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 THE WOEKS 
 
 OF 
 
 PROFESSOR WILSON 
 
 OF THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH 
 
 EDITED DY HI8 SOM-IN-LAW 
 
 PROFESSOE FEERIER 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 NOCTES AMBROSIAK^ 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLV
 
 NOCTES 
 
 A M B R S I A N .E 
 
 BY 
 
 PROFESSOR WILSON 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLV
 
 n 2- 
 
 XBW A'EN STMnOSin KTAlKfiN nEPINISSOMENAnN 
 HAEA KfiTIAAONTA KAeHMENON OINOnOTAZEIN. 
 
 PHOC. a'p. Ath. 
 
 [Tills is a distich by wise old Phocylides, 
 
 An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days/ 
 
 Meaning, " 'Tis right for good wine-bibbing people, 
 
 Not to let the jug pace round the board like a cripple ; 
 
 But gaily to chat while discussing their tipple." 
 
 An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis — 
 
 And a very fit motto to put to our ifocies.] 
 
 C. N. ap. Ambr.
 
 PEEP ACE. 
 
 AiNiONG the various writings of Peofessoe "Wilson, the series 
 of imaginary colloquies entitled "Noctes Ajmbeosian^" 
 appears to stand pre-eminent ; and accordingly it has been 
 resolved that these celebrated Dialogues shall take the lead 
 in this edition of his collected works. 
 
 The Noctes Ambrosianas were contributed to Blackwood's 
 Magazine between the years 1822 and 1885. To many 
 persons it may be a matter of surprise why these articles — 
 the pojDularity of which, when they originally appeared, was 
 unprecedented in the annals of periodical literature — should 
 never have been reprinted in this coimtry until now. In 
 explanation of this postponement, it is sufficient to say that 
 the Noctes Ambrosianse were the emanations of a great 
 genius, to whom the work of creation was ever more con- 
 genial than the task of selection and revision. It was cer- 
 tainly Professor Wilson's intention to have published a 
 corrected edition of these Dialoo-ues. But so lono- as the 
 fountain of his daily thoughts was a spring fraught with 
 inexhaustible resources, and running over with perpetually 
 new imaginations, this project was indefinitely jDrocrasti- 
 nated ; and at the time of his death no preparation had 
 been made for carrying the contemplated work into execu- 
 tion. 
 
 a
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 In these circumstances, the Messrs Blackwood, to whom 
 the copyi'ight of the Noctes belongs, did me the honour 
 of proposing that I should edit the work, — an under- 
 taking for which my sole special qualifications are these : 
 that, owing to my relationship to Professor Wilson, I 
 enjoyed his intimacy, not only in his latter years, but 
 during that fervent and prolific period of his life, when, 
 month after month, he electrified the world with the 
 flashes of those glorious "nights;" that I was also per- 
 sonally acquainted with the other dramatis personce; 
 and that, having, in general, a distinct recollection of the 
 various incidents, pubUc and private, alluded to in their 
 ideal confabulations, I am tolerably competent to supply 
 such explanations as may be needed. 
 
 It is much to be lamented that this work was not under- 
 taken by Professor Wilson himself, and executed during his 
 lifetime. The greatest pains, however, have been taken to 
 repair the eflects of this procrastination, in so far as they are 
 remediable, and to send forth the Noctes Ambrosianae to the 
 world in the form deemed most in accordance with the mind 
 of their Author, and best calculated to suit the taste of the 
 public. The original series has been carefully revised and 
 sifted. All the contributions to it (songs and quotations 
 being, of course, excepted), which were not written by the 
 Professor, have been excluded from republication, and seve- 
 ral of the Dialogues which were his only in part, have been 
 omitted. By means of these retrenchments, it is believed 
 that the Text of the work has been settled as correctly and 
 as conclusively as it was possible for it to be in the circum- 
 stances. A few remarks may be offered in explanation of 
 the principles which have guided me. 
 
