressed by tvords. The main cause of my back- 
 sliding towards you and others in this respect is, — 
 my own communing with my own thoughts, — imagining 
 existence and conversation with the few whom I love 
 and regard, — and that atmosphere of feeling (encircling 
 and enveloping both) which makes one dissatisfied 
 with common-world bustle, and yearn towards a place 
 of rest whither I have no pinions to bear me. All this 
 I know to be a grievous error and sin, and I abhor 
 myself for it ; but I pray you to accept my confession, 
 and certify my forgiveness by writing to me at all times 
 when either humour or business impels you, and by 
 employing me in everything wherein my small capa- 
 bilities can serve you. On business I cati always and 
 zf//// always write ; wherefore forget me as an intellectual, 
 and use me as a mechanical beast. 
 
 " Confound your ideas of road-surveying ! Bethink
 
 96 MEMOIR. 
 
 you of a better office. Why not seek a sergeantry- 
 at-arms, or some such ;^ioo-a-year-bringing berth in 
 the Royal Household? Your father's friends are in 
 power at present, and ours I hope will be so soon. 
 ' Think of this, Master Brook.' These offices require 
 only the labour of drawing the salary. 
 
 "Poor John Miller is dead — Outram married. In 
 one year I have lost them as well as Macdougal. The 
 Bar has almost lost its attractions for me ; familiar faces 
 have fled ; we are ' beggars all.' Commend me to your 
 rib. Very faithfully yours, 
 
 " W. B. D. D. TURNBULL." 
 
 Sinecures were more plentiful in those days 
 than now ; but my father failed to secure one, 
 and I cannot gather that he ever made very 
 strenuous attempts to do so. From one point of 
 view this was regrettable ; but his unique local 
 rank as the poet-angler of Teviotdale would have 
 been forfeited had any such office called him 
 away from KeJso. As the months and 3'ears 
 passed, he reconciled himself to a life of narrow 
 means, never grudging lost opportunities so long 
 as the Teviot was free to him, the Tweed acces- 
 sible from time to time, and his home brightened,
 
 MEMOIR. 97 
 
 not only by the presence of her he loved tenderly 
 from first to last, but by the frequent visits of 
 friends whose comradeship was based on mutual 
 interests, which the absence of luxuries could not 
 affect. 
 
 For some years his home-life in Kelso was 
 disturbed by frequent change of lodgings or 
 cottage, but after nine restless years he took 
 Bellevue Cottage, in Bowmont Street, as a tenant, 
 and stayed there for the rest of his life. During 
 the years between his arrival in Kelso and his 
 final settlement in Bellevue Cottage, the events of 
 chief interest to him were the birth of a son in 
 1S38, of a daughter in 1840, and of a second son 
 in 1842. 
 
 In 1839 he collected the Angling Songs from 
 the "Art of Angling," the " Reminiscences," and the 
 journals in which some had appeared, and adding 
 to their number, published them in a volume, 
 which also included some patriotic, imaginative, and 
 emotional poems. The publishers were Messrs. 
 Blackwood & Sons, and it adds to the literary
 
 98 MEMOIR. 
 
 interest of the book that it was issued from the 
 same printing-press as the first edition of the 
 Waverley Novels. It was dedicated to Alexander 
 Wood. This volume contains nearly all that is 
 best and freshest of his verse, and he made very 
 few additions in after-life to the poems on angling 
 which form its most important and characteristic 
 section. By them, indeed, he stands or falls as a 
 poet ; for, while on other fields he has little claim 
 to the bays won and worn by many, here his 
 rivals are few, and their songs hardly awaken 
 such a memory of whirring reel and rushing river 
 for refrain and accompaniment as do his. 
 
 Christopher North, so severe on " The Death- 
 wake," spoke in hearty praise of the " Angling 
 Songs." He called " A birr, a whirr, the salmon's 
 out ! " and " Bring the rod, the line, the reel ! " 
 " among the best angling songs ever written ; " 
 and half a century of anglers have not attained 
 to displace them or depreciate his verdict. 
 
 The poem " To the Tweed," with which is in- 
 woven an elegy on Sir Walter Scott, he admitted
 
 MEMOIR. 99 
 
 to be "full of feeling and breathed from the heart, 
 though the style of some of the stanzas be rather 
 too Tom Stoddartish." It was somewhat modern 
 for the Professor, and is perhaps somewhat old- 
 fashioned for the reader of to-day ; but to Bor- 
 der ears its lilt has still music and tenderness 
 " breathed from the heart." 
 
 In this year my father was living in a little 
 cottage which formed part of the buildings at- 
 tached to the old Grammar School of Kelso, 
 under the shadow of the ruin which represents 
 what must have been the stateliest of all the 
 Border abbeys. The little town had accepted 
 him very hospitably, and as his reputation grew, 
 proved itself capable of granting him a kindl}' 
 distinction. He was soon a member of its 
 social circle, of its whist-club and fishing-clubs, 
 and he laid the bases of many a friendship 
 and of many a keen rivalry as stimulating as 
 friendship, which, indeed, was only 'war to the 
 hook ' on the river and genial fellowship by the 
 hearth.
 
 lOO MEMOIR. 
 
 Mr. David Robertson, whose skill was no whit 
 inferior to my father's, figured chiefly in the 
 latter relation. An old Tweedside angler, he 
 was put on his mettle by this interloper, and I 
 doubt if he ever succumbed so long as he was 
 able to wield a rod. It must have galled him 
 to find his supremacy threatened by a new-comer, 
 who, one afternoon in the year of his arrival, 
 took eleven dozen fine trout out of Teviot in 
 five hours. He straightened his back for battle 
 accordingly, so that their spring and autumn 
 campaigns were part of the chronicles of Kelso. 
 In spring, either angler would rise at a very early 
 hour to get ahead of his rival ; but the day was 
 rare and marked with a red letter on which my 
 father left " Davy " behind to mutter wrathfully 
 over a well-whipped water. Mr. Robertson lived 
 in Waverley Cottage, which had been the home of 
 Sir Walter Scott v/hen he was a boy at school 
 in Kelso. A bust of Scott occupied a niche on 
 its outside wall, and is still there, though the 
 cottage itself is enlarged out of knowledge. In
 
 MEMOIR. lOI 
 
 those days it was a low, white house, covered 
 with roses and pyrus japonica, having one gable- 
 end turned to the Knowes, at the other side of 
 which m}^ father lived for a couple of years. The 
 rivals were therefore at close quarters during that 
 time, and one watched for the other's going forth ; 
 but it is due to both to say, that however keen 
 the contest, even though it sometimes broke out 
 in racy personal invective, it interfered very little 
 with the regard they had for each other. Some- 
 times, when argument excited the Homeric strain 
 in either, they would have flown to combat 
 worthy of tradition ; but friends making truce 
 between them, the anger fell as suddenly as it 
 rose. Once Dav}', returning from fishing, found 
 his rival digging for worms, and ready jeers were 
 interchanged. My father could contrive the 
 keener taunt, and Davy, exasperated, seized him 
 by the throat, and went nigh to strangling him. 
 Straight went my father to the Fiscal to prefer 
 a charge of assault against his foe ; but in the 
 very act better counsels prevailed, and he went
 
 I02 MEMOIR. 
 
 home soothed and unresentful. Often for days 
 they would hold aloof loftily, stung by some such 
 boast or taunt — for there is a childish element of 
 free-spokenness in nearly every angler ; but the 
 frost did not last long, and used to thaw in a 
 hearty laugh at themselves and each other. 
 
 A number of the letters received by my father 
 at this time were from editors of now forgotten 
 publications, asking for contributions in verse and 
 prose. Others were from men interested either 
 in fishing or the natural history of fish, and seek- 
 ing from his experience data to confirm their 
 own opinions. All such letters indicate his posi- 
 tion as a recognised authority and observer. 
 Amongst them letters inviting him to join the 
 different angling-clubs in the neighbourhood point 
 to his local fame. 
 
 He kept up a steady correspondence with his 
 father and sisters, and in 1838 the Admiral paid 
 him a visit at Kelso, when his first child was 
 christened. 
 
 Those early years at Kelso were uneventful, 
 
 I
 
 MEMOIR. 103 
 
 but were rich in the quiet gain which pleased 
 him best. Their records are all of fishing, — 
 pike in the Teviot, trout in the Kale, salmon 
 in the Tweed, perch in Yetholm Loch. John 
 Wilson and he caught thirty-six dozen trout be- 
 tween them in the Kale on a single day ; while 
 he fished for pike in Teviot at least once a week 
 during their season, and claimed one hundred 
 and fifty as his spoil in eight years. 
 
 Gradually he gathered his perfect knowledge 
 of the neighbourhood — a knowledge carried into 
 minutest particulars, which embraced every field 
 and tree, every fern and flower, every by-path 
 and its features, the very disposition of the stones 
 upon tracks which he frequented. Nor did this 
 knowledge dull his delight in these familiar 
 things ; rather they entered into his daily needs 
 and became one with his sense of life. His 
 nature knew neither satiety nor indifference ; it 
 had escaped those fatal clauses of the curse on 
 humanity. He paid short summer visits to his 
 parents in their country-quarters during those
 
 I04 MEMOIR. 
 
 years, — to Comrie House in August 1842, to 
 Ladhope House in July 1844. His wife and 
 children were with him at Ladhope, and my 
 earliest recollections are of this visit — of the tall, 
 stern grandfather ; of the invalid grand-aunt, who 
 ruled the household with a rod of iron from the 
 recesses of an imposing four-poster, from Vv^hich 
 a fiat went forth for our first whipping ; of the 
 artist-aunt who had a studio, and whose tubes of 
 oil-paint fascinated us into the mischief for which 
 the whipping was given. 
 
 From Ladhope my father and mother went to 
 the Highlands, taking me with them ; and my 
 memory still retains some shadowy scenes of 
 our stay with the grandparents there. The 
 Macgregors had left Contin, and were settled in 
 a small farmhouse on the banks of Loch Garve. 
 I can remember my grandfather's hearty laugh, 
 the " goodies " he used to give me every day, 
 which " grew on the heather " he said, and a 
 visit to the hills on the back of one of his men, to 
 make sure that they did. The visit is noted in
 
 MEMOIR. 105 
 
 "An Angler's Rambles," where I find that my 
 father got permission to fish the salmon-casts below 
 the Falls of Rogie from Sir George Mackenzie, 
 and to try other parts of the Rasay from Mr. 
 Horatio Ross, and that he made experiments 
 proving the disinclination of salmon to take the 
 fly after surmounting a waterfall both at Rogie 
 and at a small waterfall occurring in Strath Garve. 
 
 In 1845 he spent the month of August at 
 Eyemouth, on the coast of Berwickshire, his wife 
 and children with him ; and I can distinctly 
 remember many of the incidents of this seaside 
 sojourn, and specially the stranding of an immense 
 shoal of herring-fry, driven to the shore by a pur- 
 suing body of lythe and saithe, to which he alludes 
 on page 323 of "An Angler's Rambles." During 
 this visit, his evenings and many of his nights 
 were occupied with sea-fishing, which, however, 
 never rivalled fresh-water fishing in his esteem. 
 
 During the winters of these years he was 
 occupied in carefully expanding the notes which 
 he had gathered in the ten years since his " Art
 
 106 MEMOIR. 
 
 of Angling " was first printed. Not only had 
 he gained in these years further knowledge of 
 both Highland and Lowland rivers, but he had 
 extended his experience in the art, and was 
 now acquainted with salmon-fishing, and a suc- 
 cessful follower of this noblest branch of the 
 " gentle craft." 
 
 Every detail concerning the salmon and its 
 capture was of first importance to him, and the 
 daily opportunities for observation which his 
 neighbourhood to the Tweed allowed matured 
 his knowledge and made him an authority on 
 many moot-points of its history and vicissi- 
 tudes. His authority was not, however, admitted 
 in those early days, although he lived to see 
 point after point on which he had long vainly 
 insisted accepted in the end, seldom with recog- 
 nition of his influence in bringing about their 
 acceptance. Those interested in theories regard- 
 ing salmon acknowledged his power of accurate 
 observation, complimented him by asking his 
 opinion, which he was always ready to state
 
 MEMOIR. 107 
 
 fully and clearly, and relapsed to their own 
 more nebulous views, to forget, when the truth 
 dawned on them at last, that he had been one of 
 the first to observe and record it. 
 
 But his skill as a salmon-fisher was apparent 
 enough, and I have heard one of the best anglers 
 of the last generation say that to watch my father 
 play and capture a salmon was to receive a per- 
 fect lesson in the art. He had much delicacy 
 of wrist, which gave a certain artistic finish to his 
 handling of the rod and reel when his blood was 
 up in a worthy encounter with a vigorous fish. 
 The same delicacy served him in fly-making, with 
 which he wiled away the hours of unpropitious 
 weather, and in which his skill was sufficiently 
 known to tempt vendors of fishing-tackle to put 
 his name to lures of their own contriving. He 
 was once pressed in an Edinburgh shop to buy 
 an assortment of flics at which no sensible salmon 
 would have looked, on the ground that they were 
 made after patterns by Mr. Stoddart of Kelso. 
 
 The work of arranging his notes and putting
 
 Io8 MEMOIR. 
 
 them into literary form was to result in " The 
 Angler's Companion," published by Messrs. Black- 
 wood & Sons in 1847; but he relieved his 
 mind from the positive and realistic character 
 of this work by touching up and completing a 
 romance, which, as I gather from an allusion in 
 a letter, he had already begun in Nairn. This was 
 "Abel Massinger, or the Aeronaut;" — a second 
 title which exercised the critical faculty of an old 
 friend much given to malaprops, who exclaimed, 
 when first she heard it, " The Airy Nowt ! what 
 for couldna Tom Stoddart hae called it the Mad 
 Bull at aince ? " 
 
 " Abel Massinger " was published by Mr. J. 
 Menzies of Edinburgh, but printed in Kelso at the 
 office of the Kelso Mail. It appeared in 1846, but 
 had little or no success. My father admitted later 
 that " in point of plot the production was a faulty 
 one and crowded with extravagances." The story 
 deals with the misadventures of a young English- 
 man, who gets into the power of a villainous 
 brigand-chief, whose fortress near Cosenza defied
 
 MEMOIR. 109 
 
 the Neapolitan Government, and formed a rendez- 
 vous for all the robbers of South-Western Italy. 
 This man, Schiavone by name, had conceived a 
 relentless hatred to Mr. Massinger's father, whose 
 person he had secured, and whom he kept a 
 mutilated prisoner in one of the dungeons under- 
 neath his castle ; and this hatred he extended 
 to every member of the family, succeeding by a 
 series of extraordinary wiles in getting hold of 
 one son, the hero of the romance, and in holding 
 him captive in a dismal cell. His first encounter 
 with Schiavone, his escape from the brigand's 
 clutches with the heroine — another victim — the 
 appearance in London of his foe disguised as an 
 aeronaut, his fateful voyage in the balloon, the 
 startling coincidences which brought the brigand 
 on the scene at every descent of the balloon, his 
 final capture by Schiavone close to the crater of 
 Mount Etna, his captivity and his release, form 
 the groundwork of a multitude of incidents as 
 startling as any conceived by the most modern 
 romancers, and chiefly disqualified to take rank
 
 no MEMOIR. 
 
 with these by their pretension to greater veri- 
 simiHtude. Most of the tale is told by the hero 
 himself, who occupies the lonely hours of his 
 captivity in writing an account of his adventures, 
 which, through the friendly offices of a priest, 
 eventually reaches the hands of his brother, and 
 leads to an extraordinary and successful attack 
 on the brigand's stronghold. Again, as in " The 
 Deathwake," the author's imagination defies the 
 shackles of even such qualified reasonableness as 
 is expected from romancers, and dealing solely 
 with the natural — for his hint at Schiavone's com- 
 pact with the devil is evidently an after-thought — 
 he abuses its scope for coincidences, every one of 
 which startles the reader by its uncanny sudden- 
 ness, and too much suggests the intervention of 
 the supernatural. The wealth of imagination 
 shown is undeniable, but the lack of sober hand- 
 ling depreciates its value in the book. 
 
 " Abel Massinger " was my father's first and 
 last attempt at a prose romance. He learned 
 from its failure that the field in which his power
 
 MEMOIR. 1 1 I 
 
 told and was respected lay within the limits of 
 his own experience and observation; and although 
 in later life he gave rhymed form to the vague 
 dreams and vagrant fancies which haunted his 
 musings, it was more as pastime for himself than 
 from any faith in their worthiness to please a 
 wider public than the circle of his own friends. 
 
 In 1847 he finished his new work on fishing, 
 which was published that year by Messrs. 
 Blackwood & Sons, under the title of " The 
 Angler's Companion to the Rivers and Lakes of 
 Scotland." This book contained all that was most 
 serviceable in the " Art of Angling," of course 
 entirely recast in form and with fuller practical 
 details, while it added to the older stock a large 
 amount of new information, of which perhaps 
 the part of most enduring value was that relating 
 to Highland lochs and rivers. To this day the 
 work is an angling classic in Scotland, and was 
 without worthy rival till 1857, when Mr. Stewart 
 published his " Practical Angler," The latter 
 work, an important guide to those to whom
 
 112 MEMOIR. 
 
 effective and rapid slaying is the chief aim 
 in fishing, does not pretend to take note of 
 those circumstances of scenery and natural 
 details so suggestive to the angler vi^ho is 
 pensive as well as practical, and can therefore 
 hardly hold literary rank with the former work. 
 Its advocac}^ of newer and deadlier methods and 
 lures gave it precedence with the younger genera- 
 tion of anglers, but it can never be esteemed as 
 more than an excellent guide-book, and deserves 
 no place amongst books akin both in kind and 
 degree to the " Compleat Art of Angling." To 
 these the " Angler's Companion " belongs. A 
 follower of Izaak Walton, my father was his 
 heir in exclusive devotion to the sovereign art, 
 to which he paid tribute of all gifts he owned, 
 of time and talents and enthusiasm, pressing into 
 its service, like his master, such powers as have 
 availed to crown it with a literary distinction no 
 other sport has gained. Hunting-songs there 
 are, lays of the forest and the field, gathered 
 one by one from many a source; but what Nimrod
 
 MEMOIR. 113 
 
 of the chase has woven a whole chaplet of songs, 
 into which have passed the fire and dew of in- 
 spiration, to honour the sport he follows ? Mr. 
 Lang, in his " Letters to Dead Authors," has 
 noticed this kinship to Father Izaak, and has 
 deemed the two worthy to be peers in an angler's 
 heaven. 
 
 " The companion we want," said his veteran 
 critic in Blackwood's Magazine, " is the ' Angler's 
 Companion.' As a teacher of practical angling 
 in Scotland, we look on Mr. Stoddart to be with- 
 out rival or equal. What does the book lack ? 
 Anything ? No, not even ' a simple recipe for 
 cooking a luhitling or good trout by the river-side.^ 
 What a smack there is here of inimitable and 
 beloved Izaak ! " 
 
 In 1842 John Wilson had become tenant of 
 the farm of Billholm near Langholm, where he 
 stayed during the rest of his life. 
 
 The duties and interests of farming led him 
 frequently to Hawick, sufficiently on the way to 
 Kelso to tempt him thither when business was 
 
 H
 
 114 MEMOIR. 
 
 ended, so that his visits to my father were coin- 
 cident with spring or autumn sales at Hawick. 
 It was generally in August that the return visit 
 was paid, and for the next twenty years no 
 summer passed without this interchange. Such 
 a friendship was of great value to both, but 
 especially to my father, as it kept up in memory 
 and association the brilliant companionship of 
 his youth. Through John Wilson he knew the 
 doings and sayings of his whilom comrades, and 
 so kept alive something of their stimulating in- 
 fluence. Lack of means stood in the way of 
 frequent intercourse with them at this time, and 
 intensified the importance to him of these meet- 
 ings with his friend, as well as of the correspond- 
 ence between them. 
 
 John Wilson married Miss Graham Bell in the 
 summer of 1848, and his first invitation on his 
 return to Billholm as a Benedict was to his old 
 friend. They had not seen each other for a 
 longer time than usual, and the new interest 
 attaching to the meeting, as well as the arrears 
 
 I
 
 MEMOIR. I I 5 
 
 of fishing adventure which each felt bound to 
 record to the other, gave the talk considerable 
 liveliness. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson's presence restrained their mutual 
 frankness for a time, but when she left them, she 
 heard from her room above the voices in the 
 dining-room wax louder and louder, some differ- 
 ence of opinion waging fiercely between the two. 
 She quaked in momentary expectation of a fight, 
 and was on the point of stealing down-stairs to 
 guard her husband from attack, when the door 
 opened, the angry voices suddenl}' softened into 
 jest and laughter, and the two were soon exchang- 
 ing repeated and affectionate " good nights " on the 
 stairs. It was their way — a Homeric way — but 
 ending ever harmlessl3\ Such passing breezes 
 freshened a friendship which there was no vanity 
 in either nature to blight. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson soon shared her husband's affection 
 for my father, and his visits to Billholm were all 
 the happier for her advent there. The letters 
 from Billholm between 1848 and 1853 ^^"c full
 
 Il6 MEMOIR. 
 
 of pleasant allusions to old friends. Here are 
 extracts from two which belong to this period, 
 and dealing, as all the letters do, with the " ruling 
 passion," are also of special interest as giving us 
 a glimpse of the veteran Professor, an " angli- 
 maniac " to the end. 
 
