] Leyden's great antipathy was Ritson, an
ill-conditioned antiquarian, of vegetarian principles, whom Scott alone of
all the antiquarians of that day could manage to tame and tolerate. In
Scott's absence one day, during his early married life at Lasswade, Mrs.
Scott inadvertently offered Ritson a slice of beef, when that strange man
burst out in such outrageous tones at what he chose to suppose an insult,
that Leyden threatened to "thraw his neck" if he were not silent, a threat
which frightened Ritson out of the cottage. On another occasion, simply in
order to tease Ritson, Leyden complained that the meat was overdone, and
sent to the kitchen for a plate of literally raw beef, and ate it up solely
for the purpose of shocking his crazy rival in antiquarian research. Poor
Leyden did not long survive his experience of the Indian climate. And with
him died a passion for knowledge of a very high order, combined with no
inconsiderable poetical gifts. It was in the study of such eccentric beings
as Leyden that Scott doubtless acquired his taste for painting the humours
of Scotch character.

Another wild shepherd, and wilder genius among Scott's associates, not
only in those earlier days, but to the end, was that famous Ettrick
Shepherd, James Hogg, who was always quarrelling with his brother
poet, as far as Scott permitted it, and making it up again when his
better feelings returned. In a shepherd's dress, and with hands fresh
from sheep-shearing, he came to dine for the first time with Scott in
Castle Street, and finding Mrs. Scott lying on the sofa, immediately
stretched himself at full length on another sofa; for, as he explained
afterwards, "I thought I could not do better than to imitate the lady
of the house." At dinner, as the wine passed, he advanced from "Mr.
Scott," to "Shirra" (Sheriff), "Scott," "Walter," and finally
"Wattie," till at supper he convulsed every one by addressing Mrs.
Scott familiarly as "Charlotte."[23] Hogg wrote certain short poems,
the beauty of which in their kind Sir Walter himself never approached;
but he was a man almost without self-restraint or self-knowledge,
though he had a great deal of self-importance, and hardly knew how
much he owed to Scott's magnanimous and ever-forbearing kindness, or
if he did, felt the weight of gratitude a burden on his heart. Very
different was William Laidlaw, a farmer on the banks of the Yarrow,
always Scott's friend, and afterwards his manager at Abbotsford,