 Many of the Noctes Ambrosianse were not written by 
 Professor Wilson. It is obvious, therefore, that these could 
 not, with any propriety, appear in what professes to be a
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 collected edition of his works. Had these Dialogues stood 
 in any kind of harmonious relationship to the others, some 
 inconvenience might have been occasioned by their exclusion. 
 But all cause of regret is removed by the consideration that, 
 whatever the merit of the omitted colloquies may be — and 
 it is sometimes considerable — they are so totally different 
 in tone, spirit, style, topics, sentiment, and character — in 
 short, in their whole treatment of men and things — from 
 the Noctes Ambrosianae of Professor Wilson, that they could 
 not have been introduced into the collection without destroy- 
 ing entirely that unity of design and dramatic consistency 
 of execution for which the series, in so far as it proceeded 
 from his hand, is in the highest degree remarkable. 
 
 Others of these Dialogues are Professor Wilson's only in 
 part. In dealing with these, the course which I have fol- 
 lowed is this : In cases where his share could be accurately 
 ascertained, and detached in an intelligible and presentable 
 form from the matter supplied by his associates, I have 
 printed it in this collection : in cases, again, where his 
 contributions were so mixed up with those of other writers 
 that they either could not be exactly determined, or, if 
 determined, could not be separated from the context without 
 losing their significance — in such cases I have omitted the 
 Dialogue altogether. 
 
 With regard to the special information which has enabled 
 me to make these retrenchments, and thus, as I conceive, to 
 authenticate the text, that has been derived from my own 
 personal knowledge of the circumstances in which many of 
 the Dialogues were vnritten, from my occasional conversa- 
 tions with Professor Wilson respecting them, from their own 
 internal evidence, and from the registers of the Messrs 
 Blackwood. It is unnecessary to specify in detail what 
 portions of the series have been omitted. This, however, 
 may be stated, that, although Professor Wilson's style may
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 be traced to a considerable extent in some of the earlier 
 pieces, the series is fixed by this Edition as properly com- 
 mencing at the nineteenth number, which now ranks as 
 number one. The initiatory dialogues are occupied for the 
 most part with matters of comparatively local and tempo- 
 rary interest ; and their general character, both in point of 
 style and in point of thought, is scarcely such as to entitle 
 them to claim that attention, and aspire to that perpetuity, 
 which may be reasonably expected for their maturer asso- 
 ciates. Although, therefore, they are to some extent the 
 composition of Professor Wilson, their omission, it is 
 believed, will not be regretted. At the number specified 
 the series properly commences, as then bearing, in broad 
 and unmistakable characters, the sole impress of his fervent 
 and masculine genius. Here it was that the author began to 
 feel his strength, to get into the right vein, and to put forth 
 all his powers. At this point the work begins to rise, and the 
 workman becomes the undisputed master of his instruments. 
 Erom this period the Dialogues which are his are sustained 
 to the end with a dramatic propriety, — with a force and 
 variety of thought, — with a fervour of feeling, — with an 
 exuberance of humour, — with an affluence of poetical ima- 
 gery, and with a freedom and elasticity of language which 
 are certainly unparalleled in the species of composition to 
 which they belong. This continuity of excellence would 
 have been impaired, — this broad and intermingled flow of 
 majesty and mirth would have been obstructed, — this unity 
 of creation would have been violated, — this wilderness of 
 rejoicing fancies would have been profaned by the introduc- 
 tion of the other Dialogues, which, whatever their intrinsic 
 merits may be, would have been altogether out of place in 
 such companionship. The hannony of the whole would have 
 been disturbed even by the insertion of those pieces in which 
 Professor Wilson's touch is only occasionally apparent. He
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 never worked his best when he worked in union with 
 another. It is only when he rushes on alone and single- 
 handed that he prevails. If, therefore, any farther apology 
 for the nature of my intromissions be required, it may be 
 found in the consideration that, having undertaken this 
 editorial office, I had a sacred duty to perform to the 
 memory of the deceased ; and I feel assured that the course 
 which I have adopted is that by which his reputation has 
 been best consulted, and such as he would have approved of 
 had he been alive. 
 
 The original series, as it stands in Blackwood's Magazine, 
 consisted of seventy-one numbers ; but by this process of 
 retrenchment thui;y of these have been excluded from the 
 list, thus leaving forty-one numbers to be republished as 
 the authentic compositions of Professor Wilson ; and these 
 forty-one Dialogues are now given forth, not in the 
 character of a selection, — which is always an objectionable 
 and unsatisfactory species of publication, — but as consti- 
 tuting the work to which the title " NoCTES AiiBEOSiAN^ " 
 properly appertains. 
 