 "On the 31st of May I left this and joined the 
 following party at Glasgow, — Professor Wilson and Mrs. 
 Gordon, Professor Farrier and Mrs. Ferrier, Mr. James 
 Wilson and Miss Henrietta Wilson, Sheriff Bell and 
 Miss Bell, and Mr. Blair Wilson. Next morning we 
 proceeded via Loch Lomond to Luib in Glen Dochart, 
 where most of the party remained for nearly ten days. 
 During the whole of this time the weather was more 
 like January than June, the hills were covered with 
 snow, and the wind blew a hurricane nearly every day. 
 In spite of all this, Blair and I had very good sport 
 (the rest of the party were scarcely ever over the door), 
 always coming home with our creels pretty heavy. I 
 devoted the last two days to salmon, and killed one 
 each day, and two nobler fish ' never bit the sward.' 
 They were the largest I ever caught, and quite the 
 finest, fresh from the ocean." 
 
 As neither letter is dated, I can only guess at
 
 MEMOIR. I I 
 
 their sequence. We know from Mrs. Gordon's 
 " Life of Christopher North " that he spent his 
 last fishing-seasons at Luib. 
 
 'O 
 
 " I returned from the Highlands last Wednesday 
 week, after spending a very pleasant fortnight with a 
 pleasant party in tiie 'land of mountain and of flood.' 
 The weather throughout was most beautiful, but more 
 unpropitious for piscatorial purposes it could not have 
 been, and our sport was accordingly very indifferent on 
 the whole. The first week was passed at Luib. The 
 Dochart was nearly as dry as the turnpike road, so none 
 of its Baunches were to be tempted from their holes. 
 Aytoun and I, however, had tolerable sport in Loch 
 Dochart and two smaller meres among the hills, en- 
 creeling about three dozen a-piece per diem of small 
 but very fine-eating trout. From Luib we proceeded 
 to Portsonachan on Loch Awe, joined by Henry Glass- 
 ford Bell. The first day Aytoun and I went in the 
 same boat, the Professor and Bell having each one to 
 themselves. A whole day's incessant flogging produced 
 about three dozen of fine trout as the united efi"ort of 
 the party, — most tiresome work. Next day Aytoun 
 and I again went together, each with a trolling rod and 
 a fly one. From nine in the morning till three in the 
 afternoon, we only got about half-a-dozen trout with 
 the fly of the average Loch Awe size, and were just on
 
 Il8 MEMOIR. 
 
 the point of giving it up as a bad job, when, strange to 
 say, both our troUing lines ran out at the same instant, 
 and in a few minutes more we each landed a small 
 ferox of about 3^ lbs. Aytoun's line had scarcely been 
 let out when he had him again, and after a nice run a 
 very beautiful fish of 5!- lbs. 'bit the sward.' In less 
 than half an hour my turn came once more, and resulted 
 in the capture of another ferox of about 4 lbs., making 
 four deaths in less than an hour. But this was not all ; 
 for no sooner had we got the lines out again, than away 
 they went, a heavy fish evidently attached to each. 
 Being near the shore, we instantly landed ; but what was 
 our disappointment when both the monsters turned out 
 to be pike ! We, however, had the satisfaction of landing 
 them both, 'goodly fish and thumpers,' somewhere about 
 7 lbs. a-piece. Another of the same species was soon 
 ehcreeled, and I have no doubt we should have got 
 several more, and not improbably another ferox, but 
 our bait was exhausted, and we had to return to take 
 our ease in our inn, not at all displeased with the day's 
 sport. The Professor and Bell, who had been fishing 
 with the fly only, returned with very sorry baskets. 
 The day after this the Scottish Cavalier and I again 
 joined our forces, and proceeded to a small loch near 
 Portsonachan, by name Trumlie (so it sounds), taking 
 a boat with us, as it is quite unfishable from the side. 
 This loch is absolutely swimming with small trouts, 
 about the size of those in Loch Skene, and I am sure
 
 MEMOIR. 119 
 
 on a favourable day one might with ease kill twenty 
 dozen. On this occasion the wind was so strong as to 
 render the boat almost unmanageable, and the fishing 
 very disagreeable from our lines getting constantly fast 
 in the weeds, with which the loch is quite covered. 
 We, however, spite of all these annoyances, killed 
 fourteen dozen between us. This concluded our 
 fishing." 
 
 In 1848 Admiral Stoddart died, at the age of 
 eighty years. By his will, and that of Miss 
 Sprot, whose death occurred shortly before, some 
 addition was made to my father's restricted in- 
 come. 
 
 During the year 1849 ^^ was in correspon- 
 dence with Mr. Andrew Young of Invershin, who 
 took much interest in the natural history of 
 salmon, and studied the question practically by 
 experiments in their breeding and development. 
 This correspondence led to my father's visiting 
 Invershin in August 1850. Having tasted blood 
 in the River Shin, he extended his tour, first to 
 Loch Inver, where he was the guest of Mr. 
 Dunbar, whom he counted the best-informed
 
 1 20 MEMOIR. 
 
 and most successful angler of Sutherlandshire, 
 and in whose house he met Mr. Fitzgibbon, 
 better known to collectors of angling books as 
 "Ephemera." Unfortunately, 1850 and the two 
 years following had the reputation of being the 
 worst years of the century for fishing purposes, 
 and the month of August was exceptionally rainy, 
 the only fine days being hot, glaring, and unpro- 
 pitious. In spite of the weather, the month's 
 stay in Sutherlandshire proved a valuable one, 
 as his acquaintance with the best fishers of the 
 North, and the permissions he received through 
 the Duke of Sutherland's factors, Mr. M'lvor 
 and Mr. Horsburgh, introduced him to the in- 
 numerable lochs and streams of a country which, 
 but for the drawback of uncertain weather, is 
 surely an angler's paradise. He threw a line 
 over every water his zigzag route encountered, 
 tested its denizens, made notes of its features, 
 gathered information from his hosts, guides, and 
 boatmen (which, as much as he could, he con- 
 firmed and qualified by practical experience), and
 
 MEMOIR. I 2 I 
 
 SO added a definite if summar}' gain to his already 
 large knowledge of the waters of Scotland. 
 
 Here are a few sentences from a letter to his 
 wife, dated August lo, 1850: — 
 
 " The Shin is in miserable order, — lower than it has 
 ever been known to be, — and the lower rod-fishings, 
 those on the best part of the river, have recently been 
 let to a shooling-party, so that I had to operate upon 
 the upper streams alone, on a hot day and under the 
 attacks of myriads of midges. I can assure you the 
 veil was well thought of, and is no useless defence ; 
 but it is impossible to fish well with it on, as it makes 
 the face so suffocatingly hot. I was out with one of 
 !\Ir. Young's men, Donald Ross, and in a short time 
 captured three fish, all grilses, a thing to be proud of 
 considering the low state of the river, but more espe- 
 cially as it had been well thrashed before by the great 
 ' Ephemera,' who in three successive days caught 
 nothing, and has taken to his heels. I expect to meet 
 with him on Monday at Loch Inver. Yesterday I got 
 rowed up Loch Shin ; owing to the strength of the 
 wind it required two men to manage the boat. I 
 killed a lake-trout of about 5 lbs., and you can tell Mr. 
 David Robertson I used his line for the purpose." 
 
 His visit to Sutherlandshire remained one of 
 his pleasantest recollections, and holds the first
 
 122 MEMOIR. 
 
 place in " An Angler's Rambles." It came to an 
 end on the last day of August, when legal rod- 
 fishing expired for the season, and was well 
 empIo3-ed up to the dusk of that day, when he 
 caught a fine newly-run grilse in the River Shin. 
 The acquaintances inaugurated at this time lasted 
 for many years, and a close correspondence 
 followed with Mr. Young and Mr. Dunbar on 
 the subject of salmon culture and fishing, sup- 
 plemented by long and valuable letters from Mr. 
 Horsburgh and Mr. M'lvor. These kept up the 
 record of Sutherlandshire fishing to the year 
 1853, when a new edition of the "Angler's Com- 
 panion " was published, an edition enriched by 
 the knowledge of Sutherlandshire lochs and 
 streams gained from the visit of 1850 and from 
 the letters of his friends in that county. This 
 edition, however, moved off with less rapidity 
 than the first, and the book has not again been 
 issued, and is now scarce. 
 
 My father's feats as a fisher on the home 
 streams had by this time secured for him the
 
 MEMOIR. 123 
 
 foremost place in the angling fraternity of Tweed- 
 side. Some of these feats are mentioned in the 
 " Angler's Companion," but I cannot do better 
 than give an account of two of them which has 
 been kindly forwarded to me by Mr. IMichie, a 
 skilful brother of the rod, who was eye-witness 
 on both occasions. The first incident belongs to 
 1 844, the second to some year prior to the Tweed 
 Acts of 1857, which I cannot exactly fix. Mr 
 Michie says : — 
 
 " I for one can testify to some of Mr. Stoddart's 
 angling feats which came under my observation, 
 one of which was his taking at least three 
 or four stone weight of trout from the Teviot, 
 with salmon-roe, then a legal lure, and very 
 much used, Maxwellheugh Mill Anna, on the 
 south side of the river, was his swim. I was 
 on tlie north side, and almost opposite. The 
 trout were taking well that day, and I had caught 
 between six and seven dozen of them, fair-sized, 
 perhaps not in good season. However, that went 
 for nothing witii nie at that time. I could notice
 
 124 MEMOIR. 
 
 that Mr. Stoddart was taking at least two for my 
 one. It was getting well on in the afternoon 
 when, all at once, he laid down his fishing-rod 
 and seemed to have given up the sport. I had 
 also made up my mind to leave and wound up ; 
 and, being curious to see his take, I came over the 
 bridge down to the Anna, and got over by the 
 mill-lead sluice to where Mr. Stoddart still was. 
 I could hardly believe what I there saw. His 
 basket (a very large salmon one) was filled, aye, 
 crammed with trout. The weight could not be 
 less than a quarter of a hundredweight, and nearly 
 as many were lying on the bank, which he had 
 begun to strap up on a strong cord. Of course I 
 expressed surprise as well as admiration at the 
 great catch, when he quietly said, ' Man, if I had 
 not been out of bait, I could have killed as many 
 more ; and to show you something perhaps you 
 never saw before, look here ! ' He sat down by 
 the river-side, and commenced washing his hands, 
 and I could see the trout actually nibbling at 
 his finger-ends — a fact which had to be seen
 
 MEMOIR. 125 
 
 to be believed. He told me many instances of 
 the like, and other strange experiences and feats 
 of fishing which seemed almost incredible. 
 
 " Another day, when angling on the same river 
 between the Old Castle cast and Ileiton Mill, 
 another favourite cast, I met Mr. Stoddart coming 
 down. He was literally clad with salmon and 
 sea-trout ; his large hamper was full, and five 
 or six strapped on his rod hanging across his 
 shoulder and down his back, the perspiration 
 streaming down his face and dripping off his 
 beard and hair. I cried, 'Hallo! Mr. Stoddart, 
 what's up tiie day ? You're killing yourself.' 
 He gave a quiet laugh and said, ' I'm doing 
 this to let the beggars see that all fishers are not 
 liars ; for the other da}-, when I had killed eleven 
 fish (more than the half of which I had left with 
 the boatman and other people at Roxburgh), they 
 threw that in my teeth ; so of course this will open 
 their eyes to see that what I have done to-day I 
 might have done yesterday.' I think he enjoyed 
 the discomfiture of the unbelieving 'beggars.'"
 
 126 MEMOIR, 
 
 The meeting with " Ephemera " at Loch Inver, 
 a ver}^ pleasant one at the time, led to a corre- 
 spondence between the two well-known anglers. 
 It was mainly occupied with the history of the 
 salmon, its much-disputed stages of development 
 and their dangers, and the various attempts at 
 artificial breeding which at that time were attract- 
 ing the attention of experts. My father's interest 
 in these led him to pay the more important 
 nurseries a visit, and his observations at Stor- 
 montfield, near Perth, brought him into contact 
 with Mr. Robert Buist, the superintendent of 
 the experiments there. A close correspondence 
 ensued, which added to his knowledge of the 
 attempt, and enabled him to profit by Mr. Buist's 
 experience. He embodied his views on the 
 subject of the " Artificial Breeding of Salmon " 
 in a pamphlet issued in 1854, which excited 
 considerable interest at the time. " Ephemera," 
 amongst others, entirely agreed with the opinions 
 expressed in it, and asked him to contribute a 
 series of articles to Bell's Life on the history of
 
 MEMOIR. 127 
 
 the salmon and the necessity for its protection. 
 The latter subject was now occupying the atten- 
 tion of all worthy anglers on Tweedside, and 
 a determined effort was being made to secure 
 the help of the law for the river. My father's 
 knowledge of the subject, and frequent protests 
 against the abuses to which the Tweed was 
 subjected, made his evidence regarding them of 
 value, and I find indications that it was first 
 formally given before a Commission at Berwick 
 in 1852. 
 
 The wholesale destruction of smolts and kelts 
 was the subject of his evidence before tlie Com- 
 mission and of his articles in BeWs Life. Every 
 child who could secure a few yards of line and a 
 hook filled his pockets with parr, a little fish 
 which is much more fearless than the wary trout; 
 while in the autumn season it was a common 
 thing for men to capture and retain from six to 
 fifteen kelts in a day's fishing. The injury of 
 such license to the stock of both Tweed and 
 Teviot was evident, and called for redress, and
 
 128 MEMOIR. 
 
 the two seasons prior to 1852 and that year 
 itself were signalised by a great scarcity of 
 salmon in these rivers. Other causes besides 
 the wanton destruction of the fish at all stages 
 helped to bring about this scarcity, one of the 
 most important being the exceptional weather 
 during the spring, summer, and autumn of 
 the years in question, long periods of drought 
 alternating with floods of great violence. But 
 to the wholesale and continuous slaughter of 
 smolts much of the evil was attributed, and my 
 father shared the opinion of those who condemned 
 the practice. His interest during these years 
 was indeed concentrated on this subject, and 
 numerous articles in Scotch newspapers, besides 
 his pamphlet and the contributions to Belts Life, 
 prove the warmth with which he espoused the 
 protection of the Tweed. The whole matter was 
 at last matured by the Tweed Commissioners, and 
 in 1857 a Bill "to consolidate and amend the 
 Acts for the more effectual preservation and 
 increase of salmon and the regulation of the
 
 MEMOIR. 129 
 
 fisheries in the River Tweed " was laid before the 
 House of Commons, and eventually made law. 
 In June the Bill was in Committee in the House 
 of Commons, and in August in the House of 
 Lords, and my father with a number of other 
 local witnesses attended in London to give evi- 
 dence in its favour. 
 
 Important in its effects as was this Bill, the 
 subsequent seasons showed that, in respect of 
 the annual and weekly close times, its provisions 
 were not yet sufficiently^ stringent ; and the efforts 
 of the Commissioners secured in 1S59 a "Bill to 
 amend the 'Tweed Fisheries Act, 1S57,' '^"d to 
 alter the annual and weekly close times in the 
 River Tweed." 
 
 It is worth a moment's digrcssioi to notice 
 
 that the agitation for the repeal of these Acts, 
 
 which is at present growing in the neighbourhood 
 
 of the Tweed, seeks a pretj.xt for its animus 
 
 against them in the e.xtraordinar}' increase of 
 
 salmon in both Tweed and Teviot since they 
 
 became law, and tries to establish a connection 
 
 I
 
 130 MEMOIR. 
 
 between that increase and the rapid growth of 
 disease amongst the fish. It is asserted that the 
 number of these is out of all proportion to the 
 bulk of water. " The watter's solid wi' fush," 
 says a local malcontent. 
 
 My father always deprecated the clause in the 
 Tweed Acts which forbade the use of salmon-roe 
 as bait, and indeed predicted an- enormous in- 
 crease in bull-trout as a result of its disuse. As 
 bull-trout have increased, and are known to be 
 greedy devourers both of the ova and young fry of 
 the salmon, he would, to the extent of that clause, 
 have sympathised with the agitation. In other 
 respects he believed the Tweed Acts to be useful 
 in their working, but too lenient with regard to 
 the annual close time. 
 
 Part of the summer of 1854 was spent at 
 Pitlochry, which gave my father an opportunity 
 of revisiting the Tay and the Tummel. His 
 youngest brother had returned from New Zea- 
 land, and was his companion on this occasion, and 
 together they thoroughly searched the district.
 
 MEMOIR. 131 
 
 confirming their opinion of former years, that 
 neither these rivers nor the lochs connected with 
 them can bear comparison from an angler's point 
 of view with the Tweed and Teviot. Their expe- 
 rience excepted Loch Broom from this inferiority. 
 And here my father achieved a success which 
 pleased him greatly at the time, and which he has 
 mentioned in "An Angler's Rambles." He had 
 chosen his flies with an artistic reference to local 
 colouring, a choice much condemned by a native 
 expert, who recommended a trial of his own 
 " fail-me-nevers." These were excellent flies, and 
 favourites also with my father, but, with the wil- 
 fulness of intuition, he rejected them, and caught 
 seventeen fine trout, against one caught b}' his 
 rival, w^ho was accustomed to the loch. 
 
 During the winter of this or the next year, he 
 was invited to give a public lecture in Kelso, and 
 chose " Eloquence " as his subject. After drawing 
 a distinction between the inspiration which directs 
 the language of the poet and the acquired and 
 fostered art which directs the language of the
 
 132 MEMOIR. 
 
 orator, he spoke at some length of the three 
 great fields for modern oratory, the political plat- 
 form, the pulpit, and the bar, and concluded with 
 examples of enthusiasts whose singleness of pur- 
 pose and unbending will lent to their words so 
 impressive a force that they drew the makers 
 of history into the vortex of their influence, and 
 became mighty factors in the development of 
 human progress. The lecture was no bad illus- 
 tration of the eloquence which it celebrated ; it 
 received a kind of local ovation, and was re- 
 peated in some of the neighbouring towns. 
 
 Its success led to an early request for a second 
 lecture. In this, to which my father gave the 
 title of " The Union of Love with Truth," he 
 insisted upon a recognition of the sacred char- 
 acter of the whole body of truth, not only reli- 
 gious and moral, but also social and scientific, — 
 an admission of its comprehensive sanctity very 
 rare in those days. With characteristic courage, 
 too, he accused statesmen and clergymen of dis- 
 torting truth by unduly magnifying the part at
 
 MEMOIR. 133 
 
 the expense of the whole, and indicated the dis- 
 cord and chaos wliich their Hmitation had pro- 
 duced. I doubt if his audience appreciated his 
 meaning, and indeed remember that the lecture 
 was counted " havers." Its suggestions would 
 seem mere truisms now in country-towns as well 
 as in capitals. My father did not resent the 
 failure of his second lecture, and indeed could 
 laugh heartily at himself from the provincial 
 point of view, as well as stoutly maintain his 
 footing on the higher and universal ground. 
 
 The death of Professor Wilson in 1854 caused 
 the first blank in the circle with which the 
 memories of his youth were most involved, and 
 he felt it deeply. In 1856 his younger son left 
 home to become a sailor, and, except for short 
 holiday intervals, never returned to Kelso. These 
 first losses gave melancholy presage to a nature 
 in which aff'ection played a leading part, and the 
 more because his youth and early manhood had 
 been so little clouded by sorrow that he was 
 unversed in its significance. The ten succeeding
 
 134 MEMOIR. 
 
 years brought that fully home to him ; but so far 
 his life was happier than most lives, in that, 
 except by absence, those of his own household, 
 the nearest and dearest, were spared to him 
 throughout. 
 
 In June 1857 occurred his visit to London 
 as a witness before the Parliamentary Committee 
 on the Tweed Acts, and in this visit he was 
 accompanied by his wife. Together they enjoyed 
 some of the season's gaieties, receiving many 
 pleasant attentions from old and new acquaint- 
 ances. These included a box for some Italian 
 Opera, on which occasion my father fell fast 
 asleep. He had just enough appreciation of 
 operatic singing to found upon it one of his most 
 amusing displays, which was a very suggestive 
 reminiscence of the shrill woes and warbled joys 
 of the then fashionable Italian Opera, for which 
 he ingeniously used as sole libretto the word 
 " Abercromby." 
 
 It was in this year that Stewart's " Practical 
 Angler " appeared, and, while exciting his admira-
 
 MEMOIR. 135 
 
 tion as the work of a genuine and skilful fisher, 
 was the means of occasioning liim a not un- 
 reasonable surprise when he found a certain 
 number of the critics rating it higher than his 
 own works. Humorous allusions to this occur 
 in John Wilson's letters, and the two friends 
 dubbed Stewart the " Pretender." 
 
 My father had tried his methods and advo- 
 cated them long before this, but the mere mono- 
 tonous slaying of trout scarcely represented to 
 him the sum of gain to be derived from a day's 
 angling. Compliance with the humours of the 
 day, experiments suggested by the scene, methods 
 for every mood, long halts for musing ; sometimes 
 a sonnet that must needs be made, sometimes a 
 snatch of sleep on the sunny bank ; often a pause 
 for some keen, silent watch, as bird, fish, otter, 
 fox, or weasel enacted its little drama for his 
 delight ; a digression to pluck the first primroses 
 or forget-me-nots, which, thrust into his creel 
 amongst the trout, suffered somewhat from their 
 neighbours — these made up the angler's gain, and
 
 136 MEMOIR. 
 
 sent him home smiling and content, whether his 
 basket were empty or full. When it was full, 
 there was indeed a keen enjoyment added ; but 
 except in the height of a rivalry, the companion- 
 ship of Nature requited when the river failed to 
 reward him. 
 
