ANDREW OF THE BRINDLED LOCKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3215, 27 October 1915, Page 62

ANDREW OF THE BRINDLED LOCKS.

SOME MEMORIES OF ANDREW LANG. By Simon Mum. “ Dear Andrew of the brindled locks,” R L Stevenson’s playful allusion to Andrew Lang, ills friend and comrade ;n the world of letters, will probably recur to the person of literary tastes whenever Lang is mentioned; yet it is said that the reference was not over-appreciated by Lang himself. When I read recently in a budget of Home news of the unveiling of a memorial to the great writer in his native town of Selkirk, the line immediately sprang to the lips, and but for the supposed objection to it by the great writer, I. could imagine no more fitting epitaph, embodying, as it does, the close personal and affectionate relations which subsisted between two of the greatest literary artists whom Scotland produced in the spacious'" days of the Victorian era. The account given of this unveiling set my mind wandering through the beautiful leafy ways of Selkirk, where I lived for many years, and in the course of a journalistic life gleaned many intimate memories and stories of this Admirable Crichton of letters, which I here propose to retell in the hope of giving some new glimpses into a strange, reserved, but beautiful, character that cloistered itself too much in the silence and solitude of the student’s library to be well understood or appreciated by the multitude—nay, oven by his own fellowtownspeople and the classmates who had attended with him the old grammar school in Selkirk. For, let the truth be known, Andrew Lang was not apnreciatcd during his lifetime by the average Selkirk citizen. There may be many different explanations given for this undoubted fact, and all may be wrong, or all may be right. Personally, I think that possibly the lack of appreciation was due to the fact that Lang, like Sir Walter Scott, who shared the same sort of neglect, possessed too much of the high Tory temper ever to be acceptable to such a Radical community as Selkirk has always been. Somebody has said that Macaulay Wrote his groat history to prove that the Whigs were God’s own elect, who could do no wrong; and so a writer of Lang’s calibre, to be popular w th the Scottish Borderers, must apothcosiso all their gallant traditions, must not only accept all their logon-, dary beliefs, but must declare his belief in them on every possible occasion, must swear there is no people like the Borderers, and uphold them in their every habitude of thought-and belief and idicsyncracy. And it was quite impossible for a man of Lang’s dispassionate and judicial temperament to do anything of the sort._ I recollect putting this view before a literary gentleman, a very intimate friend of Lang’s. He agreed with it. but added: “ Besides all that, there is the natural antagonism to be taken into account. I think it is the Talmud which speaks of the hatred of the unlearned for the learned. That must bo reckoned when considering the lack of appreciation by Borderers of this Borderer of genius.” ANDREW LANG AND HIS SCHOOLMATES. Lang was born at Viewfield House, Selkirk, a large, quaint old house standing in its own grounds, on March 31, 1844. He died at Banchory, Aberdeenshire, on July 20, 1912. The Lang family had been resident in Selkirk for at least two or three centuries before then. I recollect tracing the name in an old minute book of the Tailors’ Corporation of the town, which dated back for about 200 years. Perhaps the first of the name to come into real prominence was the great writer’s grandfather, also an Andrew, who was sheriff clerk from 1805 to IB4i, for the greater period of which time the sheriff was Sir Walter Scott. The sheriff clei’kship remained in the Lang family until the death of Andrew Lang’s father. Perhaps of all the school contemporaries of the subject of this sketch the well-known Border farnily of Roberts are best known. It is largely owing to the efforts of Mr A. F. Roberts, a brother of Mr John Roberts, C.M.G., Dunedin, wno must also have known Lang in his school days, that the memorial was set up. The late Mr George Roberts, Selkirk, and Mr T. J. S. Roberts, Melrose, were also at school with him. Mr A. F. Roberts, who presided at the unveiling of the memorial, gave some intimate reminiscences of the studious boy. He was—and this trait persisted throughout his life—■ an exceedingly shy man, and of very retiring and sensitive disposition. He was always most kindly and unselfish, and was noted, even as a boy, for his love of books; but he was by no moans a milksop or a girlish boy. Early in life ho became intensely interested in cricket; but his favourite outdoor pastime was angling. In 1889 the old_ gaol of_ Selkirk, a quaint Gothic building, resembling somewhat an old baronial keep, which had been bought by Mr J. Craig-Brown, the historian of Selkirkshire, and adapted to suit the requirements of a public library, was handed over by him to the burgh as a free gift; and, fittingly enough, the building was opened by Andrew Lang, who, besides being a native of the town, was a very close personal friend of the donor’s. At that ceremony the late Mr George Roberts, then Provost of the burgh, presided, and ho. spoke of “ the quiet, thoughtful, studious boy who, while most of us were more given to play than lessons, might be found in some quiet corner poring over a book.” In replying, Lang confessed ho had never fought the previous speaker, for he was too heavy for nim; but there was a/'brother of the Provost’s with whom he had had some altercations. It was on this occasion that Lang recalled how, while a boy, ho had read every book in Selkirk upon which ho could lay hands, and was at length reduced to reading a book written by an Edinburgh plumber. Its name was “ Arnot on Smoky Chimneys ” ; but he road it through ! LANG AS A SPORTSMAN. In spite of his rather delicate health, Siang was essentially a sportsman in the Stalest sense. Reference has been made to Bis love of angling. Has he not written Alarmingly of it in his tuneful, limpid t»rse? And his love of golf was almost & passion with him. He was a familiar figure on the links of his beloved St. Andrews, and could write charmingly of the goyal and ancient game. Yet, perhaps, jgi s greatest delight was in the kincr of all ©ports —cricket, a game for which the Selkirk people have long been famous in Scotland. Hear his own ipissima verba on the game: “ I would rather be bowling for Selkirk than be Poet Laureate—oh, very much rather!” And, again: ‘‘Fifty years ago, alas I I was standing in a tunic, little