 In America the popularity of the Noctes AmbrosiansB has 
 been proved by the extent to which they have been repub- 
 lished and circulated in that country, — and this notwith- 
 standing the drawbacks and disadvantages under which they 
 have hitherto laboured. In that country an edition was 
 published a good many years ago, and another more recently 
 by Dr Shelton Mackenzie, which, in spite of some slips, and 
 a good many oversights — (mostly to be explained on the 
 ground that it was impossible for him to be in possession of 
 the requisite information) — is, on the whole, creditable to 
 the industry and good sense of that gentleman. But both 
 of these editions are encumbered with that plethora of alien 
 matter which is cleared off in the present impression ; and 
 no attempt has been made in either of them to distinguish
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 the compositions of Professor Wilson from the occasional 
 workmanship of his associates. 
 
 A few remarks have now to be made in reference to the 
 Locality where the scene of these imaginary colloquies is 
 laid, and of the Characters who take part in them. The 
 locality — or at least the event for which, next to its associa- 
 tion with the Noctes Ambrosianse the locality is most 
 memorable — has been so forcibly depicted by Mr Lockhart, 
 that although the quotation is somewhat long, I cannot do 
 better than present it to the reader in full : — 
 
 "The street or lane," says Mr Lockhart,^ "in -which. Amh'ose's 
 Tavern is situated, derives its name of Gabriel's Koad from a 
 horrible murder "which was committed there a great number of years 
 ago. Any occurrence of that sort seems to make a prodigiously 
 lasting impression on the minds of the Scotcli people. You remem- 
 ber Miiscliafs Cairn in the Heart of Mid-Lothian. I think GahrieVs 
 Road is a more shocking name. Cairn is too fine a word to be 
 coupled with the idea of a vulgar murder. But they both sound 
 horribly enough. The story of Gabriel, however, is one that ought 
 to be remembered, for it is one of the most striking illustrations I 
 have ever met with of the effects of Puritanical superstition in de- 
 stroying the moral feelings, when carried to the extreme, in former 
 days not uncommon in Scotland. Gabriel was a preacher or licen- 
 tiate of the Kirk, employed as domestic tutor in a gentleman's 
 family in Edinburgh, where he had for piipils two fine boys of eight 
 or ten years of age. The tutor entertained, it seems, some partiality 
 for the abigail of the children's mother ; and it so happened that 
 one of his pupils observed him kiss the girl one day in passing 
 through an ante-room where she was sitting. The little fellow 
 carried this interesting piece of intelligence to his brother, and both 
 of them mentioned it by way of a good joke to their mother the 
 same evening. Whether the lady had dropped some hint of what 
 she had heard to her maid, or whether she had done so to the 
 preacher himself, I have not learned ; but so it was that he found 
 he had been discovered, and by what means also. The idea of hav- 
 ing been detected in such a trivial trespass was enough to poison 
 for ever the spirit of this juvenile Presbyterian. His whole soul 
 became filled with the blackest demons of rage, and he resolved to 
 sacrifice to his indignation the instruments of what he conceived to 
 