 There was, therefore, some room for his sur- 
 prise at the change in opinion which could exalt 
 rapid and dexterous slaying as the one requisite 
 in angling ; and he began to realise that here 
 too the old order was passing, and that the 
 whole-hearted angler of the Arcadia which Izaak 
 Walton had conceived and he had helped to 
 create was giving place to new men, — persons 
 who did other things, who left their banks and 
 offices, and studies and shops, for a day's fishing 
 now and then, and, with good equipments and 
 the " Practical Angler," whipped up some stream 
 and filled their creels, and went home jocund but 
 not a whit more wise. 
 
 Some correspondence with Mr. Stewart led to 
 a challenge from the old anglers to the new.
 
 MEMOIR. 137 
 
 John Wilson and Mr. Russcl, the editor of the 
 Scotsman, joining the contention, the former on 
 my father's, the latter on Mr. Stewart's side. It 
 was arranged that all four should meet at Tibbie's 
 classic tryst at St. Mary's Loch, which, with 
 the Meggat and Douglas Burn, was to be the 
 scene of the competition. Each pair was to 
 pursue its own methods. Much correspondence 
 passed on the subject, but I cannot discover that 
 the meeting ever took place. If it did, I suspect 
 that the "Practical Angler" won the da}-. 
 
 The Tweed and Teviot fishing-clubs, which 
 had at first enrolled my father's name as member, 
 had by this time requested him to become in 
 one case president, and in the other secretary ; 
 and some of his time was willingly spent in 
 attending to the duties of these honorary offices, 
 one of which was to take the chair at the annual 
 dinner of each club, a duty always willingl}' and 
 genially performed. 
 
 Besides these, there was a club of a more 
 private character to which he belonged. This
 
 138 MEMOIR. 
 
 was in existence for twenty-five years, and was 
 known as the Mowhaugh Club. It was instituted 
 by Mr. Elliot of Galalaw in 1845, '^"d only that 
 gentleman's intimate friends had the privilege 
 of membership. He rented a hill-farm amongst 
 the Cheviots, to which he paid frequent visits, 
 which was the scene of the Club meetings. 
 These took place once a year, and were always 
 held on the Queen's birthday. That festival 
 falls at a most favourable time for trout-fishing, 
 and was made the pretext for a delightful 
 day amongst the hills. The morning start was 
 made early, as Mowhaugh lies twelve miles away 
 from Kelso. Once there, the anglers drew lots 
 for the different parts of Bowmont Water, levied 
 sixpence from each to make a sweepstakes for 
 the most successful, and dispersed to fish till 
 dinner-time, while the lay members wandered 
 over the hills and inhaled the fragrant, drowsy 
 air of the Cheviots. As dinner-time neared, all 
 returned to the house, the spoil was weighed and 
 the sweepstakes adjudged, the finest trouts went
 
 MEMOIR. 139 
 
 Straight to the frying-pan, and the solemn busi- 
 ness of dining began. The long light of early 
 summer soon tempted the diners into the open air, 
 and strange whispers of a pig-chase and other 
 unaccustomed frolics have reached the astonished 
 ears of their fellow-townsmen ; and rumours, too, 
 that the pigs were never caught, but taking to 
 the hills, fled into their recesses, and haunt them 
 to this day. Then, over the parting tumbler, 
 songs were sung and stories were told, and my 
 father would give his Gaelic sermon and " Aber- 
 cromby," and would illustrate the pulpit oratory 
 of his time with the alphabet, or recite his poem 
 "A birr, a whirr!" When the light began to 
 wane and the moon to rise, the members climbed 
 into their gigs and dog-carts, and the procession 
 homewards began, shortened at many a cross- 
 road, as one after another, with friendly shouts and 
 farewells, turned off towards his home. There 
 were thirteen members, and now just three are 
 left, the kindly host and two of his yearly guests. 
 Nearly all the month of May 1S59 was spent
 
 140 MEMOIR. 
 
 by my father in John Wilson's company. To- 
 gether they fished the rivers of Dumfriesshire, 
 storing experience and observation. They paid 
 a visit during part of the month to their old 
 friend Sheriff Trotter at Dumfries, and this gave 
 them an opportunity of going to Drumlanrig to 
 see Mr. Shaw, whose experiments on the river 
 Nith had excited my father's interest. Of this 
 day at Drumlanrig he gives a detailed account in 
 " An Angler's Rambles," the ingenious salmon- 
 trap in the Nith, and Mr. Shaw's successful intro- 
 duction of grayling into that river, being fully de- 
 scribed. The Nith seemed to both of the friends 
 of inferior rank as a trouting-stream, and that 
 before the grayling had time to affect the supply 
 of trout, as they are now believed to have done. 
 
 Towards the end of the month the friends were 
 the guests of Mr. Macdonald of Rammerscales, 
 with whom they spent a day at Lochmaben 
 netting the Castle Loch, in hopes of securing 
 some specimens of its celebrated little fish, the 
 vendace. They failed in this, although of pike,
 
 MEMOIR. 141 
 
 bream, and eels they caught plenty. Three years 
 later, at a meeting of the Vendace Club, my father 
 succeeded in seeing and tasting this rare and deli- 
 cate little fish; which, feeding on minute forms 
 of life, can only live where the water abounds in 
 such, and which thus escapes the dangers incurred 
 by fish which take the fl}- or worm. It runs its 
 own risks, however, for the pike pursues it, and 
 refuses all coarser prey in its neighbourhood. Its 
 delicate form and the transparent heart-shaped 
 patch upon its head, through which its brains 
 may be seen, give it distinction among the dif- 
 ferent fishes of Lochmaben. Of these fishes, 
 there is a collection, formed by Mr. Archer on 
 the occasion described above, in the Edinburgh 
 Industrial Museum. 
 
 Next year brought losses to my father, .first in 
 the death of his mother, and then in the departure 
 of his elder son for New Zealand. The latter 
 was his father's true disciple, and took with him 
 to the colony not only much knowledge of the art 
 of angling, but als5 a deep interest in fish-culture,
 
 142 MEMOIR. 
 
 which has made him a practical and valuable 
 member of its Acclimatisation Societ3^ 
 
 The home-circle was greatly narrowed now, 
 but at the same time its resources were consider- 
 ably enlarged, and for the last twenty years of his 
 life my father lived in easy circumstances. This 
 gave a spur to his natural hospitality, and allowed 
 him also to move about more freely ; so that, 
 although the loss of friends, in addition to some 
 of the ills to which the angler is peculiarly 
 exposed, was now reminding him of the passing 
 years, the absence of anxiety and the attainment 
 of many comforts let him down gently, and gave 
 him cause for renewed content. He was still as 
 zealous a fisher as ever, seldom failing to spend 
 four days of every week beside some neighbouring 
 river, and chiefly m it ; and this in spite of many 
 warnings — severe chills and attacks of rheumatic 
 pain, intensified into lumbago and sciatica. 
 
 John Wilson had sent his daughters to a school 
 in Kelso, that they might be near his old friend and 
 convenient for his own frequent visits to Tweed-
 
 MEMOIR. 143 
 
 side. Tlicy were bright little girls, with their 
 full share of the Wilson beauty and vivacity, and 
 they spent many a holida}' afternoon and even- 
 ing with their " Uncle Tom," taking a quaint 
 and precocious interest in his pursuits. To their 
 presence in Kelso he now owed very frequent 
 visits from their father. Mr. Wilson scarcely 
 bore his middle-age so lightly as his friend. 
 He was of heavier build and stouter, but could 
 still enjoy a day's fishing or otter-hunting, and 
 was the best of companions over the evening 
 tumbler. He was a very handsome man, grow- 
 ing perhaps a shade less energetic, but kind- 
 ling into delightful talk and racy repartee when 
 the day's exertions were over and supper was 
 on the board ; and surely of the simple un- 
 swerving constancy of antique times no nature 
 ever showed better example than his. 
 
 It must have been during the hunting season 
 of one of those years that a poor hungry fox, 
 which had escaped the hounds the day before, 
 stole into the house early one morning, when both
 
 144 MEMOIR. 
 
 gate and door were open, and took refuge in a 
 corner of the pantr}-, from which his entrance 
 dislodged a pile of dishes. Tlie clatter summoned 
 the servant, who was much disconcerted by the 
 fierce grin with which the unexpected visitor 
 greeted her. She closed the door and called two 
 workmen who were passing to her assistance ; 
 and when my father came downstairs, he entered 
 upon the last tragic scene of the poor " tod's " 
 life. It was a case of justifiable vulpicide, but 
 his friends twitted him with uncousinly conduct. 
 " When a ' tod ' comes to visit a Tod, the least 
 he can do is to give him food and shelter," they 
 said. " I will give him both," was the quick 
 reply ; " for I have sent him to Brotherston to 
 be stuffed, and after that he will have the shelter 
 of my home." 
 
 The incident is trivial enough, but it interested 
 my father greatly at the time ; and the " tod," a 
 very large one, had a place of honour in the 
 cottage lobby for the twenty years that followed. 
 
 His gift of rapid repartee was well known and
 
 MEMOIR. 145 
 
 much appreciated by his friends, but a touch of 
 antiquity already separates the instances on re- 
 cord from present sympathy. One impersonal 
 flash may be spared from the past. Some mem- 
 bers of the Kelso Reading-Room were discussing 
 a magnificent break of 620 made at billiards by 
 Roberts. " What a time it would take," said 
 one of them, "and how hungry they must have 
 got ! " " Perhaps," said my father, " they broke 
 fast." 
 
 He took some pleasure in dealing a sly blow 
 at clergymen, who, excepting certain individuals 
 for whom he cherished warm regard, were not 
 highly placed in his favour. Late one evening, 
 at a public dinner, the chairman sent him a note 
 asking him to propose the " Clergy of all denomi- 
 nations." He scrutinised the paper closely, then 
 rising to his feet, said, " Mr. Chairman and 
 gentlemen, I have left my spectacles at home, 
 and may therefore be mistaken as to the wording 
 of the toast which I am called upon to propose ; 
 but so far as I can read it, it seems to be ' The 
 
 K
 
 146 MEMOIR. 
 
 clerg}^, of all abominations ! ' His mot was re- 
 ceived with roars of laughter, in which the minis- 
 ters present could afford to join. 
 
 His prejudice against the clerical body included 
 no vestige of hostility to the creed of Christianity. 
 Indeed, his grievance against them was that they 
 displayed a want of reverence for its truths, and 
 an assumption and presumption unbefitting the 
 humility which these enjoin. He objected to have 
 spiritual waters from the Eternal Source dealt 
 out in vessels of such poor size. Their lack of 
 intelligence and sympathy repelled him. For 
 clerg3'men who held themselves modestly as men 
 and gentlemen, who in their capacity of teachers 
 expounded and explained God's law and love 
 without narrowing and misrepresenting either, he 
 had a deep admiration and regard ; and to such 
 he would speak intimately and often of spiritual 
 things — things which occupied a larger share of 
 his thoughts than of his words. 
 
 In the summer of 1 861 he paid a visit to 
 the Spey, accompanied by his wife and daughter,
 
 MEMOIR. 147 
 
 and took quarters for some weeks at Fochabers. 
 He was much disappointed with the Spey, both 
 as a salmon- and as a trouting-rivcr, and was 
 disposed in after-life to discredit all vaunting on 
 the part of its admirers. He left Fochabers in 
 August, and went to Huntly, where both the 
 Deveron and the Bogie better answered his ex- 
 pectations — at all events, as trouting streams. 
 
 No doubt the Tweed had spoilt him for fully 
 appreciating either the Tay or the Spe}', and the 
 ease with which it may be fished had by this 
 time disinclined him to struggle with the natural 
 obstacles which are characteristic of the Highland 
 river, and which in his younger years would have 
 added zest to the sport. True, there was no 
 stretch of the Tweed to which he had free 
 access; as to the Teviot, the fishings of the former 
 river belonging to riparian proprietors, by whom 
 they are sometimes farmed at costly rents ; but 
 both the owners and the season's tenants kept 
 him in remembrance. Especially to the late 
 Duke of Roxburghe he owed his happiest days
 
 148 MEMOIR. 
 
 on the river. Every spring and autumn the 
 thoughtful invitation came to fish the Tweed at 
 Floors, generahy for two succeeding days, often 
 for more ; and it is not wonderful that, knowing 
 so well a reach of river unrivalled for beauty and 
 unfailing in its yield, his appreciation of other 
 streams grew dulled. 
 
 Nearly every salmon-fisher who came to Kelso 
 sought him out ; and his lore was cheerfully at 
 the disposal of these pleasant transient friends, 
 to whom he owed many a day of exciting sport. 
 Amongst them I remember the late Professor 
 Fawcett, who for some years came regularly to 
 Kelso to profit by the Duke of Roxburghe's per- 
 mission to fish the Tweed, and who during his 
 stay always spent an evening with my father, 
 entering into the subject of angling with enthu- 
 siastic interest, and discussing it with the healthy 
 thoroughness of knowledge which distinguished 
 him. 
 
 The conversation at Bellevue Cottage did not 
 range over a wide area. There were two ab-
 
 MEMOIR. 149 
 
 sorbing subjects, angling and poetr}', and angling 
 took the precedence. For politics my father had 
 little patience. He was contented with being a 
 Tory, and at election times had spasms of fierce 
 Toryism. It is even on record that he boldly 
 tackled Mr. John Bright at a Radical meeting. 
 " Alone he did it ; " but he refused to ruffle his 
 mind from day to day with the wearisome petti- 
 ness of party contest, and only grew alive to the 
 political situation when it became dramatic, as at 
 election times or under the shadow of war. He 
 did not belong to this age, fevered as it is with 
 humanitarian zeal, over-peopled, emulous, mis- 
 chievous, exhausting, but to a dream-age of his 
 own, in which rivers filled the meadows with 
 rejoicing and spirits still outnumbered men — and 
 from this he descended to the real world as to 
 Bedlam, to be escaped from at every opportunity. 
 It was in Teviot that he caught his largest 
 salmon, which turned the scales at thirt3'-two 
 pounds, and was landed after a vigorous run of 
 half an hour. His biggest prize in Tweed was
 
 I 50 MEMOIR. 
 
 twenty-eight pounds in weight. On the whole, 
 his captures were not of uncommon size or 
 number. It was more his unquenchable eager- 
 ness that distinguished him from other anglers 
 than his success, and it was his gift of finding 
 the most varied expression for his enjoyment 
 which now separates his memory from theirs. 
 Sometimes, on the night before a day on Tweed, 
 he could not sleep for excitement ; and an old 
 friend of his reminds me that, one morning in 
 early summer, my father roused him up at three 
 o'clock by tapping on his window — an upper 
 one — with the point of his rod, and hailing him 
 out to fish. There was no help for it, so down 
 he came. " I could not sleep," said his rather 
 early visitor, " for thinking of the Teviot." The 
 two went up the river together. " Yonder ! " 
 said my father, pointing into the distance, " come 
 when I will, there's a rascally poacher in front of 
 me." " No, no, man," said his friend, " there's 
 nobody before us to-day." " Do you mean to 
 tell me you can't see his basket ? " insisted my
 
 MEMOIR. 151 
 
 father, and then burst into contented laughter 
 when the " basket," proving to be a sheep, rose 
 up and walked away. 
 
 My father spent the first fortnight of July 
 1862 in Galloway, fishing the Dee and the Ken, 
 the Dee impressing him as a river of varied 
 capabilities. The last weeks of July and the 
 first week of August were passed at Eyemouth, 
 the nights being often devoted to sea-fishing. 
 His younger son had returned from his first 
 cruise, and was his companion in these expeditions. 
 They chartered a punt for day-fishing, and made 
 a sufficient number of experiments to warrant 
 the opinion that on our coasts the methods and 
 resources of sea-fishing are very imperfectly 
 understood, and that the whole question presents 
 extensive possibilities. As sea-fishing has not 
 yet received cachet as a sport, it lacks the benefit 
 of general interest and of the observation and 
 ingenuity which men of leisure can afford to give. 
 The ordinary fisherman supplies the market, and 
 is indisposed to look further than the great risks
 
 152 MEMOIR. 
 
 which that involves. If his experience includes 
 the glimmering of some new suggestion, he dis- 
 misses it as impracticable or hopelessly trouble- 
 some. " Donald," said a lady last summer in 
 Skye, " I pay you every week to bring me fish, 
 and what you bring is so coarse I can scarcely 
 eat it. And yet Mr. E. passes the door every 
 day with all kinds of beautiful fish, so I know 
 they are to be got." " Aw, an' I weel believe 
 it," said Donald ; " the poor chentleman wull just 
 be making a toil of it." 
 
 From Eyemouth my father accompanied his 
 son to London, and spent three weeks with him 
 there ; but the visit was devoid of any special 
 interest, and was indeed wholly for his son's 
 sake. 
 
 In February of 1863, he brought himself 
 within reach of the law by catching and keep- 
 ing a grilse which the water-bailiff declared to 
 be foul and unseasonable. Such fish were often 
 taken, and were no doubt often retained, and it 
 was necessary for the water-bailiffs to earn their
 
 MEMOIR. 153 
 
 wages by an undaunted display of determination 
 witii the poachers. The presence of this shady 
 fish in my father's creel offered them a brilliant 
 opportunity. The bailiff" demanded that it should 
 be flung back into the Tweed. My father said 
 the fish was no fouler than reason, and that he 
 would keep it. The bailiff" grew imperious, and 
 my father's blood went up. The fish was not a 
 foul one, he said, but were it black as Tophet, he 
 would keep it. Others came upon the scene and 
 took sides, so that both fish and quarrel re- 
 mained as dubious as ever. The question went 
 to court on Wednesday, March the 4th, before 
 four Justices of the Peace, and my father got the 
 benefit of the doubt which lingered about the 
 character of the fish. The case made much local 
 stir, as it brought the working of the Tweed Acts 
 into notice and discussion. The trial lasted five 
 hours, and during the whole time the hall was 
 filled by a crowd of eager listeners, who broke 
 into applause when the decision was given in 
 favour of their well-known fellow-townsman.
 
 154 MEMOIR. 
 
 Evidence on his side was furnished by two of 
 the Kersses, members of the most notable and 
 experienced family of fishermen on the Borders, 
 who could certainly pronounce better than most 
 men at just what fine shade of sombreness the 
 legally clean fish passed into the legally foul. 
 
 In 1864, my father was engaged in a lengthy 
 correspondence with his son about the chances 
 of exporting trout and salmon ova from Scotch 
 rivers to the New Zealand streams. Some of his 
 letters were published in the Colonial newspapers ; 
 but at that time no steps were taken towards a 
 practical trial, although Colonial agents in London 
 were willing to promote an experimental expor- 
 tation. Since that time the ova both of sal- 
 mon, river trout, and Loch Leven trout have been 
 successfully shipped and acclimatised ; and the 
 fish-breeding establishment of the New Zealand 
 Acclimatisation Society contains at this time 
 about 700,000 ova of these and other fresh-water 
 fishes, including Rhine salmon in various stages 
 of development.
 
 MEMOIR. 155 
 
 To this year also belongs a correspondence 
 on a case in which my father took a deep inte- 
 rest. This was the claim made by Mr. Scott of 
 Rodono to a share in the proprietorship of St. 
 Mary's Loch, which had from time immemorial 
 been reckoned as belonging to Lord Napier. My 
 father had fished the two lochs for nearly forty 
 years without once hearing of the rights of 
 Rodono, so that his testimony w^as considered 
 valuable by Lord Napier and his advisers. 
 
 His thoughts had been of late a good deal 
 occupied with these ever well-remembered scenes 
 of his youth. One after another of his comrades 
 there was passing to " where beyond these voices 
 there is peace." James Ferrier, William Aytoun, 
 John Gordon were gone, one quickly following 
 the other ; and although he had seen little of them 
 since their w^iys in life had diverged, as they 
 left the leisure of youth for the pressing forward 
 of manhood, still their figures, unaged and un- 
 dimmed, peopled his loyal recollections. Now, 
 too, the friend whom he esteemed the best, and
 
 156 MEMOIR. 
 
 who in the rare attribute of constancy, which we 
 expect in God and wonder at in man, was en- 
 dowed equally with himself, was sinking month 
 by month into the lethargy of an illness from 
 which he was never to recover. 
 
 Thinking of them and of past da3^s with them, 
 he was busy putting his memories into shape 
 and writing a series of articles, first for Belts Life 
 and then for The Field, in which, while angling 
 formed the main topic, the old friends belonging 
 to every scene, as well as many incidents of their 
 fellowship, found a place. 
 
 These were eventually collected and published 
 in 1866 by Messrs. Edmonston & Douglas. The 
 prose sketches were relieved by a selection from 
 his " Angling Songs," as well as by a few new 
 poems, composed for the volume, but scarcely 
 reaching the high-water mark of his earlier tide 
 of minstrelsy. The title of the book was " An 
 Angler's Rambles and Angling Songs." It was 
 favourably reviewed, but did not attain a second 
 issue, and is now scarce.
 
 MEMOIR. 157 
 
 Some of its chapters arc of great interest, par- 
 ticularly those relating to fishing in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Edinburgh in the early part of this 
 century, and those commemorating his visits to 
 St. Mary's Loch. 
 