frilled things, and bare knees outside my father’s gate at Viewfield. There I behold a new thing, and became a new child. Boys had heaped a p.le ol coals on the road for a wicket, and wore playing an unknown game with a hard ball and bats made of deal, with the bark on the backs Un applying for information I learned that tiio game was called ‘‘the bats.” lastantlj - I fell in love with cricket, my first and most enduring passion. Next 1 was taken with my brother Pat to play with some men on a very queer pitch. . . . The results were poignant. On going to the wicket Pat was cut over the hand, and I on the bare knee-pan. I have often been cut over since, especially by a square leg in on the jaw, which broke a tooth; but I never wept again on any such occasion. Soon after wo wont to see a match on the old ground on the Haugh, near the railway station. I well remember the glorious spectacle; some players in flannel with a vision of blue shirts and rod caps. A fielder made a catch, and seemed to mo a being more than mortal. Then wo got bats and ball and stamps, and played in the field at the back of Viewfield. A big boy called Bill Smith got my team out by bowling slows over our heads, that dropped on the stumps.” SCALPING A CRITIC. In the eighties of last ccr.iury Robert Buchanan was, perhaps, the most formidable gladiator in the English literary arena. His great adventure against the Ross’cttiSwinburno coterie in “T he Fleshy School of Poetry” is still remembered, and sometimes ro-read with amusement, by the literary student. Buchanan had later attacked Lang, and Lang, when he chose, revelled in battle — • Drinking delight of battle with his peers Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. At the opening of the Selkirk Library Lang referred to this squabble, and very neatly and artistically gave Buchanan his quietus. Mr Buchanan, said Lang, said he (Lang) was an athiest, and a poet, and a gentleman, and a coward, and a Cockney —the last is very characteristic of Buchanan’s stylo. About the atheist, Buchanan had made a, m.stake —those wore not his religious convictions. About the poet and the gentleman ho was not quite certain that he cared for the authority; and as for the coward, it was neither hero nor there. About the Cockney, it was not the least true. Dr Johnson had said in his usual comic way that the best prospect for a Scotsman was the road to England. '1 he best prospect he (Lang) knew was the road leading north. So ho believed ho had cleared his character of these trifles and particulars. Probably Buchanan would have admitted, to himself at that he had got more than lie bargained for. LANG’S GREAT KINDLINESS. No attempt is made in this brief sketch to touch upon Lang's marvellous scholarship, upon tha width and depth of h s learning and knowledge in almost all departments of ancient and modern literature. I take for granted that his supreme qualities in these respects a?e known (more or less), and admitted (wholly) by everyone. And I would conclude by citing instances of the warm-heartedness and kindliness of the man, which most often were cloaked under a shy reserve that hated all parade and ostentation. Long years ago, ere yet I knew the Borderland, there lived in Galashiels' a young working mill lad named Thomas Rae, who was blessed, or cursed, with the real gift of song and poetry; and like so many other poets, ho was marked by Fate for an early death. Ho was attacked by consumption, and died shortly after passing the age of _ 20. His verses had attracted Lang’s attention, and, great and busy man as ho was, he wrote the poor young follow frequently, and before his death, secured the publication of a slim volume of his poems, with an introduction written by Lang himself. How many far lesser men in the world of letters would have done this? I leave this action to speak for itself. Again, for about a generation before his death, he sent regularly to Selkirk for distribution amongst the poor of the burgh every year a sum of money—l think the amount was about £-30. The money was distributed through the Inspector of Poor, with the strictest injunctions that the name of the donor was not to be made public. It was not till after his death that the secret was divulged, and then, surely, Selkirk must have felt some qualms of conscience at the neglect of her brilliant son whom she had so sadly misunderstood. A few years ago. Willie Hope, an old working mason of Selkirk, was waiting at the railway station, and observed a middleaged gentleman pacing up and down the platform. As the gentleman passed and repassed, ho cast keen glances at Willie, and at length stopped in front of him. “Afe you Willie Hope?” ho asked. “Yes,” was the reply. “Oh,” said, the gentleman. “I’m Andrew Lang. Do you remember working at Viewfield when you were a young man and I was a boy?” “Yes, fine,” said Willie. “And do you remember,” Lang continued, “building a dovecot for me —a bouse for the pigeons?” “Oh.” aye. I ..mind that fine,” said Willie. “Well,” said Lang, “do you know I don’t think I ever paid you for it, and the account’s too long overdue.” And with the words Re slipped a sum of money into Willie’s hand, which not only squared the debt, but made the poor old man happy for many a day. I had several letters from Lang at different times, and always found him the same courteous, kindly gentleman, never too busy to reply promptly and pleasantly. But if the tone of the letters was generous, the handwriting v/as awful. I have never looked on such hieroglyphies before or since; but I would I had some now as personal relics of a great man. Alas ! they wore all given away to people who besought them —people whose admiration for Lang was equally as groat as mine, and that fact tempers my voluntary loss. And it is of the loving, lovable man I like to think most, who to his genius added more sterling qualities of heart which make life most worth living. It is appropriate, too, that his memorial, a bronze tablet, bearing a medallion of his features, is placed in the Selkirk Public Library he opened 26 years ago. What more fitting place for such a memorial than a library? The following inscription tells its own story in terse language:—“Andrew Lang, born at Selkirk, 31st March, 1844. Died at Bauohory 20th July, 1912. Old friends and lovers of his writings _ have placed this memorial here in the library which ho opened on 25th May, 1889.”