 1 See Peter's Letters to his Kinnfolk, 1819, vol. ii. p. 197.
 
 PREFACE. Xi 
 
 be so deadly a disgrace. It was Sunday ; and after going to church 
 as usual with his pupils, he led them out to the country — for the 
 ground on which the New Town of Edinburgh now stands was then 
 considered as the country by the people of Edinburgh. After pass- 
 ing calmly, to all appearance, through several of the green fields, 
 which have now become streets and squares, he came to a place 
 more lonely than the rest, and there, drawing a large clasp-knife from 
 his pocket, he at once stabbed the elder of his pupils to the heart. 
 The younger boy gazed on him for a moment, and then fled with 
 shrieks of terror ; but the murderer pursued with the bloody knife 
 in his hand, and slew him also as soon as he was overtaken. The 
 whole of this shocking scene was observ^ed distinctly from the Old 
 Town by innumerable crowds of people, who were near enough to 
 see every motion of the murderer, and hear the cries of his victims, 
 although the deep ravine^ between them and the place of blood was 
 far more than sufficient to prevent the possibility of rescue. The 
 tutor sat down upon the spot immediately after having concluded 
 his butchery, as if in a stupor of despair and madness, and was only 
 roused to his recollection by the touch of the hands that seized him. 
 " It so happened that the magistrates of the city were assembled 
 together in their council-room, waiting till it should be time for 
 them to walk to church in procession (as is their custom), when the 
 crowd drew near Avith their captive. The horror of the multitude 
 was communicated to them, along with their intelligence, and they 
 ordered the wretch to be brought into their presence. It is an old 
 law in Scotland that when a murderer is caught in the very act of 
 guilt (or as they call it, red-hand), he may be immediately executed 
 without any formality or delay. Never, surely, could a more fitting 
 occasion be found for carrying this old law into effect. Gabriel was 
 hanged within an hour after the deed was done, the red knife being 
 suspended from his neck, and the blood of the innocents scarce dry 
 upon his fingers. Such," concludes Mr Lockhart, "is the terrible 
 story from which the name of Gabriel's Road is derived." 
 
 This locality, which still bears the name by which in 
 ancient times it was so bloodily baptised, is situated in the 
 vicinity of West Eegister Street, at the back of the east 
 end of Princes Street, and close to the Eegister Office. 
 Here stood the tavern from which the Nodes Coenceque, 
 commemorated in these volmnes, derived their name. 
 
 ^ Through which the Railway now runs in a natural channel, which could 
 not have answered its purpose better had it been artificially constructed.
 
 xii PREFACE. 
 
 " A cursed spot, 'tis said, in days of yore ; 
 But nothing ails it now — the place is merry !" 
 
 But a too literal interpretation is not to be given to the 
 scene of these festivities. Ambrose's Hotel was indeed " a 
 local habitation and a name," and many were the meetings 
 which Professor Wilson and his friends had within its walls. 
 But the true Ambrose's must be looked for only in the 
 realms of the imagination — the veritable scene of the 
 " Ambrosian nights " existed nowhere but in their Author's 
 brain, and their flashing fire was struck out in solitude 
 by genius wholly indeijendent of the stimulus of com- 
 panionship. 
 
 The same remark applies to the principal characters 
 who take part in these dialogues. Although founded to 
 some extent on the actual, they are in the highest degree 
 idealised. Christopher North was Professor Wilson him- 
 self, and here, therefore, the real and the ideal may be 
 viewed as coincident. But Timothy Tickler is a personage 
 whose lineaments bear a resemblance to those of their 
 original only in a few fine although unmistakable outlines, 
 while James Hogg in the flesh was but a faint adumbration 
 of the inspired Shepherd of the Noctes. 
 
 Mr Robert Sym (the prototype of Timothy Tickler) was 
 born in 1750, and died in 1844 at the age of ninety-four, 
 having retained to the last the full possession of his faculties, 
 and enjoyed uninterrupted good health to within a very few 
 years of his decease. He followed the profession of Writer 
 to the Signet from 1775 until the close of that century, 
 when he retired from business on a comjDctent fortune. He 
 was uncle to Professor Wilson by the mother's side, and his 
 senior by some five-and-thirty years. He thus belonged to 
 a former generation, and had passed his grand climacteric 
 long before the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, 
 with which he had no connection whatever beyond taking
 
 PREFACE. XIU 
 
 an interest in its success. And altliougli his conviviality 
 flowed down upon a later stock, and was never more 
 heartily called forth than when in the company of his 
 nephew, these circumstances must of themselves have pre- 
 vented the Author of the Noctes from trenching too closely 
 on reality in his effigiation of Timothy Tickler. 
 