 Before its last pages left his hands, he had 
 to record a blow from which he never entirely 
 recovered. John Wilson, after two years' gradual 
 decline, died on 27th November 1865. Patient 
 and gentle to the last, in spite of the slow failure 
 first of his bodily powers, and then of the bright 
 wit which made his talk as bracing as sunshine, 
 he left only passionate mourning behind him ; and 
 I have no hesitation in saying that his death was 
 the paramount loss of my father's life, and that, 
 although the latter survived his friend for fourteen 
 years, its abiding sense clouded their summers 
 for him, and dulled even the joyous rush of his 
 favourite rivers. From that time his shoulders, 
 rounded now and stooping somewhat from the 
 accustomed weight of the angler's creel, drooped 
 more and more ; an unwonted sadness stole into
 
 158 MEMOIR. 
 
 his expression, his step began to lag, his eager- 
 ness in fishing to wane, old age to claim him 
 prematurely as his own. Thus he ends the 
 " Angler's Rambles : " — 
 
 " But the crowning sorrow was still in reserve. 
 Following hard upon these bitter losses, has been 
 the recent removal, from a home made dear to 
 me as its annual visitor by many a fond associa- 
 tion, of the companion in hundreds of rambles 
 over moor and mountain, by the loch and river- 
 side, of a true, generous-souled friend, endowed 
 with qualities of mind far above the common 
 order, possessed of a fine taste in arts and 
 literature, a sportsman whose keenness was of 
 that kind which showed more delight in the 
 success of another than his own ; a naturalist 
 trained as such at the foot of Gamaliel, who en- 
 tered with spirit into the study of zoology, and 
 was well versed in all its branches ; one, I shall 
 only add, who, irrespective of any regard enter- 
 tained for him as the eldest son of Christopher 
 North, was valued, loved, and idolised by all who
 
 MEMOIR. 159 
 
 really knew him ; for a more unselfish nature 
 never breathed, and a nobler yet gentler heart 
 never throbbed," 
 
 My father and mother spent three weeks of 
 February 1866 in Edinburgh, where they revived 
 some old and made some new acquaintances. 
 Amongst old friends, they met Mr. Glassford Bell, 
 and the renewal of friendly intercourse with him 
 led to a plan for a fishing-tour in Sutherlandshire 
 together in the following August. As a first 
 stage towards its fulfilment, we went in July to 
 Inverness, where my father waited for his friend, 
 and in the meantime made the acquaintance of 
 Dr. Carruthers, at that time the foremost literary 
 man of the Highland capital, and the best fitted 
 to be his companion in either angling or anti- 
 quarian expeditions. When the Sheriff arrived, 
 they left for Sutherlandshire, and being favoured 
 with beautiful weather, fully enjoyed the fortnight 
 which they spent there. 
 
 I remember that they planned a kind of diary 
 of the tour, which was to be fashioned into a
 
 l6o MEMOIR. 
 
 series of short papers, each followed and com- 
 pleted by a sonnet, and that they proposed to call 
 it " The Zigzag Papers," each angler contribut- 
 ing alternately. The plan fell through, however, 
 although it formed the subject of some correspon- 
 dence afterwards. 
 
 It was in this year, too, that Mr. Cholmondeley 
 Pennell, the editor of the Sporting Gazette, and 
 an author and sportsman whom my father highly 
 esteemed, began a correspondence with him, 
 which resulted in his writing a series of articles 
 on angling in Scotland for the Sporting Gazette. 
 These, as well as similar articles in Kelso news- 
 papers — for one of which, the Kelso Mail, he 
 was in the habit of writing an annual review of 
 the Tweed fishing-season — occupied his evening 
 hours, and alternated with numerous poems, no 
 longer fully poetic, in which it was second nature 
 to him to embody his opinions and aspirations. 
 
 On days when he did not fish — more frequent 
 now than formerly — he walked, every afternoon in 
 winter, and every evening in summer, up the banks
 
 MEMOIR. i6r 
 
 of the River Tweed to where the Teviot joins it, 
 and then past the old mill to Teviot Bridge. His 
 pace was the slowest saunter, and when I was 
 his companion, which was very often, our enter- 
 tainment was childish enough. He would start 
 a subject and metre, and challenge me to outdo 
 him in lines and rhymes. A foreknowledge of 
 failure did not daunt me, as the contest was 
 exhilarating, and had its gain in our mutual 
 enjoyment. The ease with which he found 
 rhymes was aided by considerable audacit}', and 
 led to many grotesque performances. Such im- 
 provisations are in their nature fleeting, and 
 although we never wearied of the amusement, 
 we indulged in it without prejudice to our memo- 
 ries. I can only remember one poem which owed 
 more than a fugitive existence to these walks 
 up Teviot. It was at the time when the cattle- 
 plague was much discussed under the name of 
 " rinderpest," and it occurred as a subject for our 
 rhyming duel. But it roused the dormant delight 
 in mysterious horrors which had occupied his
 
 1 62 MEMOIR. 
 
 early imagination, and his very first line struck 
 too solemn a chord for my more trivial strain. 
 
 " Whose herdsman, gaunt and evil-eyed ? . . . " 
 he began, and I was dumb. He liked the line and 
 held to it, and wrote a weird poem on the rinder- 
 pest, which was afterwards included in a collec- 
 tion of his later verse under the title " Death's 
 Herdsman." 
 
 In the evening, when supper was over, his 
 desk was put on the table, and for two hours 
 his pen was busy. The habit of seeking daily 
 expression in writing was one acquired in boy- 
 hood ; and although much of what he wrote was 
 destroyed, and much of his later work was 
 overweighted by cumbrous phrasing, his steady 
 resort to it proved the characteristic, if not very 
 practical, vitality of his mind. He had a native 
 indisposition to prescribed work, but by no means 
 the natural indolence of which he accused him- 
 self. Although a great many men would call 
 him an idler, the few men capable of appreciating 
 his powers, and the conditions which alone were
 
 MEMOIR. 1 6 
 
 t 
 
 favourable to them, would admit that he wasted 
 far less of his time than those who make haste 
 to be rich. The proof was in his unfailing 
 content. " My life," he wrote a few weeks before 
 he died, " has abounded in happy passages. I 
 have been blessed with a joyous and loving wife, 
 attached children, many genial friends, many 
 endearing associations and delights, also a com- 
 petent income so far as my wants in that direc- 
 tion extend. What more can a man desire ? " 
 
 The remaining 3'ears of his life were to pass 
 tranquilly enough, marred somewhat by failing 
 strength and by increasing ailments of a kind 
 which could be traced in great part to constant 
 wading. He spent a portion of the summer 
 season of 1868 and of the six following 3-ears 
 in the West Highlands, making his head-quarters 
 at Oban. His earliest attraction to the West 
 was an invitation from his cousin, Mrs. Cheyne, 
 who was proprietor of that part of the island 
 of Lismore bought after her death by the Duke 
 of Argyll. My father and mother paid her a
 
 164 MEMOIR. 
 
 long visit in the summer of 1868. Lismore 
 serves as the centre of a superb ring of western 
 hills, and the magical effects of summer sunsets 
 and a twilight which scarcely deepens into dark, 
 added to its rich pasture-land and wealth of wild- 
 flowers, make the lonely little island a singularly 
 refreshing summer-haunt. At the foot of the 
 long barrow which forms its backbone lie two 
 lochs, one of which is rich in large red trout, 
 while both of them are eerie even in daylight, 
 and shunned, when the twilight gathers, by the 
 islanders, who mutter strange, half-fledged super- 
 stitions about them. My father very soon ex- 
 plored the little territory, fished its lochs, and 
 boated round its coast late into the night, catch- 
 ing lythe and saithe. When he left Lismore, he 
 found himself so enamoured of the West that he 
 took rooms at Oban for the rest of the summer. 
 Here he made an acquaintance which ripened 
 soon into a hearty friendship. It was with Mr. 
 David Hutcheson, then the proprietor of the 
 line of steamers which has opened up the West
 
 MEMOIR. 165 
 
 Higlilands to the world of summer - tourists. 
 He was pioneer as well as proprietor, and the 
 scheme whose success brought him wealth origi- 
 nated rather in the poetic impulse to bring the 
 beauty in which he himself delighted within the 
 reach of thousands of lives (to be surely touched 
 by contact with the glory of the West as with the 
 refiner's fire), than in the masterly capacity for 
 business which he brought to its working out. 
 The kinship in the two natures soon showed 
 itself, and they became daily companions. Mr. 
 Hutcheson, whom his friends called the "Admiral 
 of the West," and whom the Glaswegian pointed 
 out as " the fallow that taks the shillins oot o' 
 the watter," was a generous host, who welcomed 
 to his steamers the whole commonwealth of art 
 and letters. Poets and artists stepped on board 
 with his visiting-card in hand, and the assurance 
 that the officials understood to grant his guests 
 an even finer courtesy than was assured to his 
 passengers. This freedom of his fleet was soon 
 extended to my father and to the members of
 
 1 66 MEMOIR. 
 
 his famih'. On the first day of May in every 
 year that followed, until Mr. Hutcheson's failing 
 health led him to withdraw from business, his 
 card arrived, adding us to the host of his guests 
 for the season. If my father delayed to come, 
 a second would follow with a mandate or appeal, 
 as suited the Admiral's humour. So for seven 
 years our summer-home was at Oban, and that 
 before the railway had found it out, or the 
 hydropathic demon had alighted upon its wooded 
 cliffs to blight them. 
 
 We were constant to an old-fashioned house 
 which stood near the head of the main street 
 of Oban, and commanded a view of its busiest 
 portion. Beneath our windows flowed the stream 
 of tourists to and from the steamers, and from 
 them we could hail acquaintances on their arrival. 
 The rooms were very popular, and were the scene 
 of many a bright symposium. Indeed, my father's 
 presence and that of Mr, Hutcheson attracted 
 a sort of irregular and unceremonious salon, 
 through which there passed " many men and
 
 MEMOIR. 167 
 
 many manners " indeed, but all with some gift of 
 song or poem, adventure or anecdote, experience 
 or wisdom, to enrich the hour of intercourse. 
 The unfaiUng habitues were Mr. Hutcheson and 
 Dr. M'Ginivray, the former a past-master at both 
 song and story, the latter an ardent sportsman 
 with rod and gun ; while the touch Oban main- 
 tains with the South, which lures many a bird 
 of passage to alight there a while, gave opportu- 
 nity for sudden pleasant greetings and discours- 
 ings with poets, artists, men-of-letters, men of 
 science, and sportsmen of every type. Such in- 
 tercourse, free, desultory, full of surprises and 
 variety, accorded with my father's nature, and 
 refreshed him as the formal and calculated inter- 
 change of ordinary social life never attained to 
 do. It was a compromise between the latter and 
 the sylvan age to which he properly belonged, 
 when a happ}' meeting between fauns and nymphs 
 brought about a ball, and banquets were coinci- 
 dent with the laden vine-branch and the sparkling 
 stream.
 
 1 68 MEMOIR. 
 
 He fished a little in the neighbourhood of 
 Oban, but without the energy and persistence of 
 former 3^ears. Once he went to Mull, and paid 
 Dr. Gumming a visit at Indian, the little house 
 on whose porch the inscription assures the com- 
 ing guest of what it does not fail to give — " Parva 
 domus, magna pax !" In Mull he fished a good 
 deal, having received the Duke of Arg3drs per- 
 mission to do so. But while quartered in Oban, 
 many of his da3'S were spent on board the 
 steamers, where his footing was both free and 
 welcome, and where he was one of many a party 
 to Staffa and lona, to Glencoe or to Skye. He 
 enjoyed the trip to Staffa most, and made it 
 several times in each summer, always with some 
 congenial companion, generally Mr. Hutcheson, 
 and once, I remember, with ex-President Davies. 
 The summer visit to Oban was the chief event 
 of seven ^-ears — indeed until the death of most 
 of his friends there made return painful, while 
 his own increasing weakness prescribed change 
 nearer home. Part of his enjoyment was contri-
 
 MEMOIR. 169 
 
 buted by the journey thither and back, in which 
 he generally managed to include a visit to Mr. 
 Glassford Bell in Glasgow. The Sheriff some- 
 times found his way to Oban for a few days, 
 and one summer spent a whole month there with 
 his wife and her sisters. It was the year before 
 his death ; and although he was exhausted by 
 overwork, and by the first threatening of an 
 illness which was soon to prove fatal, he was, as 
 ever, fresh in spirit, and genially ready to enjoy 
 what the day suggested. I remember particularly 
 a picnic to Taynuilt in which we joined. My 
 father had given me a fishing-rod and basket ; 
 and as the object of the excursion was to fish in 
 the River Awe, I made bold to take them, sup- 
 ported by one of Mrs, Bell's sisters, who wished 
 to fish and tic with me. When we reached 
 Taynuilt, the two veteran anglers became aware 
 of our presumption, and sternly interdicted us 
 from the Awe, half contemptuously conceding to 
 us a streamlet which finds its way into the river 
 near the mouth. We unfurled our rod with
 
 I 70 MEMOIR. 
 
 meekness beside the humble tributary, and my 
 father, relenting, came back to choose our flies 
 and give us a lesson in casting. As the hours 
 wore away, we caught a dozen trout between us, 
 ending with scrupulous fairness when each had 
 achieved her half-dozen. We were not elated, 
 for the trout were small, and their collective weight 
 was no great matter ; and when we reached the 
 rendezvous, we looked for glittering spoil of 
 salmon and sea-trout worthy of our masters. A 
 little flounder lay there, and that was all ; and 
 which of them had attained to catch it we never 
 knew, for they were silent and eke sulky. When 
 we emptied our creel, with some slight promptings 
 of modest display, they shook with silent laughter, 
 but forbore to praise us. 
 
 After leaving Oban in 1870, my father paid 
 London a visit of some weeks, when I was his 
 companion. The incident which gave him most 
 pleasure on this occasion was an introduction 
 to Dr. Frank Buckland, whom he visited several 
 times at his work at South Kensington, and in
 
 MEMOIR. 171 
 
 whose collection and experiments he was natu- 
 rally much interested. I remember, too, a visit to 
 Richmond, when we sat for a long time by the 
 Thames watching an old gentleman fishing from 
 a punt. His arm-chair, umbrella, and placidity 
 were all details of unwonted interest ; and when, 
 at the end of an hour, he caught a fish about as 
 long as his finger, my father's excitement far 
 exceeded his own. When that tribute to cap- 
 ture subsided, he roared with laughter. 
 
 From these brief wanderings, however much 
 he enjoyed them, he returned to Kelso with satis- 
 faction. On the morning that our faces were 
 set homeward, whether from Oban or elsewhere, 
 his was radiant ; and as we reached the familiar 
 neighbouring stations, his spirits overflowed in 
 rhyme and pun and merr}' talk. We had a 
 foolish lifelong jest about two imaginary friends, 
 who had grown almost real to us from the 
 ingenuity with which wc had developed their 
 characters and fortunes, and whose histories pro- 
 gressed at such moments. Sir William Jones,
 
 172 MEMOIR. 
 
 who had all gifts and graces, and Dr. Jones, his 
 brother, who had gifts enough but little grace, 
 were topics of such talk for more than thirty 
 years, and became in the end so well defined 
 that their materialisation would scarcely have 
 surprised us. 
 
 When we reached Kelso in the evening, and 
 were going by Maxvvellheugh towards the bridge, 
 he would triumphantly point out the beauty of 
 the little town, with its touch of royal serenity, 
 as in the Tweed's safe keeping, and defy the 
 world to show him a fairer sight. And when, 
 after the preliminar}' bustle, we shook ourselves 
 into home-life again, and he had visited his roses 
 and reported progress on his pears, and had gone 
 to the reading-room to count cronies there, then 
 indeed was he "shut up in measureless content." 
 
 In 1872 a great addition was made to his 
 social resources when Mr. W. W. Tulloch, a son 
 of Principal Tulloch's, came to assist, and even- 
 tually to succeed, the minister of the parish of 
 Kelso. The young man and the old soon found
 
 MEMOIR. 173 
 
 each other out, and formed a friendship the 
 interest of which was only accentuated by the 
 difference in their years. The two were frequent 
 companions in the daily walk by the river, and 
 to Mr. Tulloch my father expressed fully and 
 constantly his thoughts on " the things of the 
 Spirit." A great humility and reverence were 
 characteristic of his approach to these subjects, 
 although he expressed with vigour his scorn of 
 the makers of S3'stems, who would silence the 
 many voices which he felt to be of God in the 
 heart of man. He cared to kneel directly at the 
 throne as his right, but humbly as in the presence 
 of the Almight}'. Tiie vast themes of God and 
 Eternity were beyond man's limitation and verbal 
 definition, but duty was clear enough ; and baring 
 his head and looking up to the sky, he would 
 repeat with the pathos of conviction, " He hath 
 showed thee, O man, what is good : and what 
 doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly 
 and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy 
 God?'
 
 174 MEMOIR. 
 
 He criticised pretentious sermons with seve- 
 rity ; and a friend, who knew and understood him, 
 tells me that once, walking home from church, he 
 said, " If I had my way, I would have a few of 
 the best men in the Churches selected to write a 
 series of fifty-two sermons for each 3'ear, and 1 
 would print one of these for each Sunday, and 
 distribute it to be preached in all the churches in 
 the country. In this way the whole body of the 
 people would have the benefit of the ablest and 
 best teachers in the land." 
 
 The pomp of worshippers excited his wrath, 
 and he particularly disliked the carriages which 
 dashed down the gravel walk from the Parish 
 Church of Kelso, scattering the pedestrians to 
 right and left. Once, when a menagerie was in 
 the town, he announced his intention of hiring 
 the elephant for Sunday use, and so scoring on 
 the carriages. He thought that would keep them 
 out of his way. 
 
 In 1874 my brother came home from New 
 Zealand, accompanied by his wife, and they went
 
 MEMOIR. 1 
 
 /:> 
 
 with us to Oban. His keen angling fervour re- 
 stimulated my father, and together they made 
 a tour of the Highlands, dipping their rods in 
 familiar streams. But the latter was no longer 
 able for the fatigue of a prolonged fishing expedi- 
 tion, and was glad to return to Oban. Later in the 
 season he made the acquaintance of Dr. Appleton, 
 the original editor of the Academy. It was on 
 board one of the West Highland steamers, on the 
 occasion of its first summer trip to Skye. Mr. 
 Hutcheson had invited about thirty of his friends 
 to make the trip with him. Starting at six 
 o'clock in the morning, we reached Loch Scavaig 
 at noon, rested there a few hours, while we visited 
 Loch Corruisk, and afterwards returned to Oban 
 about ten o'clock at night. It was a perfect 
 summer day, and the sea was astir w^ith life, 
 mackerel shoals, dolphins, sea-birds. Dr. Apple- 
 ton, who was making a tour of the Highlands 
 with his friend Mr. M'Lennan, was soon in 
 touch with the " Admiral's " party, and was at- 
 tracted by my father. During his short stay in
 
 176 MEMOIR. 
 
 Oban he spent two evenings with us, while my 
 father talked of the old days with Christopher 
 North, the Shepherd, and De Quincey ; and before 
 he left he secured my father's promise to contri- 
 bute reviews of angling literature to the Academy. 
 This he did for the six following years. His 
 successor on the staff of that journal is not, 
 however, aware that his predecessor was an 
 author of some repute on angling ; for in a review, 
 some years ago, of the literature of the " gentle 
 craft," which starts from Juliana Berners, and 
 embraces many a trivial publication of modern 
 times, the "Angler's Companion" is conspicuous 
 by its absence. 
 
 My father's attention was much occupied dur- 
 ing the years between 1866 and 1876 by the 
 strong interest, then becoming very general, in 
 the preservation of the rivers and lochs of 
 Scotland from pollution. Thanks to the work 
 of the Tweed Commissioners, and of the Associa- 
 tion organised at Edinburgh for informing and 
 rousing public opinion on the subject, it had
 
 MEMOIR. 1/7 
 
 become a matter for serious consideration, which 
 resulted in the Bill for the Prevention of the 
 Pollution of Rivers, brought before the Houses 
 of Parliament and made law in 1876. Up to 
 that date, the rivers which had the misfortune 
 to serve as drains for a series of towns, and 
 which invited the neighbourhood of manufac- 
 tories, were dulled and poisoned by the floods 
 of refuse which they were doomed to receive. 
 It is easy to imagine with what indignation my 
 father viewed the growing evil — an indignation 
 which found vent in letters, articles for the news- 
 papers, and, as a matter of course, in poems. A 
 few verses, of one of the last may be quoted, as 
 suggestive of his wrath : — 
 
 " River of all rivers dearest 
 
 To the Scottish heart — to ours ! 
 River without shade of rival, 
 
 Rolling crystals, nursing flowers ; 
 
 " Stirring up the soul of music, 
 
 Chaunting, warbling, luting, chiming 
 To the poet's ardent fancy, 
 Adept in the art of rhyming ; 
 
 M
 
 lyS MEMOIR. 
 
 " Marching onward through thy valley 
 With the bearing of a king, 
 From the hundred hills surrounding 
 All thy vassals summoning ! 
 
 " Of our rivers still the glory ! 
 God defend it ! there is need, 
 For the demon of pollution 
 
 Campeth on the banks of Tweed. 
 
 " Pelf and Self ! the double demon. 
 
 From its clutch, good God, deliver ! 
 Save from taint of the defiler. 
 
