68 THE BORDER ANGLER. 



a quoit ;" and Hogg talks of him as being in his highest 

 glee when " toiling in Tweed to the waist " with rod 

 or leister. Jamie relates of him, while he lived at 

 Ashiestiel 



" He and Skene of Rubislaw and I were out one night, about 

 midnight, leistering kippers in Tweed, and on going to kindle 

 a light at the Elibank March, we found, to our inexpressible 

 grief, that our coal had gone out. To think of giving up our 

 sport was out of the question ; so we had no other shift save to 

 send Rob Fletcher home, all the way through the darkness, the 

 distance of two miles, for another fiery peat. 



" While Fletcher was absent, we three sat down on a piece 

 of beautiful greensward, on the brink of the river, and Scott 

 desired me to sing him my ballad of Gilmanscleugh. Now, be 

 it remembered that this ballad had never been either printed 

 or penned. I had merely composed it by rote, and on finish- 

 ing it, three years before, I had sung it over to Sir Walter. I 

 began it at his request, but at the eighth or ninth verse I 

 stuck it, and could not get on with another line ; on which he 

 began it a second time, and recited it every word from begin- 

 ning to end. It being a very long ballad, consisting of eighty- 

 eight verses, I testified my astonishment 



" Rob Fletcher came at last, and Mr. Laidlaw of Peel with 

 him, and into the foaming river we plunged, in our frail bark, 

 with a blazing light. In a few minutes we came into Gidd^y's 

 Weal, the deepest, pool in Tweed, when we perceived that our 

 boat gave evident symptoms of sinking. When Scott saw the 

 terror Peel was in, he laughed till the tears blinded his eyes. 

 Always, the more mischief, the better sport for him. ' For 

 God's sake, push her to the side ! ' roared Peel. ' Oh, she goes 

 fine,' said Scott ; ' An' gin the boat were bottomless, an' seven 

 miles to row ; ' and, by the time he had well got out the words, 

 down she went to the bottom, plunging us all into Tweed over 

 head and ears. It was no sport to me at all ; but that was a 

 glorious night for Sir Walter, and the next day he was no 

 worse." 



Scott was not Shakespeare, but who, of these latter 

 days, has had more of Shakespeare's genius and spirit ? 

 If he had been born at Stratford-upon-Avon some three 

 hundred years ago, who can doubt but he would have 

 drawn a poaching cross-bow in immortal company in 

 Charlcote park, and taken his full share in a memor- 