 Mr Sym's portrait in the character of Timothy Tickler is 
 sketched more than once in the course of the Noctes Am- 
 brosianae. But the following description of him by the 
 Ettrick Shepherd is so graphic, and for the most part so 
 true, that I cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing it : — 
 
 " I had never heard," says Hogg in his Reminiscences of Former 
 Days,^ " more than merely his (Mr Sym's) name, and imaguied him 
 to be some very little man about Leith. Judge of my astonishment 
 when I was admitted by a triple-bolted door into a grand house^ in 
 George's Square, and introduced to its lord, an uncommonly fine- 
 looking elderly gentleman, about seven feet high, and as straight 
 as an arrow ! His hair was whitish, his complexion had the freshness 
 and ruddiness of youth, his looks and address fall of kindness and 
 benevolence ; but whenever he stood straight up (for he always had 
 to stoop about half-way when speaking to a common-sized man like 
 me), then you could not help perceiving a little of the haughty air of 
 the determined and independent old aristocrat. 
 
 " From this time forward, during my stay in Edinburgh, Mr Sym's 
 hospitable mansion was the great evening resort of his three nephews^ 
 and me ; sometimes there were a few friends beside, of whom Lock- 
 hart and Samuel Anderson* were mostly two, but we four for 
 certain ; and there are no jovial evenings of my by past life which I 
 reflect on with greater delight than those. Tickler is completely an 
 original, as any man may see who has attended to his remarks ; for 
 there is no sophistry there, — they are every one Lis own. Nay, I 
 don't believe that North has, would, or durst, put a single sentence 
 into his mouth that had not proceeded out of it.® No, no ; although 
 
 1 Prefixed to Altrive Tales, by the Ettrick Shepherd. London, 1832. 
 
 2 This is a slight exaggeration. Mr Sym's house, though sufficiently com- 
 modious, was a bachelor domicile of very moderate dimensions. 
 
 3 Professor Wilson, Mr Robert Sym Wilson, Manager of the Royal Bank of 
 Scotland, and Mr James Wilson, the eminent naturahst. 
 
 * Samuel Anderson makes his appearance in Noctes Ambrosianse, May 1834. 
 This observation is very wide of the mark. Assuredly Mr Sym was no con- 
 senting party to the slight liberties which were taken with him in the Noctes,
 
 XIV PEEFACE. 
 
 I was made a scape-goat, no one, and far less a nephew, might do so 
 with Timothy Tickler. His reading, both ancient and modern, is 
 boundless,^ his taste and perception acute beyond those of most 
 other men ; his satire keen and biting, but at the same time his 
 good -humour is altogether inexhaustible, save when ignited by 
 coming in collision with Whig or Radical principles. Still, there 
 being no danger of that with me, he and I never differed in one 
 single sentiment in our lives, excepting as to the comparative merits 
 of some strathspey reels. 
 
 " But the pleasantest part of our fellowship is yet to describe. 
 At a certain period of the night our entertainer knew, by the longing 
 looks which I cast to a beloved corner of the dining-room, what 
 was wanting. Then, with ' Oh, I beg your pardon, Hogg, I was 
 forgetting,' he would take out a small gold key that hung by a chain 
 of the same precious metal from a particular button-hole, and stalk 
 away as tall as the life, open two splendid fiddle-cases, and produce 
 their contents ; first the one, and then the other, but always keeping 
 the best to himself I'll never forget with what elated dignity he 
 stood straight up in the middle of that floor and rosined his bow ; 
 there was a twist of the lip and an upward beam of the eye that 
 were truly sublime. Then down we sat side by side, and began — 
 at first gently, and with easy motion, like skilful grooms keeping 
 ourselves up for the final heat, which was slowly but surely ap- 
 proaching. At tlie end of every tune we took a glass, and still our 
 enthusiastic admiration of the Scottish tunes increased — our energies 
 of execution redoubled, till ultimately it became not only a complete 
 and well-contested race, but a trial of strength, to determine which 
 should drown the other. The only feelings short of ecstasy which 
 came across us in these enraptured moments were caused by hearing 
 the laiigh and the joke going on with our friends, as if no such 
 thrilling strains had been flowing. But if Sym's eye chanced at all 
 to fall on them, it instantly retreated upwards again in mild indig- 
 
 and it is not to be supposed that he had more than a faint suspicion of his re- 
 semblance to the redoubted Timothy. What Hofjfg says in regard to the 
 vigour of Mr Sym's talents, and the originality and pointedness of his remarks, 
 is quite true ; but had the nephew ventured to report any of the conversations 
 of the uncle, there cannot be a doubt that the "breach of privilege" would 
 have been highly resented by the latter. But the Professor had too much tact 
 for that. He took good care not to sail too near the wind ; and the utmost 
 that can be said is, that the language and sentiments of Mr Sym bore some 
 general resemblance, and supplied a sort of groundwork to the conversational 
 characteristics of Mr Tickler. 
 