 Saviour ! save our dearest river ! " 
 
 An experiment begun by a Special Committee 
 of the Tweed Commissioners in the spring of 1874 
 also proved to have some interest for my father. 
 On the 7th of May, a hundred and thirty-three 
 smolts were taken from the Tweed while they were 
 making their way to the sea, and were placed 
 in a pond prepared for them on the Carham 
 estate. They were declared to be the smolts 
 of sea-trout by members of the Experimental 
 Committee, fishermen, and soi-disant experts ; but 
 Major Dickins and my father were of opinion
 
 MEMOIR. 179 
 
 that they were the young of common trout. 
 This opinion they maintained when the fish were 
 examined two years after their confinement ; and 
 I believe they were dubbed " amateurs " for their 
 pains. In Ma}^ 1879, thirty of the fish were 
 marked by a ring of silver wire, which was in- 
 serted behind the adipose fin, and were returned 
 to the Tweed, where three of them were caught 
 in the course of the summer. Two of these 
 were brought to Mr. Brotherstone, the naturalist, 
 who at once identified them as common trout, 
 while the third was certified by the experienced 
 fisher who caught it to be neither more nor less 
 than another common trout. No one was less 
 of an amateur or more exact in observation than 
 my father, but these are not the attributes 
 which give an opinion weight with theorists. 
 Although he was undeniably angry with their 
 obstinate misprision, he was still more amused 
 by it, and on October nth 1875, predicted their 
 discomfiture in a long and able letter to the 
 Scotstnou.
 
 l8o MEMOIR. 
 
 In 1873 a collection of his later poems, under 
 the title of "Songs of the Seasons," was published 
 in Edinburgh by Messrs. Edmonston & Douglas. 
 Besides the four poems which give it its main 
 title, the book includes a number of songs, two 
 ballads, some patriotic poems, a variety of musings 
 on the problems of life and on passing events 
 rendered in verse, and two addresses to his wife. 
 Some stanzas of one of the last will illustrate 
 the general character of its lyrical portion. They 
 were written in anticipation of the yearly visit 
 to Oban, and begin : — 
 
 " In the heat of the year, ere June expires, 
 
 When the sun holds court in the Highlands high, 
 And is lavish most of its marvel fires, 
 We'll off to Oban, you and I. 
 
 " In the noon of the year, when the rage hath died 
 Out of the great Atlantic roll, 
 And the spell is binding on wave and tide 
 That draws to Oban heart and soul 3 
 
 " When Morven reveals its purpling heights, 
 And the banners of mist are all up-rolled ;
 
 MEMOIR. l8l 
 
 When the legion hath fled of sullen sprites, 
 And the angel unravels his tissues of gold 
 
 *' When over the maze of motley isles 
 
 That ward our harbours from foe and storm, 
 The cloudland dissolves into wreaths of smiles, 
 And the rainbow stretches its tremulous form ; 
 
 '* When the blended breaths of the heath and thyme 
 And balmy orchis are all astir ; 
 When in fairy ears the bluebells chime, 
 And the cone is greening on the fir ; 
 
 " After the early life of the brae. 
 
 The primrose joy and glory are past ; 
 After the honeymoon of the may, 
 
 W^hen its bridal attire the sloe hath cast ; 
 
 " After the merle hath ceased to sing, 
 
 Or sings by starts in the gates of the eve ; 
 After the ' wandering voices of spring,' 
 Cuckoo and curlew, have taken leave ; 
 
 " When the scowl is lifted from off the brows 
 Of old Duntroon and grim Dunolly, 
 And there is the whisper of los^ers' vows 
 Below the hazels and the holly ;
 
 1 82 MEMOIR. 
 
 " When the spectres that howl round Gylen stern 
 In the winter nights are laid and at rest, 
 And the otter, gliding through cave and cairn 
 In Kerrera fair, is its grimmest guest ; 
 
 " In the heart of the year, when the salmon seek 
 Their way to the rivers, and merry sea-trout 
 Give life by their frolics to bay and creek. 
 When the lusty porpoise is rolling about ; 
 
 '• When the lythe is at play round the Eilan Dhu, 
 And the dolorous gurnard shows on the calms. 
 And the hoe and stenlock dare and do 
 The havoc of wolves among the lambs ; 
 
 " When the crops of the sea are ripe and rife, 
 Dainty and luring to palate and eye, 
 And its garners teem with the marvels of life — 
 We'll off to Oban, you and I." 
 
 The old delight in Nature is fresh as ever 
 in these verses, and the other poems in the 
 volume are full of it ; but in most of them some 
 influence from the domain of prose has crept into 
 its expression. The versified musings have an
 
 MEMOIR. 183 
 
 autobiographical interest. Probably the follow- 
 ing lines contain the veriest commonplaces of 
 modern philosophy ; — their only value here is 
 that they were part of the creed of a man who 
 concerned himself in no wise about modern philo- 
 sophy : — 
 
 " Marry ! the past and its glories, 
 Marry ! the past with its stories 
 Of valour, and love, and ambition, 
 Of tyranny, crime, and sedition. 
 Of hope and despair, of joy and of sorrow, 
 Foreshadows in its history 
 The happenings of the morrow. 
 Can we make more of the mystery ? 
 One generation goeth, 
 And lo ! another succeedeth. 
 As o'er the billow that leadeth 
 Another billow floweth. 
 
 " The past in the future mergeth, 
 And out of the future resurgeth ! 
 The present is but a tittle. 
 Brave in its own esteem. 
 But less than the veriest little — 
 Of existence haply the dream !
 
 184 MEMOIR. 
 
 True ! in our chrysalis state, 
 
 We regard it as all in all ; 
 
 But in the scripture of fate, 
 
 Conning the stars as we read, 
 
 The present is thrown to the wall — 
 
 Such is a leaf of our creed ! " 
 
 The edition did not sell, although the book 
 was favourably reviewed ; and a number of the 
 copies remained on the publishers' hands. 
 
 On September 27, 1876, the Kelso Angling 
 Association presented my father with his portrait, 
 in commem.oration of his long connection with its 
 members in both official and social relations. 
 
 His angling days were, however, nearly over. 
 The four days weekly had dwindled down to one 
 at the most, and gradually even that was often 
 intermitted. His ailments were increasing, and 
 frequent attacks of pain and nausea made it im- 
 prudent for him to incur the risk of chills and 
 fatigue. When an interval of freedom from un- 
 easiness encouraged him, he would take his rod 
 and go up Teviot as of old ; but he grew soon 
 tired, and was apt to fall asleep on the bank.
 
 MEMOIR. 185 
 
 Every day, morning and evening, in fine weatiier 
 and bad, he went to the bridge to look at the 
 Tweed. He had foretold these days in his youth, 
 and now very literally fulfilled the foreboding : — 
 
 "And I, when to breathe is a burden, and joy 
 Forsakes me, and life is no longer the boy, 
 On the labouring staff and the trem'rous knee 
 Shall wander, bright river, to thee ! " 
 
 During the last few years of his life he tried 
 to fill the blank with gardening, and grew roses 
 in the sunny little plot behind Bellevue Cottage 
 with much success. I remember his pleasure 
 when these rewarded his care, as well as his 
 letters to me when I was from home urging me 
 not to stay away beyond such and such a da}-, 
 else I would miss some beautiful rose. When I 
 came home, we went straight to the garden to 
 look at his favourites, to count and admire them. 
 
 He managed to keep up a yearly visit to Yet- 
 holm Loch, which a friend, who was always of 
 the part}', describes as follows : — " Not the least 
 part of Mr. Stoddart's enjoyment was in his pre-
 
 1 86 MEMOIR. 
 
 parations for the day, which generally took up 
 the best part of the week beforehand. Trouts 
 had to be caught to bait the pike-hooks, the 
 tackle had to be carefully selected, worms had 
 to be supplied for the perch, and a substantial 
 luncheon for the party. Of all these the veteran 
 angler claimed the charge, and well he did his 
 w^ork. On the morning he was generally the 
 first ready. We met at Bellevue Cottage, got 
 into our trap, and started in the full expectation 
 of a happy day, which never failed to be realised. 
 The drive to the loch lasted an hour, and he 
 enlivened the way with his angling recollections, 
 given with genuine humour — the Junction, the 
 Quarry Hole, and Catch-a-penny all suggesting 
 some bygone exploit. Arrived at Lochside House, 
 we shoulder our equipments and march to the 
 loch, where the boat lies ready for us. Rods 
 are now put up and trimmed for the perch, 
 floats are made ready, trouts attached to the pike- 
 hooks by the master-hand, the luncheon- basket 
 is not forgotten, and we embark, making the
 
 MEMOIR. 1 87 
 
 round of the loch before casting anchor, and 
 then choosing the best taking spots. At the 
 word of command our rods are all out, and we 
 watch our corks, each eager to draw first blood. 
 The bottom of the boat is soon covered with 
 perch, but we do not wait to count our spoils 
 until the shoal has passed us. Presently comes 
 the welcome shout from Mr. Stoddart, ' We have 
 him, and a monster too ! ' and turning to the 
 bobbing float, we obey the order ' Up anchor 
 and follow.' Left, right, left, right, w^e go, till 
 we are on him. Time after time he eludes us ; 
 but at last Mr. Stoddart's practised hand has 
 him in his toils, and soon Master Pike is drawn 
 up, and goes floundering into the boat. We 
 younger hands give the fresh-water shark a wide 
 berth : not so our old friend. With the line in 
 his hand, he gradually lifts the pike till it is 
 almost at the perpendicular, then with a forked 
 stick loosens the barbed hook from its throat, 
 and plunges a sharp knife into its brain — when 
 with a final spasm the monster dies. One float
 
 1 88 MEMOIR. 
 
 after another now begins to dance, and we have 
 rare fun rushing hither and thither after our 
 prey. The day wears on, and by and by we 
 haul in our floats and count our prizes. We 
 find seven pike, weighing from three to twelve 
 pounds apiece, and over a hundredweight of 
 perch to the four rods. We fought our battles 
 over again as we drove home ; and the annual 
 excursion was for us all a red-letter day in the 
 year," 
 
 The yearly visits to Yarrow had come to an 
 end, but in summer my father and I generally 
 made a day's excursion to St. Mary's Loch, 
 taking an early train to Selkirk and the " Flower 
 of Yarrow " coach up the valley to the old haunt. 
 One year, as we drove past a broom-clad bank 
 near the Yarrow Feus, the blaze of yellow blossom 
 was so impressive that it set fire to his fancy, 
 and he quickly conceived a Romaunt of Yarrow, 
 which should tell how broom from Cowdenknowes 
 was brought by wizard's spell to Yarrow. He 
 began to turn his fantastic tale into verse, and
 
 MEMOIR. 189 
 
 chose the old Scots tongue for his medium, a 
 language he understood well in the finer dialect 
 which our ancestors used, which is now ex- 
 tinct. The chief figure in the story was meant 
 to be the wizard of Balvvearie, Michael Scot ; but 
 the plot was not well contrived, and the adven- 
 tures of subordinate characters detract from the 
 main interest of a rhymed romance which was 
 never finished, and whose fragment leaves a con- 
 fused impression upon the reader. 
 
 He was busy with this when Messrs. J. & J. 
 H. Rutherfurd of Kelso took over the copies of 
 "Songs of the Seasons" which remained on the 
 hands of the Edinburgh publishers, and asked him 
 to write a short autobiograpliy with which to 
 preface their issue. This he was willing to do ; 
 but illness and long periods of prostration made 
 the work very desultory, and it contains besides one 
 regrettable passage, in which he accuses an old and 
 valued friend by name of an unjust allegation of 
 which he was not the source. The autobiography 
 was his latest literary labour. Tlie pen out-
 
 IQO ISIEMOIR 
 
 lasted the rod. In June 1879, while fishing in 
 Teviot some miles above Kelso, he fell into the 
 Turn Pool, where the water is deep and rushing ; 
 and, although he was able to extricate himself 
 without help, it was with the greatest difficulty 
 that he got home. The incident warned him 
 that the infirmities of age were upon him, and 
 that he must not again risk such an adventure. 
 In addition to his other ailments he suffered 
 much from cramp, and every chill increased his 
 pain and weakness. One last success awaited 
 him. In September of the same year Mr. Thistle- 
 thwayte had taken the Tweed fishing between the 
 Junction and Sharpitlaw Mill, but was unable to 
 come to it for some weeks. He gave Mr. Forrest 
 the freedom of his stretch of river for himself and 
 his friends. Mr. Forrest met my father one fine 
 fishing-day, and tempted him down to the boat. 
 He was so frail that he could only hold his rod 
 for ten minutes at a time ; but when, below the 
 cauld, he hooked a fish, the old familiar shock 
 braced him up, and he played the salmon and
 
 MEMOIR. 191 
 
 landed it with all his wonted delicacy and certainty. 
 He was not able to carry his prize home, how- 
 ever — although it did not weigh more than eight 
 pounds ; but Mr. Forrest took that trouble for 
 him, and saw him safely to Bellevue Cottage. He 
 was much pleased, but never fished again. During 
 the summer of that year he went to Spittal for 
 change of air ; but received little benefit from his 
 stay, and returned to Kelso glad to be at home. 
 
 The winter passed as usual — his days divided 
 by short walks, his evenings spent at home, 
 occupied with his "Autobiography" and "A 
 Romaunt of Yarrow." The attacks of pain and 
 nausea continued ; but lasted a short time, and 
 seldom interfered with his daily routine. 
 
 The summer of 1880 was a trying one for 
 him. Suffering much from sleeplessness and 
 loss of appetite, he tried sea-air once more at 
 Spittal, but quickly returned worse than when he 
 went. He revived a little in the quiet of home ; 
 but the intervals of freedom from discomfort were 
 short and less frequent. On August loth he
 
 192 MEMOIR. 
 
 wrote : " I have been walking in the Valley of 
 the Shadow of Death ; no sleep, little appetite, 
 constant nausea. Thank God, my mind is entire, 
 and I am able to divide my attention between 
 the garden and my desk. That my hours are 
 numbered I know, and am engaged in setting my 
 house in order and making my peace with God. 
 Come early in September — the ist, if possible. 
 I hope to have plenty of roses in blossom, carna- 
 tions, and fuchsias." 
 
 Later in the month he wrote a little more 
 cheerfully ; and when I reached Kelso on the 4th 
 of September, I found him awaiting me at the 
 station, looking frail, but better than I had 
 expected. A favourite niece came to stay with 
 us, and her presence helped to brighten up the 
 following weeks — although from time to time he 
 suffered from the now wonted attacks of pain 
 and depression. 
 
 Early in November he seemed sufficiently 
 well to make it possible for me to pay a visit 
 which was long due to some friends in Leyden.
 
 MEMOIR. 193 
 
 My cousin and I left home for London — my father 
 seeing us off at the Kelso station, bidding us 
 farewell with a return of his old sunny humour. 
 His last words to us were a jest about " Dr 
 Jones," with whom my cousin had grown well 
 acquainted during her stay. 
 
 He had given me a commission to bring him 
 a box full of bulbs from Holland, and the letters 
 which I received from him while at Leyden 
 were occupied with his wishes respecting them. 
 The last, written on the i8th of November, 
 ended with the words, " Weary, weary, weary, 
 is now the song of my life." 
 
 He posted that letter, and then walked feebly 
 to the bridge to look at the Tweed. On his 
 return home he felt very ill, and desired to go 
 to bed and see his doctor. At first it was 
 supposed that he suffered from a worse attack 
 than usual, but that he would recover as usXial. 
 It was, however, soon recognised that this was 
 the end; and shortly after receiving his' letter, I 
 was summoned home by telegram. I reached 
 
 N
 
 194 MEMOIR. 
 
 Bellevue Cottage on Sunday the 21st, to find 
 him unconscious ; and, at four o'clock on Mon- 
 day morning, he passed into the painless life 
 with a gentle sigh. He sleeps in the Kelso 
 Cemeter}', in a spot chosen some months before 
 his death by himself, " where I can hear the 
 Tweed," he said ; — and five years later, the wife 
 whom he had wooed with love so sudden and 
 yet so true half a century before, was laid 
 beside him. 
 
 E LEGY 
 
 ON THE LATE 
 
 THOMAS TOD STODDART, 
 
 By Sir George Douglas^ Bart. 
 
 By Tweed, by Teviot's winding tide, 
 A form I knew is miss'd to-day ! 
 
 The woods, the field, the rocks abide. 
 But he has pass'd away —
 
 MEMOIR. 195 
 
 Where, pensive — straying without an aim — 
 As now, once more, these paths I trace 
 
 (FamiUar haunts found still the same), 
 I seek him in his place ! 
 
 For seldom — (whether Tweed ran strong, 
 Discoloured, swoU'n with melting snows, 
 
 Awful with wrecks it bears along 
 'Twixt banks it overflows ; 
 
 Whether, with summer-shrunken stream — 
 Where isles, before unknown, appear — 
 
 It sank in sloth, resign'd to dream) — 
 I failed to meet him here ! 
 
 Indeed — by drought, fair skies, or flood — 
 So constant this his walk had been. 
 
 He seemed, when met in fancy's mood. 
 The Genius of the scene. 
 
 Or, even — with venerable beard ; 
 
 In his right hand a willow-rod — 
 Late sighted where his name was fear'd 
 
 The very river-god ! 
 
 His date was from that Golden Age 
 
 When, sprung from Hercules and Mirth, 
 
 In manhood and poetic rage. 
 Giants still dwelt on earth.
 
 196 MEMOIR. 
 
 In mountain, water, field, and wood, 
 
 Their might was felt — empowered, at will. 
 
 The broods of earth, the sky, the flood. 
 To capture, tame, or kill. 
 
 Then, by the fair lake's margent clear, 
 
 What nights were theirs ! how brave a feast ! 
 
 Ranged all in order, peer by peer, 
 Where he was not the least. 
 
 Methinks the moon was full by night. 
 When Madness, madder than before. 
 
 Drank deep, and kept till broad daylight 
 That table in a roar ! 
 
 But envying Time, with marksman's art, 
 Waging dire war, slew, one by one. 
 
 Their race large-limb'd and light of heart — 
 Till he remained alone : 
 
 And lingering, lonely, very old. 
 
 Saw baser times, and knew instead 
 
 Men in whose veins the blood ran cold. 
 With hearts where mirth was dead. 
 
 Yet still his peaceful craft he plied, 
 Haunting by river, lake, and rill — 
 
 With power to common men denied. 
 Assiduous, angling still.
 
 MEMOIR. 197 
 
 Till all in wonderment cried out, 
 
 When he, at eve, his ploy forsook — . 
 
 F>om head to heel, and round about, 
 Hung with the spoils he took ! 
 
 He dipt his fingers in the flood 
 
 (I heard an ancient angler tell), 
 And, nibbling, straight the finny brood 
 
 Swarm'd at the charmer's spell 
 
 And sometimes, too, with childlike glee, 
 
 In praise of stream and river-side, 
 He sang. A kindly man was he ; 
 
 And so, in time, he died. 
 
 And thus, by Teviot's rolling flood, 
 
 His well-known form we miss to-day — 
 
 Gazing on river, field, and wood, 
 Whence he has passed away ! 
 
 Dear poet ! from that dead hand of thine, 
 
 I (oh ! not rashly) born too late, 
 Claiming far kinship in the line. 
 
 This legacy await : — 
 
 To others other gifts : to me. 
 
 If I have praised thee here, at last, 
 Though ill, not unacceptably, 
 
 Thy poet's pipe be pass'd !
 
 198 MEMOIR. 
 
 Now, sleep ! Thy songs thou leavest with us 
 Thy story be it our task to tell ; 
 
 But thee, we now departing, thus, 
 Salute and bid " Farewell ! "
 
 ANGLING SONGS.
 
 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S VINDICATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Say not our hands are cruel, 
 
 What deeds invite the blame ? 
 Content our golden jewel, j 
 No blemish on our name : 
 Creation's lords 
 We need no swords 
 To win a withering fame, 
 
 II. 
 
 Say not in gore and guile 
 We waste the livelong day : 
 
 Let those alone revile 
 
 Who feel our subtile sway,
 
 202 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 When fancy-led 
 The sward we tread 
 And while the morn away. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! not in camp or court 
 
 Our best delights we find, 
 But in the far resort 
 
 With water, wood, and wind, 
 Where Nature works 
 And beauty lurks 
 In all her craft enshrined. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There captive to her will. 
 
 Yet 'mid our fetters free, 
 We seek by singing rill 
 The broad and shady tree. 
 And lisp our lay 
 To flower and fay. 
 Or mock the linnet's glee.
 
 THE ANGLER S VINDICATION. 203 
 
 Thus glides the golden hour, 
 
 Until the chimes to toil 
 Recall from brook and bower ; 
 Then, laden with our spoil, 
 Slowly we part 
 With heavy heart 
 And leave the haunted soil.
 
 204 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 TROLLING SONG. 
 
 The bell-throats o' the bonny birds ring, 
 When the angler goes a-troUing ; 
 
 The south wind waves his cheery wing, 
 And gentle rains are falling. 
 
 II. 
 
 The white thorn bears its bridal wreath, 
 When the angler goes a-trolling ; 
 
 And hark ! along the bloomy heath 
 The plaintive plover calling ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Breezy and brown the rivers glide, 
 When the angler goes a-trolling ; 
 
 The dark burns leave the green hill-side 
 Among the pebbles brawling.
 
 TROLLING SONG. 205 
 
 IV. 
 
 Upon the meadow, by the springs, 
 The quiet herds are lolling ; 
 
 All earth is full of happy things 
 When the angler goes a-troUing !
 
 206 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 I. 
 
 They've steekit the waters agen us, Jock, 
 They've steekit the burnies an' a' ; 
 
 We hae na a chiel to befrien' us, Jock, 
 Our laird's aye makin' the law. 
 
 II. 
 
 We'll get neither yallow nor grey-fin, Jock, 
 Nor buU-heid nor sawmon ava ; 
 
 The laird he's aye at the savin', Jock, 
 An' bauds to us weel wi' his law. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yer flees ye may set them a bleezin', Jock, 
 Our wands they may gang to the wa' ; 
 
 It's neither in rhyme nor in reason, Jock, 
 To coort a kick-up wi' the law.
 
 THE ANGLER S COMPLAINT. 20/ 
 
 IV. 
 
 That ilka intent should miscarry, Jock, 
 
 I dinna wunner ava; 
 Our laird he's kin to the Shirra, Jock, 
 
 And sib wi' the loons o' the law. 
 
 V. 
 
 But faith ! ye'U agree it's a hardship, Jock, 
 
 To gie up our richts to the craw ; 
 The neist time we meet wi' his lairdship, Jock, 
 
 We promise him licks for his law. 
 
 vi. 
 
 An' e'en when the mirk is a-nearin', Jock, 
 
 Wi' pock-nets and drag-nets an' a', 
 We'll gie his bit ponds sic a clearin', Jock, 
 
 Our laird he'll look twice to the law. 
 
 VII. 
 
 We'll no spare a ged or a gudgeon, Jock, 
 
 We'll no spare a fin or a jaw ; 
 Lord pity the crazy curmudgeon, Jock ! 
 
 He'll sune tak his leave o' the law !
 
 208 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 TO THE NAIRN. 
 
 Water of Alders ! where is the spell 
 That binds me in spirit to thee ? 
 
 I cared not to drop my farewell, 
 
 For I left no loved things, in meadow or dell, 
 Thou wert but a stranger with me. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, in my fancy, often I turn 
 
 From the streams of my choice, all apart — 
 From the sylvan and blossomy burn 
 To the vale where thy waters murmur and mourn, 
 
 Their memory hangs on the heart ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Often in vision tempt me again 
 
 Thy wild roving shoals ; but I bend
 
 TO THE NAIRN. 2O9 
 
 O'er the silent shapes of the slain, 
 Not for me from the depths of the billowy main 
 The living thy channels ascend. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Swift as an arrow glancing below 
 
 Speeds the silver trout of the sea, 
 And ever on thy autumnal flow 
 The salmon laving his bosom of snow 
 Wends hill-ward, but not for me ! 
 
 Water of Alders ! memory brings 
 Me back to each trodden fane. 
 And its silent recall of banislied things 
 Unfetters Affection's buried springs 
 And bids them gush forth again !
 
 lO ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 When homeward from the stream we turn 
 Good cheer our sport replaces, 
 
 There's liquor twinkling in the glass, 
 There's joy on all our faces ! 
 
 II. 
 
 We drink sweet healths, a merry round, 
 
 We talk old stories over, 
 And sing glad staves, like summer birds 
 
 Below their leafy cover. 
 
 in. 
 
 Thus cheerily our evenings pass, 
 
 Till lulled below the quilting 
 We sleep our toils off, and are forth 
 
 Before the lark is hhing.
 
 SONG. 2 I I 
 
 IV. 
 
 All joy be with our hearts' kin bold 
 
 May care's nets ne'er entangle, 
 Xor woe nor poverty depress 
 
 A brother of the angle !
 
 2 I 2 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE HOLY -WELL POOL. 
 
 When the month is happy June, 
 And her horns forsake the moon — 
 When she greets us round and full, 
 Then we'll haunt the Holy-well pool. 
 
 Where I ween, 
 
 'Neath willow green, 
 Bright fins are ever gliding ; 
 
 'Mong the reeds 
 
 And water-weeds, 
 They hold their wary hiding. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not by moonlight need we tread 
 Mossy bank or river-bed ; 
 No living things 'neath moonlight prowl, 
 Save beetle and bat and solemn owl ;
 
 -"3 
 
 TIIK IIOLV-WKLL TOOL. 2 1 
 
 As she rides 
 
 The old trout hides, 
 Under the still bank deeper; 
 
 Nor sweet fly 
 
 Nor minnow sly 
 Can rouse the silent sleeper. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ratiier at morn-tide we shall go 
 To the Holy-well when the sun is low, 
 Ere the bee visits the new-burst flower 
 Or the noon breeze shakes the bower ; 
 
 Then the trout 
 
 Sails round about 
 Bevond the osier bushes, 
 
 Or descries 
 
 His winged prize 
 Among the whispering rushes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then we'll seek the Holy-well, 
 Or when eve glides up the dell,
 
 14 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 And the cushat all unseen 
 Coos among the larch-wood green 
 Stealing soft 
 Along the croft 
 We'll beat the shady water, 
 Till to rest 
 With arm opprest 
 Night turns us from the slaughter. 
 
 ■i'A 

 
 MUSINGS. 215 
 
 nS 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Welcome, sweet southern showers 
 Welcome, ye early flowers, 
 
 Woo'd by the bee ! 
 Ever gentle and bland 
 To all wights of the wand 
 
 Welcome are ye ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oft at the wintry fire, 
 Nursing our hearts' desire 
 
 Fondly we dream 
 Of joy in the breeze — 
 Singing birds on the trees — 
 
 Flowers by the stream.
 
 2l6 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Often our fancy brings 
 Pictures of sunny things 
 
 Home to our hearth, 
 And we seem as we stray'd 
 Among sunshine and shade, 
 
 Music and mirth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then with unconscious hand 
 Grasp we the idle wand, 
 
 Full of the boy, 
 When to our sad surprise 
 Swiftly the vision flies. 
 
 Summer and joy !
 
 SONNET. — CONAN FALLS. 2 I 
 
 SONNET.— CONAN FALLS. 
 
 Through Luichart's lone expanse dark Conan flows, 
 
 Of moorland nature, as its tawny blood 
 
 Betokens, and insensibly the flood 
 
 Glides onward, while continuous hills enclose 
 
 The quiet lake ; at length, this soft repose — 
 
 The Syren bosom of the pastoral deeps 
 
 It rudely spurns, and with terrific leaps 
 
 Descends into the valley. Oft I chose 
 
 In days by-gone the wild and wizard place 
 
 Wherein to roam, and from the eddy's rout 
 
 Lured with bewitching fly the wary trout ; 
 
 This scene hath Time's hand shifted, and its face 
 
 'Reft of the life ; yet, i)icture-like, to me 
 
 It hangs within the Mind's dark gallery.
 
 2l8 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE TAKING OF THE SALMON. 
 
 I. 
 
 A BIRR ! a whirr ! a salmon's on, 
 
 A goodly fish ! a thumper ! 
 Bring up, bring up the ready gaff, 
 And if we land him we shall quaff 
 Another glorious bumper ! 
 Hark ! 'tis the music of the reel, 
 
 The strong, the quick, the steady ; 
 The line darts from the active wheel, 
 Have all things right and ready. 
 
 II. 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! the salmon's out, 
 
 Far on the rushing river ; 
 Onward he holds with sudden leap. 
 Or plunges through the whirlpool deep, 
 
 A desperate endeavour !
 
 THE TAKIiNG OF THE SALMON. 2 I9 
 
 Hark to the music of the reel ! 
 
 The fitful and the grating ; 
 It pants along the breathless wheel, 
 
 Now hurried — now abating. 
 
 III. 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! the salmon's off! — 
 
 •No, no, we still have got him ; 
 The wily fish is sullen grown, 
 And, like a bright imbedded stone, 
 Lies gleaming at the bottom. 
 Hark to the music of the reel ! 
 
 Tis hushed, it hath forsaken ; 
 With care we'll guard the magic wheel, 
 Until its notes rewaken. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! the salmon's up, 
 
 Give line, give line and measure ; 
 But now he turns ! keep down ahead, 
 And lead him as a child is led. 
 And land him at your leisure.
 
 2 20 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 Hark to the music of the reel ! 
 
 'Tis welcome, it is glorious ; 
 It wariders through the winding wheel, 
 
 Returning and victorious. 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! the salmon's in. 
 
 Upon the bank extended ; 
 The princely fish is gasping slow, 
 His brilliant colours come and go, 
 All beautifully blended. 
 Hark to the music of the reel ! 
 
 It murmurs and it closes ; 
 Silence is on the conquering wheel, 
 Its wearied line reposes. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No birr ! no whirr ! the salmon's ours, 
 
 The noble fish — the thumper : 
 Strike through his gill the ready gaff, 
 And bending homewards, we shall quaff 
 Another glorious bumper !
 
 THE TAKING OF THE SALMON. 22 1 
 
 I lark to the music of the reel ! 
 
 We listen with devotion ; 
 There's something in that circling wheel 
 
 That wakes the heart's emotion !
 
 2 22 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SEEK YE WHAR THE BURN IE TRAVELS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Seek ye whar the burnie travels, 
 
 Sullied wi' the simmer showers, 
 Whar the fairy hauds his revels 
 In the cleuch amang the flowers ? 
 Seek ye there, free o' care 
 To dip the flowin' line, 
 Wi' skilfu' hand to wave the wand 
 An' dip the flowin' line ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Or mayhap, whar glen desertin' 
 Winds the river blue and braid ; 
 
 Noo some quiet meadow skirtin', 
 Rinnin' noo anent the shade ; 
 Seek ye there, tS:c.
 
 SEEK VE WHAR THE BURNIE TRAVELS. 223 
 
 III. 
 
 Or amang the hills uncheery 
 
 Whar the mirk mere slumbers lorn, 
 An' his dirges lang and dreary 
 
 Pipes the grey whaup to the morn. 
 Seek ye there, Sec.
 
 2 24 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Is the cuckoo come ? Is the cuckoo come ? 
 
 Seek ye its happy voice 
 
 Bidding the hills rejoice, 
 Greeting green summer and sweet May morn ? 
 
 See you the bird, 
 
 Or hear its loved word 
 From dewy birch-wood or aged thorn ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Is the cuckoo come ? Is the cuckoo come ? 
 Down by the reedy spring 
 Watching its wary wing 
 Wends the lone angler toward the lake, 
 Joy in his heart 
 With fancy alert, 
 He rears gentle visions wandering awake.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CUCKOO. 225 
 
 III. 
 
 Is the cuckoo come ? Is the cuckoo come ? 
 
 Lover of sunny streams ! 
 
 Banish thy airy dreams, 
 Hark the wild note of the fairy-voiced bird ! 
 
 Now in the glen, 
 
 And listen again, 
 O'er the wide hill floats the silvery word. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is the cuckoo come ? Is the cuckoo come ? 
 
 Haste to thy loved resort, 
 
 Haste to thy pleasant sport, 
 Shake the sly palmer o'er streamlet and lake ! 
 
 Hark on the wind — 
 
 Before thee — behind — 
 Plaintively singeth the bird of the brake !
 
 2 26 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 O WAKEN, WINDS, WAKEN/ 
 
 I. 
 
 O WAKEN, winds, waken ! the waters are still, 
 
 And silence and sunlight recline on the hill ; 
 
 The angler is watching beside the green springs 
 
 For the low welcome sound of your wandering wings ! 
 
 II. 
 
 His rod is unwielded, his tackle unfreed, 
 And the withe-woven pannier lies flung on the mead ; 
 He looks to the lake, through its fane of green trees, 
 And sighs for the curl of the cool summer breeze. 
 
 in. 
 
 Calm-bound is the form of the water-bird fair, 
 And the spear of the rush stands erect in the air, 
 And the dragon-fly roams o'er the lily-bed gay, 
 Where basks the bold pike in a sun-smitten bay.
 
 O WAKEN, WINDS, WAKEN ! 2 2/ 
 
 IV. 
 
 O waken, winds, waken ! wherever asleep, 
 On cloud or dark mountain, or down in the deep ; 
 The angler is watching, beside the green springs, 
 For the low welcome sound of your wandering wings.
 
 2 28 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONNET.— THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 The fellow-anglers of my youthful days, 
 (Of past realities we form our dream,) 
 I watch them re-assembling by the stream. 
 And on the group with solemn musings gaze ; 
 For some are lost in life's bewildering haze. 
 And some have left their sport and tak'n to toil, 
 And some have faced the Ocean's wild turmoil, 
 And some — a very few — their olden ways 
 By shining lake and river still pursue ; 
 Ah ! one I gaze on 'mid the fancied band, 
 Unlike the rest in years, in gait, in hue — 
 Uprisen from a dim and shadowy land — 
 Ask what loved phantom fixes my regard ! 
 Yarrow's late pride, the Angler, Shepherd, Bard !
 
 THE RIVKK. 229 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 Through sun-bright lakes, 
 
 Round islets gay, 
 The river takes 
 
 Its western way, 
 And the water-chime 
 Soft zephyrs time 
 
 Each gladsome summer day. 
 
 II. 
 
 The starry trout, 
 
 Fair to behold, 
 Roameth about 
 
 On fin of gold ; 
 At root of tree 
 His haunt you may see, 
 
 Rude rock or crevice old.
 
 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 And hither dart 
 
 The salmon grey, 
 From the deep heart 
 
 Of some sea bay ; 
 And herling wild 
 Is here beguiled 
 
 To hold autumnal play, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a stream 
 
 Most fair to see, 
 As in a dream 
 
 Flows pleasantly ; 
 And our hearts are woo'd 
 To a kind sweet mood 
 
 By its wondrous witchery.
 
 TROLLING SONG. 23 I 
 
 TROLLING SONG. 
 
 Let us go a trolling, boys ! 
 
 A trolling we shall go, 
 While the showers are falling, boys, 
 And while the south winds blow ; 
 Where the trout 
 Prowl about. 
 Steadily, steadily, let us row. 
 
 II. 
 
 See ! the waves are dancing, boys. 
 
 Around the mermaid isle ; 
 Many a fin is glancing, boys, 
 Oh ! weary runs the while, 
 Till we speed, 
 All agreed 
 To troll, to troll the glittering guile.
 
 O '> o 
 
 32 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 O'er the surface ranging, boys, 
 We'll beat from bay to bay, 
 Lure and water changing, boys ; 
 It is the angler's way ; 
 So we'll troll 
 One and all 
 And cheerily, cheerily pass the day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And again returning, boys, 
 
 We'll talk our triumphs o'er. 
 Tongue and bosom burning, boys. 
 As they have burned before. 
 While we told 
 Feats of old, 
 We never, we never can equal more !
 
 'J'HH SEA-TROUT GKKY. 233 
 
 THE SEA-TROUT GREY 
 
 The sea-trout grey 
 
 Are now at play, 
 The salmon is up, hurra ! hurra ! 
 
 For the streamlets brown 
 
 Are dancing down, 
 So quicken the cup, hurra ! hurra ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The cloud-cap still 
 
 Is on the hill. 
 And the showers fall fast, hurra ! hurra ! 
 
 But the sun and breeze 
 
 Will scatter these, 
 So drink while they last, hurra ! hurra !
 
 2 34 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 We'll Start by dawn 
 
 O'er lea and lawn, 
 Through thicket and thorn, hurra ! hurra ! 
 
 On merriest limb 
 
 With rods in trim, 
 Come drink a sweet morn, hurra ! hurra !
 
 > 
 
 AN ANGLKR S RAMBLES. 235 
 
 AN ANGLER'S RAMBLES. 
 
 I've angled far and angled wide, 
 
 On Fannich drear, by Luichart's side, 
 
 Across dark Conan's current ; 
 Have haunted Beauly's silver stream, 
 Where glimmering thro' the forest Dream 
 
 Hangs its eternal torrent ; 
 
 II. 
 
 Among the rocks of wild Maree, 
 O'er whose blue billow ever free 
 
 The daring eagles hover. 
 And where, at Glomach's ruffian steep. 
 The dark stream holds its angered leap, 
 
 Many a fathom over ;
 
 2^6 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 By Lochy sad, and Laggan lake, 
 Where Spey uncoils his glittering snake 
 
 Among the hills of thunder ; 
 And I have swept my fatal fly 
 Where swarthy Findhorn hurries by 
 
 The olden forest under : 
 
 IV. 
 
 On Tummel's solitary bed, 
 
 And where wild Tilt and Garry wed 
 
 In Athol's heathery valleys, 
 On Earn by green Duneira's bower. 
 Below Breadalbane's Tay-washed tower, 
 
 And Scone's once regal palace. 
 
 There have I swept the slender line, 
 And where the broad Awe braves the brine. 
 Have watched the grey grilse gambol.
 
 AN ANGLER S RAMBLES. 237 
 
 By nameless stream and tarn remote, 
 With light flies in the breeze afloat, 
 Holding my careless ramble. 
 
 VI. 
 
 IJut dearer than all these to me 
 
 Is sylvan Tweed ; each tower and tree 
 
 That in its vale rejoices ! 
 Dearer the streamlets one and all, 
 That blend with its Eolian brawl 
 
 Their own enamouring voices !
 
 2-^8 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 While others are brawling let anglers agree, 
 And in concord the goblet replenish ; 
 
 Should contention prevail, then away on the gale 
 All mirth and hilarity vanish. 
 
 II. 
 
 No strife we'll allow, no clamorous words 
 
 To sever the friendships of summer, 
 But hand within hand, in amity stand, 
 
 And consign every wrong to the rummer. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! Peace and Content are the angler's best wealth, 
 No journey without them he ventures ; 
 
 Like angels they wait at the porch of his gate, 
 And greet him again when he enters.
 
 DRINKING SONG. 239 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then joyously mingle the soul of the grain 
 With a merry supply from the tankard ! 
 
 'Twill cost not a care, as long as we share 
 The cups of content and of concord !
 
 240 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE YELLOW FINS 0' YARROW. 
 
 The yellow fins o' Yarrow dale ! 
 
 I kenna whar they've gane tae ; 
 Were ever troots in Border vale 
 
 Sae comely or sae dainty ? 
 
 II. 
 
 They had baith gowd and spanglit rings, 
 Wi' walth o' pearl amang them ; 
 
 An' for sweet luve o' the bonny things, 
 I'he heart was laith to wrancr them. 
 
 III. 
 
 Eut he that angles Yarrow ower, 
 (Maun changes ever waken ?) 
 
 Frae our Lady's Loch to Newark Tower, 
 Will find the stream forsaken.
 
 THE YELLOW FINS O YARROW. 24 I 
 
 IV. 
 
 Forsaken ilka bank an' stane 
 O' a' its troots o' splendour ; 
 
 Auld Yarrow's left sae lorn and lane, 
 Ane scarcely wad hae kenn'd her. 
 
 Waes me ! the auncient yellow fin 
 I marvel whar he's gane tae ; 
 
 Was ever troot in Forest rin 
 Sae comely or sae dainty !
 
 242 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 We listen by the waters blue to voices that we love ; 
 Sweet flowers are twinkling at our side, and willow 
 
 leaves above ; 
 Before us feeds the fearless trout, emerging from the 
 
 calm. 
 And bleats behind the fleecy ewe upon its wandering 
 
 lamb. 
 
 Delicious musings fill the heart, and images of bliss ; 
 Ah ! that all pictures of the past were innocent as 
 
 this, — 
 That life were like a summer trance beneath a willow 
 
 wide, 
 Or the ramble of an angler lone along the river-side.
 
 A PECK O TROUBLES. 243 
 
 A PECK O' TROUBLES. 
 
 GiE me my gaud, my guid auld gaud — 
 
 The wan' I lo'e sae rarely ; 
 But faith, guidwife, it's unco thraw'd, 
 
 Ye hae na used it fairly. 
 
 II. 
 
 The bairns ! plague tak the thievin' things ! 
 
 They play the verra deevil ; 
 Wha'd think they've hashed my lav'rock wings. 
 
 An' ta'en my mennin sweevil ? 
 
 III. 
 
 They've made sair wark amang the flees, 
 There's neither huik nor hackle ; 
 
 What's a' the sruid o' brew or breeze 
 An' no ane skein o' tackle?
 
 2 44 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, hinny, whar's my niuckle reel ? 
 
 Gie up yer cloots and needle — 
 I wadna lose my honest wheel 
 
 For a' the wives in Tweeddale. 
 
 No to the fore ! I micht hae guess'd 
 Some ill or ither cam o't ; 
 
 It's gane the gate o' a' the rest, 
 An' nane to bear the blame o't. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Aweel ! aweel 1 mishaps we ken 
 Are coupled aye thegither ; 
 
 But, guidwife, rax us yonner hen, 
 She's dainty in the feather. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A mawkin lug and tinsey braw, 
 Ben in the kist ye'll find them,
 
 A PECK O TROUBLES. 245 
 
 Auld reel and tippets — aims an' a' — 
 The aims, be shure an' mind them ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It gangs awee agen the grain 
 To bear sae mony troubles ; 
 
 An' yet, guidwife, to ilka ane 
 
 There's graith amang the stubbles. 
 
 IX. 
 
 It's neither dole nor deep lament 
 Will mend a body's grievance ; 
 
 Sae e'en we'll haud oursels content 
 Wi' thae wee bits o' leevins ; 
 
 An' gin a sawmon soom the Tweed 
 (The thing's no that unchancy,) 
 
 We'll gar the ilka tooth o't bleed, 
 May fortune fa' the fancy !
 
 246 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S BENEDICTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bless with me the spring-tide bland, 
 All ye anglers of the valley ! 
 
 Wave aloof the slender wand, 
 And around the oak-tree rally. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bless the birds, that all along 
 
 Send us such a cheerful greeting ; 
 
 To their measures of kind song 
 Joyously our hearts are beating. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Fleeted now the winter snow 
 
 From the forehead of the mountains. 
 
 And the wild sweet waters flow 
 
 Freshly through their several fountains.
 
 THE angler's benediction. 247 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the secret of the sod, 
 
 Moss and primrose lie together ; 
 
 But the wild bee shoots abroad, 
 Fonder of the April heather. 
 
 Fresh and free the breezes blow, 
 And the amber stream runs gaily ; 
 
 Forth, and warble as ye go, 
 All ye anglers of the valley !
 
 148 • ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONNET.~THE RIVER EDEN. 
 