 ^ This also is incorrect. Mr Sym's reading, although accurate and intelli- 
 gent so far as it went, was by no means unbounded. It was limited to our 
 best British classics, and of these liis special favourites were Hume and Swift.
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 nation. To his honour be it mentioned, he has left me a legacy of 
 that inestimable violin, provided that I outlive him.^ But not for a 
 thousand such would I part with my old friend." 
 
 To this description I may be just permitted to add, that in 
 the more serious concerns of life Mr Sjth's character and 
 career were exemplary. To the highe.st sense of honour, 
 and the most scrupulous integrity in his professional dealings, 
 he united the manners of a courtier of the ancient i^egime, 
 and a kindliness of nature which endeared him to the old 
 and to the young, with the latter of whom, in particular, he 
 was always an especial favourite. 
 
 But the animating spirit of the Noctes Ambrosianse is the 
 Ettrick Shej^herd himself James Hogg was born in 1772, 
 in a cottage on the banks of the Ettrick, a tributary of the 
 Tweed ; and died at Altrive, near St Mary's Loch — a lake 
 in the same district — in 1835. His early years were spent 
 in the humblest pastoral avocations, and he scarcely received 
 even the rudiments of the most ordinary education. For 
 long "chill penury repressed his noble rage ;" but the poeti- 
 cal instinct was strong within him, and the flame ultimately 
 broke forth under the promptings of his own ambition, and 
 the kind encouragement of Sir Walter Scott. After a few 
 hits and many misses in various departments of literature, 
 he succeeded in striking the right chord in the Queens 
 Wake, which was published in 1813. This work stamped 
 Hogg as, after Burns (proximus, sed longo intervallo), 
 the greatest poet that had ever sprung from the bosom of 
 the common peoi^le. It became at once, and deservedly, 
 popular ; and by this poem, together with some admirable 
 songs, imbued mth genuine feeling, and the national spirit 
 of his country, he has a good chance of being known favom-- 
 
 ^ Hogg did not outlive him. The story of the bequest of the cremona is ot 
 course apocryphal. But see Noctes I., p. 12.
 
 XVI PREFACE. 
 
 ably to posterity. But his surest passport to immortality 
 is his embalmment in the Noctes Ambrosianse. 
 
 In connection with this brief notice of James Hoo-ff, I 
 may take the opportunity of clearing up a point of literary 
 history which has been enveloped in obscurity until now : I 
 allude to the authorship of a composition which is frequently 
 referred to in the Noctes Ambrosianse, the celebrated Chaldee 
 MS. This trenchant satire on men and things in the metro- 
 polis of Scotland, was published in the seventh number of 
 Blackwood's Magazine. It excited the most indescribable 
 commotion at the time — so much noise, indeed, that never 
 since has it been permitted to make any noise whatever, 
 this promising babe having been j)itilessly suppressed almost 
 in its cradle, in consequence of threatened legal proceedings. 
 A set of the Magazine containing it is now rarely to be met 
 with. The authorship of this composition has been always 
 a subject of doubt. Hogg used to claim the credit of having 
 written it. I have recently ascertained that to him the 
 original conception of the Chaldee MS. is due ; and also that 
 he was the author of the first thirty-seven verses of Chap. I., 
 and of one or two sentences besides. So that, out of the 
 one hundred and eighty verses of which the whole piece con- 
 sists, about forty are to be attributed to the Shepherd. 
 Hogg, indeed, wrote and sent to Mr Blackwood much more 
 of the Chaldee MS. than the forty verses aforesaid ; but not 
 more than these were inserted in the magazine ; the rest of 
 the production being the workmanship of Wilson and Lock- 
 hart. Such is a true and authentic account of the origin 
 and authorship of the Chaldee MS. There can be little 
 doubt that when this clever Jew d' esprit is republished with 
 annotations (and it may form a very suitable appendix to 
 the Noctes Ambrosianse), the present generation will be as 
 much amused by its pleasantry, and by the singular state of 
 feeling, literary and political, which it reveals, as our fathers
 
 PEEFACE. XVll 
 
 were astounded by its audacity, and frightened from their 
 propriety by its personalities. To return to the Shepherd. 
 