 Thomson ! this quiet stream the song of thought 
 
 Oft in thy bosom reared, and as I steal 
 
 Along its banks, they to my gaze reveal 
 
 The pictures by thy truthful pencil wrought ; 
 
 No rash intruder on the rural spot 
 
 I seem, but in that glowing fervour share, 
 
 Which on their page thy far-fam'd " Seasons " bear ; 
 
 Nor honoured less is Nature, nor less sought 
 
 Her still retreats, while with my wand I fling 
 
 O'er Eden's pools the well-dissembling fl}^ 
 
 Creating in the Mind's fantastic eye 
 
 Castles of Indolence. The sudden spring 
 
 Of a huge trout assails their air-built walls. 
 
 And to the untrench'd earth each hollow fabric falls.
 
 WHEN THE STREAMS RISE. 249 
 
 WHEN THE STREAMS RISE. 
 
 When the streams rise, 
 
 When the wind flies, 
 With hope and dehght we grow dizzy, 
 
 And all a-near 
 
 Airy words hear, 
 Be busy, sweet angler, be busy ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Then we prepare 
 
 Tackle and hair, 
 And levy fair minnows full plenty, 
 
 Or armed with hoe 
 
 A-gathering go 
 Of brandlings and dew-fcedcrs dainty,
 
 250 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then from the spring 
 
 Mosses we bring 
 To store our fresh baits before starting, 
 
 Young and unshorn, 
 
 Green in the horn, 
 Culled when the clouds are departing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus duly stored, 
 
 Cunning or froward 
 No fish can say nay to our tackle, 
 
 While each we ply, 
 
 Worm, penk and fly. 
 Grey palmer or liveried hackle. 
 
 V. 
 
 Heigh for a wind 
 Gushing behind ! 
 Heigh for a cloud dark and showery 
 
 i
 
 WHEN THE STREAMS RISE. 25 I 
 
 Foamy and freed, 
 Let the stream speed 
 Under the willow bough flowery 
 
 VI. 
 
 So may we start, 
 
 Joyous in heart, 
 With hope and felicity dizzy, 
 
 And still a-near 
 
 Airy words hear. 
 Be busy, sweet angler, be busy
 
 252 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bring the rod, the line, the reel ! 
 Bring, oh bring the osier creel ! 
 Bring me flies of fifty kinds, 
 Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds ! 
 All things right and tight. 
 
 All things well and proper, 
 Trailer red and bright, 
 
 Dark and wily dropper — 
 Casts of midges bring. 
 
 Made of plover-hackle, 
 With a gaudy wing, 
 And a cobweb tackle. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lead me where the river flows, 
 Show me where the alder grows. 
 Reeds and rushes, moss and mead. 
 To them lead me — quickly lead,
 
 SONG. 2 5 
 
 Where the rovinc; trout 
 
 Watches round an eddy, 
 With his eager snout 
 
 Pointed up and ready, 
 Till a careless fly 
 
 On the surface wheeling, 
 Tempts him rising sly 
 
 From his safe concealing. 
 
 in. 
 
 There, as with a pleasant friend, 
 I the happy hours will spend 
 Urging on the subtle hook. 
 O'er the dark and chancy nook, 
 With a hand expert 
 
 Every motion swaying, 
 And on the alert 
 
 When the trout are playing 
 Bring me rod and reel, 
 Flies of every feather, 
 Bring ihe osier creel — 
 
 Send me glorious weather !
 
 2 54 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE FLEE. 
 
 Awa' wi' yer tinsey sae braw [ 
 Our troots winna thole it ava, 
 
 They've grown sae capricious, 
 
 Sonsie and vicious — 
 As weel may ye fish wi' a craw. 
 
 II. 
 
 The wits o' an eel I'll uphaud 
 Agen baith the gowk and his gaud, 
 
 Wha bounces and blethers 
 
 O' fancies and feathers. 
 Till the lugs o' the lieges are staw'd. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wee dour-lookin' huiks are the thing, 
 Moose body an' laverock wing ; 
 
 There's mony a chiel ta'en ane 
 
 Wi' mauk or wi' mennin, 
 But the flee answers best in the spring.
 
 THE ANGLERS TRYSTING-TREE. 255 
 
 THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 
 
 Meet the morn upon the lea ; 
 Are the emeralds of spring 
 
 On the angler's trysting-tree ? 
 Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 
 Are there buds on our willow-tree ? 
 Buds and birds on the trysting-tree ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 
 
 Have you met the honey-bee, 
 Circling upon rapid wing 
 
 Round the angler's trysting-tree? 
 Up, sweet thrushes, up and see ; 
 Are there bees at our willow-tree ? 
 Birds and bees at the trj sting-tree?
 
 256 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 
 
 Are the fountains gushing free ? 
 Is the south wind wandering 
 
 Through the angler's trysting-tree ? 
 Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 
 Is the wind at our willow-tree ? 
 Wind or calm at the trysting-tree ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sing, sweet thrushes, up and sing ! 
 
 Wile us with a merry glee. 
 To the flowery haunts of spring — 
 
 To the angler's trysting-tree. 
 Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 
 Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree ? 
 Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree ?
 
 THE laird's cast. 257 
 
 THE LAIRD'S CAST. 
 
 Fast ! fast ! we have him fast, 
 A prime one by the gleam ! 
 In the old Laird's shadowy cast 
 
 Above the Elshie stream ; 
 'Tis a salmon plump and strong, 
 Newly run from the distant brine, 
 Newly run, newly run,— a right thundering one ! 
 
 Tell him line. 
 
 II. 
 
 Away, he darts away. 
 
 Across the shining Tweed, 
 Nor art nor arm can stay 
 
 The noble creature's speed ; 
 From our reel the swift line spins, 
 As he feels the galling scar, 
 And in vain, all in vain, shakes his lengthening chain 
 
 From afar. 
 
 R
 
 258 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 To shore, slow draw to shore ; 
 
 The light boat edges in, 
 While moves the cautious oar, 
 
 Like some sea-prowler's fin 
 In the creeks of an Indian isle ; 
 
 Now the flowery bank we've gained, 
 And in hand, firm in hand, with our labouring wand, 
 
 Hold him chained. 
 
 IV. 
 
 See, see, in wild despair. 
 
 He seeks by fatal spring 
 To break the magic hair — 
 
 To fly the madd'ning string ; 
 In vain, all in vain, his headlong plunge ! 
 For the fatal die is cast ; 
 O'er his eyelid soon death's glimmering swoon 
 
 Gathers fast.
 
 Tin: LAIRDS CAST. 259 
 
 V. 
 
 With quick revolving hand 
 
 The good line home we wind, 
 While obedient to our wand 
 
 The worn fish floats behind, 
 And the bright pebbled edge as he nears, 
 With our gaff-hook we check his retreat, 
 And see, here he lies, a weltering prize 
 
 At our feet !
 
 26o ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 " Anglers ! ye are a heartless bloody race," 
 
 Tis thus the half-soul'd sentimentalist 
 
 Presumes to apostrophise us to the face ; 
 
 Weak, paltry, miserable antagonist ! 
 
 To deem by this compassionate grimace 
 
 He doth sweet service to humanity ; 
 
 And yet when of his fellows' misery, — 
 
 Of wars, of pestilence, and the woes that chase 
 
 Mankind to the interminable shore 
 
 He hears, to treat them with a hasty sneer, 
 
 Nor let their shrill appeal disturb a tear 
 
 Or one emotion waken in his core ! 
 
 It is too much ! Anglers, your cruelty 
 
 Is tend'rer than this man's philanthropy.
 
 THE GENTLE CRAFT. 26 I 
 
 THE GENTLE CRAFT. 
 
 A JOLLY craft have we, hurra ! 
 
 The brethren of the streams ! 
 In joy we pass the welcome day, 
 
 And close it under dreams. 
 AVe wander by the river-side 
 
 And by the gentle rill ! 
 They roll along the valley wide — 
 
 They gambol on the hill. 
 
 IL 
 
 It is a manly one and free, 
 This pleasant sport of ours ; 
 
 Above us is the shady tree 
 And under us the flowers ;
 
 262 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 And in our hand the pliant rod 
 Is waving to and fro — 
 
 The sahnon Ues upon the sod, 
 Glittering like the snow. 
 
 III. 
 
 We love the angler's quiet lot, 
 
 His meditative art ; 
 The fancies in his hour of thought 
 
 That blossom from his heart. 
 All other things we'll cast behind, 
 
 Let busy toil alone, 
 And flinging care unto the wind, 
 
 We'll angle, angle on.
 
 YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS. 263 
 
 YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS. 
 
 Ye warders of the waters ! 
 
 Is the alder'd stream-side free ? 
 
 Hath the salmon sped 
 
 From his winter bed 
 Adown to the azure sea ? 
 
 Rideth afloat 
 
 The fisher's boat 
 Below the white-thorn tree ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Go forth, ye anglers jovial ! 
 
 The waters are open wide ; 
 No longer we ward 
 From vernal sward 
 
 The glittering salmon glide ; [
 
 264 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 Free at your will 
 The crystal rill, 
 And tuneless torrent-side. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ho ! warders of the waters ! 
 Is the yellow trout at feed ? 
 
 And the March flies brown 
 
 Are they sailing down 
 Where current and zephyr lead ? 
 
 See you abroad 
 
 With pliant rod 
 Some gentle brother speed ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Go forth, ye anglers, jovial ! 
 The ring of the trout we spy, 
 And the south winds pour 
 In a pleasant shower 
 The merry March-brown fly ; 
 With vigorous wand 
 ♦ The fisher band 
 
 Among the dark pools ply.
 
 THE angler's joys. 26; 
 
 THE ANGLER'S JOYS. 
 
 I. 
 
 On ! who that feels the joyous throb, which the angler's 
 bosom stirreth, 
 
 To the flowery stream-side hieing, 
 When vernal winds are flying, 
 Would envy all that Fortune with her fickle hand con- 
 ferreth ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Nor in cities, nor with courtiers, nor within the kingly 
 palace, 
 
 So flowing in its measure 
 Is the rife cup of our pleasure, 
 As when with wand and pannier we tread the daisied 
 valleys.
 
 2 66 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Would we give the grey lark's carol for the cold lip- 
 uttered chorus, 
 
 Or heaven's ample covering, 
 Where the minstrel bird is hovering, 
 For the lamp-lit roofs that elevate their glimmering 
 arches o'er us ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Would we give our wild free rambles for the reveller's 
 heated prison ? 
 
 Or with the false and fawning 
 Consume a summer's dawning, 
 Rather than greet the joyful sun from his couch of 
 clouds arisen ? 
 
 Would we give our water-sceptre for the staves of state 
 and splendour. 
 
 Or exchange the angler's calling, 
 On the shady river trolling. 
 For all the lesser pleasaunces that pomp or power can 
 tender?
 
 THE angler's joys. 267 
 
 VI. 
 
 Though bewitching are the hues that warp the world's 
 every folly, 
 
 No longer they invite us, 
 While truer joys delight us 
 By the stream-side as we roam, below the hawthorn 
 and the holly.
 
 2 68 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE BONNIE TWEED. 
 
 Let ither anglers chuse their ain, 
 
 An' ither waters tak' the lead ; 
 O' Hielan' streams we covet nane, 
 
 But gie to us the bonnie Tweed ! 
 Arf gie to us the cheerfu' burn 
 
 That steals into its valley fair — 
 The streamlets that at ilka turn 
 
 Sae saftly meet an' mingle there. 
 
 II. 
 
 The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, 
 An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, 
 
 An' Etterick, whose waters twine 
 Wi' Yarrow frae the forest hills ;
 
 THE BONNIE TWEED. 269 
 
 An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, 
 
 An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed ; 
 
 Their kindred valleys a' unite 
 
 Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed. 
 
 III. 
 
 There's no a hole abune the Crook, 
 
 Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, 
 Nor drumlie rill nor faery brook, 
 
 That daunders thro' the flowery heath, 
 But ye may fin' a subtle troot, 
 
 A' gieamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, 
 An' mony a sawmon sooms about 
 
 Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Frae Holylee to Clovenford, 
 
 A chancier bit ye canna hae ; 
 So gin ye tak' an angler's word, 
 
 Ye'd through the whuns an' ower the brae,
 
 2 70 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 ■/ 
 
 An' work awa \vi' cunnin' hand 
 
 Yer birzy hackles, black and reid ; 
 The saft sough o' a slender wand 
 Is meetest music for the Tweed ! 
 
 Oh the Tweed ! the bonnie Tweed 
 
 O' rivers it's the best ; 
 Angle here, or angle there, 
 Troots are soomin' ilka where, 
 Angle east or west.
 
 THE r.REF.ZK IS ON. 271 
 
 THE BREEZE IS ON. 
 
 The breeze is on the Heron Lake, 
 
 The May-sun shineth clear ; 
 Away we bound through the broomy brake, 
 
 With our wands and anghng gear. 
 
 II. 
 
 The birch-wreath o'er the water-edge 
 
 Scatters sweet flies about, 
 And round his haunt of sighing sedge 
 
 Bells up the yellow trout. 
 
 III. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! his eve is bright 
 
 As falcon's in the sky ; 
 But artful feather hove aright 
 
 Will hood a keener eye.
 
 2 72 ANGLING SONGS, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beware ! beware the water-weed, 
 And the birch that waves behind, 
 
 And gently let the good line speed 
 Before thee on the wind. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh ! gently let the good line flow. 
 And gently wile it home ; 
 
 There's many a gallant fin, I trow, 
 Under the ribbed foam. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A merry fish on a stallion hair 
 'Tis a pleasant thing to lead 
 
 On May-days, when the cowslip fair 
 Is blooming on the mead. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When the breeze is up, and the sun is out, 
 And grey flies two or three
 
 THE BREEZE IS ON. 273 
 
 Sport in the noontide, round about 
 The shadow of a tree. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh ! then the heart bounds pleasantly, 
 And its thoughts are pleasant things, 
 
 Gushing in joyous purity, 
 Like silent water-springs !
 
 2 74 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S INVITATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come when the leaf comes, angle witli me, 
 Come when the bee hums over the lea, 
 
 Come with the wild flowers — 
 
 Come with the mild showers — 
 Come when the singing bird calleth for thee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, 
 Where the grey trout glide silently by, 
 
 Or in some still place 
 
 Over the hill face 
 Hurrying onward, drop the light fly. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed 
 To our own loved walls down on the mead, 
 
 There, by the bright hearth, 
 
 Holding our night mirth, 
 We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.
 
 1 SIT BY THE RIVER. 275 
 
 / SIT BY THE RIVER. 
 
 I SIT by the river and weep a farewell; 
 My musings have turned to regrets, 
 While I gaze on the tranquil stream leaving the dell 
 
 And the fisherman shooting his nets. 
 
 Then rush to the memory summers of joy, 
 And the shadowy sands of the past 
 
 Discover the wandering tracks of the boy 
 Uninjured by billow or blast. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ah ! each feat and each frolic, the pastimes of old. 
 
 They seem as if left for me yet, 
 While afar on the indolent pool I behold 
 
 The fisherman shooting his net.
 
 2/6 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But see ! 'tis the silvery salmon that springs 
 
 In mockery under the shade, 
 Below me the dark trout is rearing its rings, 
 
 Unfettered and unafraid. 
 
 Why grasp at the wand ? what matters it now 
 That they range unalarmed to my feet ? 
 
 And alway, as the summer fly drops from the bough, 
 Their wandering circles repeat ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Despoiled of the sorrowless scenes of my youth, 
 
 I may toil my past loves to forget, 
 But Mem'ry will keep, 'mid her portraits of truth. 
 
 The fisherman shooting his net.
 
 THE ANGLERS CHOICE. 277 
 
 THE ANGLER'S CHOICE. 
 
 Where torrents foam, 
 
 While others roam 
 Among the yielding heather, 
 
 Some river meek 
 
 We'll forth and seek, 
 And lay our lines together. 
 
 II. 
 
 Some sylvan stream, 
 
 Where shade and gleam 
 Are blended with each other ; 
 
 Below whose bank 
 
 The lilies lank 
 All humbler flowers ensmother.
 
 278 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Where cushats coo 
 And ring-doves woo 
 
 The shining channel over, 
 From leafy larch 
 Or birchen arch — 
 
 Their unmolested cover. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There daily met, 
 
 No dark regret 
 Shall cloud our noon of pleasure ; 
 
 We'll carry rule 
 
 O'er stream and pool 
 And none to claim a measure ! 
 
 With tackles rare 
 On chosen hair, 
 March flv and minnow tender
 
 THE ANGLER S CHOICE. 279 
 
 We shall invite 
 The scaly wight 
 To eye them and surrender. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And when out-worn, 
 
 We'll seek some thorn 
 With shadow old and ample, - 
 
 The natural ground 
 
 Moss-laid around, 
 An angler's resting temple !
 
 2 So ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 TO THE TWEED. 
 
 Twined with my boyhood, wreathed on the dream 
 Of early endearments, beautiful stream ! 
 The lisp of thy waters is music to me. 
 Hours buried, are buried in thee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Sleepless and sinless, the mirth of thy springs ! 
 The light, and the limpid — the fanciful things. 
 That mingle with thine the gleam of their play, 
 And are lifted in quiet away ! 
 
 III. 
 
 River ! that toyest under the trees, 
 And lurest the leaf from the wandering breeze, 
 It glides over thee, like the gift of the young, 
 When he rock'd at the bough where it hung
 
 TO THE TWEED. 28 I 
 
 IV. 
 
 The voice of the city, the whisper of men, 
 I hear them, and hate them, and weary again 
 For the lull of the streams — the breath of the brae, 
 Brought down in a morning of May. 
 
 Go ! hushed o'er thy channels, the shadow'd, the dim, 
 Give wail for the Stricken and worship to him, 
 That woke the old feats of the outlaw'd and free — 
 The legends, that skirted on thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Broken the shell ; but its lingering tone 
 Lives for the stream of his fathers — his own ; 
 And the pale wizard hand, that hath gleaned out of eld, 
 Is again on thy bosom beheld. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He hears not, but pilgrims that muse at his urn, 
 At the wailing of waters all tearfully turn.
 
 282 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 And mingle their mourning, their worship in thine, 
 And gather the dews from his shrine. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Tweed ! winding and wild ! where the heart is un- 
 bound, 
 They know not, they dream not, who linger around, 
 How the sadden'd will smile, and the wasted re-win 
 From thee — the bliss withered within. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And I, when to breathe is a burden, and joy 
 Forgets me, and life is no longer the boy, 
 On the labouring staff, and the tremorous knee. 
 Will wander, bright river, to thee ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Thoughts will come back that were with me before ! 
 Loves of my childhood left in the core, 
 That were hushed, but not buried — the treasured — the 
 true, 
 In memory waken anew.
 
 TO THE TWEED. 283 
 
 XI. 
 
 And the hymn of the furze, when the dew-pearls are 
 
 shed, 
 And the old sacred tones of thy musical bed, 
 Will close, as the last mortal moments depart, 
 The golden gates of the heart !
 
 284 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE PIKE. 
 
 Gaily rock the lily beds 
 
 On the marge of Lomond lake ; 
 There the lonely angler treads 
 Nature round him — all awake, 
 Heathy mountain 
 And sweet fountain 
 Stealing through the ferny brake. 
 
 II. 
 
 Swiftly from the water edge 
 
 Shoots the fierce pike wing'd with fear, 
 To its lair among the sedge, 
 As the angler wanders near, 
 All elated, 
 Primely baited, 
 Seeking solitary cheer.
 
 THE PIKE. 28' 
 
 III. 
 
 Throbs aloud the eager heart 
 
 And the hand in tremor moves, 
 When some sly fish all alert 
 
 Round his tempting tackle roves, 
 Boldly daring, 
 Or bewaring, 
 While the gleamy lure it proves. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Then at length, each doubt subdued 
 Turns the lake-shark on his prey ; 
 Quickly gorged the fatal food. 
 Suddenly he darts away. 
 All enshackled. 
 Trimly tackled. 
 Out into the deep'ning bay. 
 
 V. 
 
 But with steady caution schooled, 
 Soon his wonted viijour fails,
 
 286 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 By the angler's sceptre ruled 
 Maimed the sullen pirate sails, 
 
 Shoreward wending, 
 
 Uncontending, 
 Him the joyous captor hails. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And along the margin hauled. 
 All his fretful fins aspread, 
 Tho' by subtle iron galled, 
 
 Still he rears his gasping head 
 Uncomplaining, 
 Fear disdaining — 
 See him as a trophy led !
 
 SONNET. 287 
 
 SONXET. 
 
 Of all sweet waters and soul-stirring spots, 
 
 Remote from the contentions of mankind, 
 
 Oftest repictured by my musing thoughts, 
 
 Lies a bright lake among fair trees enshrined, 
 
 Yclept Loch Achilty. A heath-grown crest 
 
 Surnamed the Tor its eastern guardian seems. 
 
 While wild Craig Darroch rears its hill of dreams 
 
 Emprisoning the clear wave on the west. 
 
 Bright mimic bays with weeping birches fringed — 
 
 An islet ruin — solitary deer — 
 
 And distant mountains by the sun-ray tinged 
 
 At the Mind's animating beck appear. 
 
 Nor un-remembered in the wizard scene, 
 
 Against a moss-grown stone, entranced two anglers lean.
 
 2 88 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE HAPPY ANGLER. 
 
 Below a shady hazel tree 
 
 An angler trimmed his flies, 
 Singing, hey derry ! trout that are merry 
 
 No longer, no longer are wise. 
 
 II. 
 
 Of dapper make and ruddy hue 
 
 'Twas a jolly blade, I ween, 
 With his hey derry, fresh from the ferry. 
 
 Over the meadow so green. 
 
 III. 
 
 Right gladsomely he eyed the stream. 
 And shook his wand anon, 
 
 With a hey derry ! brown as a berry 
 The winding waters run.
 
 THE HAPPY ANGLER. 289 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! well I wot that jovial blade 
 
 Is one of our gentle band, 
 With his hey derry, trout that are merry 
 Swim to the angler's hand. 
 Derry, hey derry ! 
 Trout that are merry 
 Swim to the angler's hand !
 
 290 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 A METEOR-bearing bark before me made 
 For Tweed's wide current from a wooded bay 
 And under midnight's cover, on its way 
 Cautiously glided. In its moving shade, 
 On either side the oar's infrequent blade 
 Dipped flagging, like the heron's wing — pursued 
 At every touch by fiery snakes, that play'd 
 Around the vessel's track. A figure stood 
 Upon the prow with tall and threat'ning spear, 
 Which suddenly into the stream he smote. 
 Methought of Charon and his gloomy boat — 
 Of the torch'd Furies and of Pluto drear 
 Burning the Stygian tide for lamprey vile. 
 That on his bride's dimm'd face, Hell might behold a 
 smile.
 
 THE STREAMS OF OLD SCOTLAND. 29 1 
 
 THE STREAMS OF OLD SCOTLAND. 
 
 The streams of old Scotland for me ! 
 
 The joyous, the wilful, the wild, 
 The waters of song and of glee, 
 That ramble away to the sea 
 
 With the step and the mirth of a child ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The valleys of England are wide ; 
 
 Her rivers rejoice every one, 
 In grace and in beauty they glide. 
 And water flowers float at their side, 
 
 As they gleam in the rays of the sun. 
 
 III. 
 
 But where are the speed and the spray — 
 The dark lakes that welter them forth —
 
 292 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 Tree and heath nodding over their way — 
 The rock and the precipice grey, 
 
 That bind the wild streams of the north ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hath the salmon a dormient home 
 In track of the barbel or bream ? 
 Or holds he his fastness of foam, 
 Where the wraiths of the dark tempest roam 
 At the break of a wandering stream? 
 
 Even there you will find him, among 
 The glens of old Scotland afar, 
 
 And up through her valleys of song, 
 
 He silently glances along 
 In corselet of silver and star, 
 
 VI. 
 
 The rivers of Scotland for me ! 
 
 They water the soil of my birth, 
 They gush from the hills of the free 
 And sing, as they seek the wild sea. 
 
 With a hundred sweet voices of mirth !
 
 MV AIN WEE FISHER ROY. 293 
 
 MY AIN WEE FISHER BOY. 
 
 I. 
 
 I lo'e my ain wee fisher boy, 
 
 He's bold an' bonny — bonny an' bold, 
 An' aye there is a glint o' joy 
 
 A-lyin' 'mang his locks o' gold. 
 
 II. 
 
 His gaud is o' the rowan rare ; 
 
 It's braw an' bonny — bonny an' braw ; 
 His creel is o' the saugh sae fair 
 
 That flowers below the castil wa'. 
 
 III. 
 
 I lo'e him for his sunnv e'e, 
 
 Sae blue an' sunny — sunny an' blue ; 
 There's glitterin' starns 'neath mony a bree 
 
 But nane sae tender or sae true. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I lo'e him for his gentle airt, 
 
 Wi' line an' angle — angle an' line. 
 
 He's captive ta'en my silly heart, 
 This bonny fisher boy o' mine !
 
 294 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 GOOD CHEER/ BROTHER ANGLER. 
 
 Good cheer ! brother angler, say, 
 Is the swift salmon abroad to-day ? 
 Have you noted the flash of his silv'ry mail, 
 Or the proud free curl of his glitt'ring tail ? 
 Hath he sprung at the winsome fly, 
 
 Smitten by the treacherous feather, 
 Heedless of the steel and tether 
 And of human subtlety ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas ! brother angler, nay ! 
 Salmon none have I stirred to-day — 
 Feint, frolic nor dart have I beheld, 
 But round me the wily dark trout bell'd ; 
 One in greed and one in scorn. 
 
 And a third one out of pleasure 
 Sprang at my fly. See all the treasure 
 Ta'en by me this livelong morn !
 
 GOOD cheer! brother angler. 295 
 
 III. 
 
 Ply on, brother angler ! hark ! 
 
 The grey wind warbles across the park ; 
 
 It ruffles the water from bank to bank, 
 
 And shakes the green covert of rushes lank. 
 
 See how it paces round and round. 
 Wild of foot — with step unsteady, 
 Dancing on the amorous eddy 
 
 To a low, uncertain sound ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ply on, brother angler ! deep 
 Under the rapids the bright fins sweep, 
 And the salmon holdeth his secret track 
 O'er ledges of rock, through fissure black. 
 Oh ! most hath an angler need 
 
 Of sweet patience and of plodding ; 
 
 For the good wand ever nodding 
 Better than cunning bringeth speed !
 
 296 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 A LOCH SCENE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A MOUNTAIN shadow lieth on 
 
 Its mirror dark and massy ; 
 The red late sun-ray streams across 
 O'er solemn wood and quiet moss, 
 O'er sward and hillock grassy. 
 
 II. 
 
 It tinges with a crimson light 
 
 The water sleeping under ; 
 That calm clear water seldom wakes — 
 Calm when the forest pine-tree quakes- 
 Calm 'mid the very thunder. 
 
 III. 
 
 A ruin on its islet stands, 
 
 The walls with ivy pendent ; 
 Its grey stones crumbling underneath 
 Peer through the arbitrary wreath 
 Of that untrain'd ascendant.
 
 A LOCH SCENE. 297 
 
 IV. 
 
 IJut glancing from the record riuie 
 
 Of the remoter ages, 
 Behold the image of a stag 
 Timorous of the water flacr 
 
 Its eager thirst assuages ! 
 
 The stately antlers branching free 
 Above its forehead tragic — 
 The form of animated grace 
 Are kindred to the quiet place, 
 A portion of its magic ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 And there the wild duck, like a skiff, 
 Shoots from the reeds horrescent ; 
 
 Its yellow paddles in their wake 
 
 Leave on the solitary lake 
 The traces of a crescent.
 
 298 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The peerly water-heron, too, 
 
 Where the faint sun-ray trembles, 
 Drooping its ever graceful head 
 Above the floating lily-bed, 
 A poet-bird resembles, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And yonder, on the distant marge, 
 
 Behold an angler eager, 
 With taper wand and arm of skill 
 Under the shadow of a hill — 
 A solitary figure. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But falling from the quiet air 
 
 The mist and shades together, 
 Glideth away the sad sweet show, 
 The mountain and the lake below — 
 The forest and the heather !
 
 A LOCH SCENE. 299 
 
 And night with dewy forehead bent 
 
 Holdeth her vigil solemn, 
 Till the red architect of morn 
 Upon a cloud-car slowly borne 
 Erects his amber column.
 
 300 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 OWER AT THE CAULD-FOOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 OwER at the cauld-foot 
 
 There bides an auld troot, 
 No mony there be that are wiser; 
 
 It baffles a' skill 
 
 To tether his gill 
 An' gie the sly boy a surpriser. 
 
 II. 
 
 He's thick an' he's braitl 
 
 Wi' sprecks like a taed 
 An' spangles o' ilka dimension, 
 
 Mirk spangles an' reid 
 
 Frae his waem to his heid, 
 In number ayont comprehension. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sic a swasher I ween 
 Is rare to be seen, 
 An' no to be grippit wi' thinkin ;
 
 OWER AT THE CAULD-FOOT. 30I 
 
 It gars ilka chiel 
 Lay his loof on his reel 
 An' sets e'en the wisest a-Llinliin'. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Auld Purdie cam' doon ' 
 
 Ane braw afternoon, 
 (Ilk angler taks choice o' his weather.) 
 
 Quoth he, " I'll soon bring 
 
 The knave to the spring 
 An' teach him the taste o' a feather." 
 
 Sae e'en he set till't, 
 
 Like ane muckle skiU't, 
 Lut faith, let the braggin' come last o't ; 
 
 Frae the mirk till the dawin', 
 
 In spite o' his crawin'. 
 He ne'er could mak oot the richt cast o't.
 
 102 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was Foster an' Kerse 
 
 An' a chiel frae the Merse 
 Wad set a' the water a seethin' ; 
 
 Watty Grieve an' Jock Hay 
 
 Cam ower the way 
 Wi' Scousral o' fair Innerleithen. 
 
 ■'o'' 
 
 VII. 
 
 The mair were the han's, 
 
 The rifer the wan's, 
 Our king o' the cauld got the braver ; 
 
 He bobbit aboot 
 
 Wi' his wonnerfu' snoot 
 An' cock't up his tail oot o' favour. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But fling as they micht, 
 To the left or the richt, 
 Wi' raennin, mawk, lob, leech or rawin ;
 
 OWER AT THE CAULD-FOOT. 303 
 
 No a rug wad he gie, 
 For weel etiled he 
 h^ gear whilk the wind was a-blawin'. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Come, anglers, come a', 
 
 Baith meikle an' sma'. 
 Talc yer chance o' the cunnin' auld reiver ; 
 
 For aught that ye ken, 
 
 Mither Fortune may len' 
 Gude speed to yer wan's an' ye deive her.
 
 ;04 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S GRAVE. 
 
 Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green ! 
 
 True tears make the grass to grow ; 
 And the grief of the good, I ween, 
 
 Is grateful to him that sleeps below. 
 Strew sweet flowers, free of blight — 
 
 Blossoms gathered in the dew : 
 Should they wither before night. 
 
 Flowers and blossoms bring anew. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sorrow, sorrow, speed away 
 To our angler's quiet mound, 
 
 With the old pilgrim, twilight grey, 
 Enter thou on the holy ground ;
 
 THE angler's grave. 305 
 
 There he sleeps, whose heart was twined 
 With wild stream and wandering burn, 
 
 Wooer of the western wind ! 
 Watcher of the April morn ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Sorrow at the poor man's hearth ! 
 
 Sorrow in the hall of pride ! 
 Honour waits at the grave of worth 
 
 And high and low stand side by side. 
 Brother angler ! slumber on, 
 
 Haply thou shalt wave the wand, 
 When the tide of time is gone, 
 
 In some far and happy land. 
 
 u
 
 306 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Death, death to the bald-heads — no quarter ! 
 
 The rogues they shall taste of our steel ; 
 We'll give each a turn of the torture, 
 
 And lay him agape in the creel. 
 
 II. 
 
 Drink death to the bald-heads ! why spare them ? 
 
 What matters it when they expire ? 
 To say nay to our wishes we dare them. 
 
 So re-strengthen the goblet still higher ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Our wands to good fortune they guide us, 
 Meanwhile, bear the cup to the mouth ; 
 
 Let the break of grey twilight decide us 
 And winds wand'ring soft from the south.
 
 DRINKING SONG. 307 
 
 IV. 
 
 We anglers should quaff and be jolly, 
 Ere the time to be doing draws nigh ; 
 
 Short season will sleep away folly, 
 
 And we'll up with the sun, by and by. 
 
 Drink death to the bald-heads — no quarter ! 
 
 Why spare the sly rogues of the brook ? 
 We'll give each a turn of the torture, 
 
 Drink success to the wand and the hook !
 
 \oS ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE FAIRY ANGLER. 
 
 I. 
 
 'TwAS a bland summer's eve, when the forest I trod ; 
 The dew-gems were starring the flowers of the sod, 
 And " faire mistress moone," as she rose from the sea, 
 Shed apart the green leaves of each shadowy tree. 
 
 II. 
 
 I passed by a brook, where her silvers lay flung, 
 Among knolls of wild fern it witchingly sung, 
 While a lone fairy angler with glimmering hand 
 From the odorous banks waved her delicate wand. 
 
 III. 
 
 In silence I watched, as with eager intent 
 O'er the moon-silvered water she gracefully bent, 
 And plied with green rush-rod, new torn from its bed, 
 Her line of the thorn-spider's mystical thread.
 
 THE FAIRY ANGLER. 309 
 
 IV. 
 
 A pannier of moss-leaves her shoulders bedecked, 
 The nest of some bird, which the night winds had 
 
 wrecked, 
 Slung round with a tendril of ivy so gay, 
 And a belt of stream flowers bound her woodland 
 
 array. 
 
 No snow-flake e'er dropt from its cloud on the brook 
 So gently impelled as her moth-plumaged hook ; 
 The pearl-sided parlet and minnow obeyed 
 The magical beck of that wandering maid. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And aye as her rush-rod she waved o'er the rill, 
 Sweet words floated round her, I treasure them still, 
 Tho' like a bright moon-cloud resolved into air, 
 Passed from me, regretted, the vision so faire.
 
 3IO ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 FAIRY'S SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 No zephyr shakes the leafy, leafy tree ; 
 
 The round merry moon looks in on me, 
 Through the grene-wood cover, 
 Where all summer-night over, 
 
 My angle and I bear companye. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have haunts by the lone hill-cairn, 
 
 There I trip it the frost-time thorough, 
 'Mong wild moss and faded fern. 
 
 Where the blind mole rears his furrow 
 I have haunts by the shell-strewn tide, 
 But better to me the sweet stream side, 
 There the summer-night over, 
 'Neath grene-wood cover 
 My angle and I bear companye !
 
 ANGLING ON A SUMMER NIGHT. 3 I I 
 
 ANGLING ON A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 Angling on a summer night, 
 
 When the moon-ray met the fairy 
 Tripping down a bank of light, 
 
 To the sweet loch of St. Mary ; 
 Music floated sad and holy, 
 
 Every wild flower lent its tone, 
 And the sullen trout swam slowly, 
 
 Like the shadow of a stone. 
 
 II. 
 
 From the bank on Meggat stream. 
 Where a quiet fountain gushes 
 
 And the undulating gleam 
 
 Glances through a tuft of rushes ;
 
 3 1 2 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 There I threw the silv'ry palmer 
 With a meditating arm, 
 
 For the crystal pool lay calmer 
 Than a sea beneath a charm. 
 
 III. 
 
 Was it but a fancied fin 
 
 O'er the glassy water gliding. 
 As I dropt the feather in, 
 
 Like an insect half confiding, 
 Gently mov'd and lightly shaken- 
 
 Neared a little — wiling out, 
 Till the fatal hook was taken 
 
 By a huge and gleamy trout ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Quick as thought, the line unwound 
 Flew along the streamlet narrow, 
 
 With the sharp and rapid sound 
 Of a solitary arrow ;
 
 ANGLING ON A SUMMER NIGHT. 313 
 
 But a gentle effort leading 
 
 On the bank the captive lay, 
 Tir'd, and quivering and bleeding, 
 
 In his starry, rich array. 
 
 V. 
 
 Proudly gazed I to the lake. 
 
 And the moonshafts, slant and slender, 
 On its bosom lay awake, 
 
 Like an armoury of splendour ; 
 Proudly gazed I to the mountain ; 
 
 Voices floated far and wide, 
 From the breeze, the flow'r, the fountain. 
 
 Blessing me on every side !
 
 314 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 WE PART NOT THUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 We part not thus ! nay, anglers, nay — 
 
 A farewell to the season ! 
 So fill the bowl and drink away ; 
 
 Who drinks not harbours treason. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh fill it high ! the joyous draught 
 
 Is native to our heather ; 
 If bravely drain'd and largely quaff'd, 
 
 'Twill bind our hearts together. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now wintry winds with rapid pace 
 O'er mead and mountain sally ; 
 
 And gloomily the waters race 
 Through each deserted valley.
 
 WE PART NOT THUS. 3 I 5 
 
 IV. 
 
 No more, sweet birds, in merry stiain, 
 Sing from their bowers of beauty ; 
 
 Lay down the wand — the spring again 
 Will call it forth for duty. 
 
 V. 
 
 Lay down the wand — no longer now 
 The fearful trout is belling ; 
 
 All leafless left, the alder bough 
 Moans o'er his glassy dwelling. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then heap, heap high our social hearth 
 Why should the good fire flicker ? 
 
 And quaff ! quaff on ! the best of mirth 
 Lies deepest in the liquor !
 
 3l6 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 THE BURNING OF THE WATER. 
 
 Flashes the blood-red gleam 
 
 Over the midnight slaughter ; 
 Wild shadows haunt the stream, 
 
 Dark forms glance o'er the water ; 
 It is the leisterers' cry — 
 
 A salmon, ho ! oho ! 
 In scales of light, the creature bright 
 
 Is glimmering below. 
 
 II. 
 
 Murmurs the low cascade, 
 
 The tall trees stand so saintly, 
 Under their quiet shade 
 
 The river whispers faintly ; 
 It is the leisterers' cry — 
 
 The salmon, ho ! oho ! 
 A shining path the water hath 
 
 Behind the shape of snow.
 
 THE BURNING OF THE WATER. 317 
 
 III. 
 
 Glances the ready spear 
 
 From harmless hands unheeded, 
 On in its swift career 
 
 The dream-like fish hath speeded ; 
 It is the leisterers' cry — 
 
 The salmon, ho ! oho ! 
 Along its wake, the torches break 
 
 And waver to and fro. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wildly the eager band 
 
 Closes its fatal numbers ; 
 Across its glistering sand 
 
 The wizard water slumbers : 
 It is the leisterers' cry — 
 
 The salmon, ho ! olio ! 
 And, lightning-like, the white prongs strike 
 
 The jaded fish below.
 
 I 8 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Rises the cheering shout 
 
 Over the rapid slaughter ; 
 The gleaming torches flout 
 
 The old, oak-shadowed water. 
 It is the leisterers' cry — 
 
 The salmon, ho ! oho ! 
 Calmly it lies, and gasps, and dies 
 
 Upon the moss-bank low
 
 THE LYNNS OF GLENDEVON. 3I9 
 
 THE LYNNS OF GLENDEVON. 
 
 O'er the lynns of Glendevon, the dark trees hang 
 crowded, 
 
 While unseen whirl the waters below ; 
 'Mid spray and thick foliage an angler enshrouded 
 
 Waves his wand — waves his wand to and fro. 
 
 II. 
 
 In the lynns of Glendevon, from deep crevice stealing, 
 
 The hungry trout watches its prey. 
 And when 'mid the white foam some stray fly lies 
 wheeling, 
 
 Slyly bears — slyly bears it away. 
 
 III. 
 
 Alas ! among morsels the sweetest and rarest, 
 That float down the streams of the brake. 
 
 Deceits ever mingle, in colours the fairest, 
 
 Capturing those — capturing those who partake.
 
 320 ANGLIKG SONGS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis thus in this bright world, at joys without measure 
 
 Unheeding we ardently spring, 
 And forget that oft hid by the plumage of pleasure, 
 
 Lies a hook — lies a hook in the wing.
 
 soNNKT — Tirr: fixdiiorn. 321 
 
 SONNET— THE EINDHORN. 
 
 To the monastic mind thy quiet shade 
 
 Kindly accords, bewild'ring Darnaway ! 
 
 Here, those retiring Powers, whose hermit sway 
 
 The hordes of gross emotions hold obey'd 
 
 Reign indolent, on bank or flow'ry glade. 
 
 A deep unusual murmur meets my ear, 
 
 As if the oak's Briarean arms were sway'd 
 
 Far off in the weird wind. Like timorous deer 
 
 Caught as he browses by the hunter's horn, 
 
 I stop perplex'd, half dreading the career 
 
 Of coming whirlwind. Then with conquer'd fear 
 
 Advancing softly through a screen of thorn, 
 
 From edge of horrid rock, abruptly bold, 
 
 Rushing thro' conduit vast, swart Findhorn I behold.
 
 o 
 
 2 2 • ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 FISHER WATTY. 
 
 Fisher Watty's dead an' gane, 
 
 Death amang his cairns has gripp't him ; 
 Aft afore, whan he wad fain 
 Hae made the kittle chiel his ain, 
 
 Watty gied a fiaff an' sUpt him. 
 
 II. 
 
 Noo at length the mools amang, 
 
 The elrich carle has laid him fairly ; 
 Quoth he, " Ye've play'd yer pliskies lang, 
 My faith ! but ye maun end yer sang 
 An' pack awa to saxton Charlie." 
 
 in. 
 
 Waes me ! sin' canny Wat's awa, 
 I feel sae lanesome an' sae weary.
 
 FISHER WATTY. 323 
 
 Tho' simmer winds abune me blaw, 
 Ilk burnie seems a rin o' snaw 
 
 An' Tweed gangs daundrin*, douf air dreary, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Aft I dim' the bosky brae, 
 
 Aft I seek the haly rowan, 
 At the gloamin' o' the day, 
 Ere the starns begin their sway — 
 Whan the lav'rock woos the gowan. 
 
 Aft I wanner to the stane- 
 
 The warlock stane whar late we parted ; 
 Waes me ! sin' Fisher Watty's gane, 
 My souple wan' I wald alane, 
 
 Wi' feckless arm, ower pools deserted. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here, the hazel boughs aboon, 
 
 That to their mirror beck sae gaily.
 
 ;24 ANGLING SONGS. 
 
 Puir Wat upon an April noon 
 Gied his last fish its deadly stoun', 
 An' as it wambled, gaff'd it brawly. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There, in yonner stream sae blate, 
 
 Quoth he, "Whane'er the cock's a-crawin', 
 
 Anither cast we'll aiblins get ; " 
 
 But death was tirlin' at his yett 
 An hour or twa afore the dawin'. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In the kirk-yaird beild sae green, 
 
 Auld Watty's laid by saxton Charlie, 
 An' ay on ilka simmer's e'en 
 I think upon the time that's been — 
 An' as I wanner, miss him sairly. 
 
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