 There was a homely heartiness of manner about Hogg, 
 and a Doric simplicity in his address, which were exceedingly 
 prepossessing. He sometimes carried a little too far the 
 privileges of an innocent rusticity, as Mr Lockhart has not 
 failed to note in his Life of Scott ; but, in general, his slight 
 deviations from etiquette were rather amusing than other- 
 wise. When we consider the disadvantages with which he 
 had to contend, it must be admitted that Hogg was, in all 
 respects, a very remarkable man. In his social hours, a 
 naivete, and a vanity which disarmed displeasure by the 
 openness and good-humour with which it was avowed, 
 played over the surface of a natm-e which at bottom was 
 sufficiently shrewd and sagacious ; but his conversational 
 powers were by no means pre-eminent. He never, indeed, 
 attempted any colloquial display, although there was 
 sometimes a quaintness in his remarks, a glimmering of 
 drollery, a rural freshness, and a tinge of poetical colour- 
 ing, which redeemed his discourse from commonplace, 
 and supplied to the consummate artist who took him 
 in hand the hints out of which to construct a character 
 at once original, extraordinary, and delightful — a character 
 of which James Hogg undoubtedly furnished the germ, but 
 which, as it expanded mider the hands of its artificer, 
 acquired a breadth, a firmness, and a power to which the 
 bard of Mount Benger had certainly no pretension. 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd of the Xoctes Ambrosianas is one 
 of the finest and most finished creations which di-amatic 
 genius ever called into existence. Out of very slender mate- 
 rials, an ideal infinitely greater, and more real, and more 
 original than the prototype from which it was drawn, has 
 been bodied forth. Bearing in mind that these dialogues 
 are conversations on men and manners, life and literature,
 
 XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 we may confidently affirm that nowhere within the compass 
 of that species of composition is there to be found a 
 character at all comparable to this one in riclmess and 
 readiness of resource. In wisdom the Shepherd equals the 
 Socrates of Plato ; in humour he surpasses the Palstaff of 
 Shakespeare. Clear and prompt, he might have stood up 
 against Dr Johnson in close and peremptory argument ; 
 fertile and copious, he might have rivalled Burke in ampli- 
 tude of declamation ; while his opulent imagination and 
 powers of comical description invest all that he utters 
 either with a picturesque vividness, or a graphic quaintness 
 pecuHarly his own. Be the theme what it may, tragical or 
 comical, solemn or satirical, playful or pathetic, high or 
 low, he is always equal to the occasion. In his most 
 grotesque delineations, his good sense never deserts him ; 
 in his most festive abandonment his morality is never at 
 fault. He is intensely individual, and also essentially 
 national. Hence he is real — hence he is universal. His sen- 
 timents are broad and catholic, because, careless whom he 
 may conciliate or whom he may offend, he pours them forth 
 without restraint — the irrepressible effusions of a strong 
 humorous soul, which sees only with its own eyes, and feels 
 only with its own heart. Whether he is describing " Pozie 
 Tam,"^ as seen through all the glittering paraphernalia of a 
 prancing and terrible dragoon, or painting " the mutineer's 
 execution"''^ in colours to which the hio-hest art of the 
 professed tragedian could add neither pity nor terror, he 
 is always the same inimitable original — the same self- 
 consistent Shepherd, ever buoyant amid the shifting eddies 
 of the discourse — ever ready to hunt down a humbug, or to 
 shower the spray of an inexhaustible fancy over the realities 
 of life, until their truthfulness becomes more evidently true. 
 His periods have all the ease and idiom of living speech, 
 
 1 See Noctes VII., p. 165, 2 See Noctes XII., p. 303.
 
 PREFACE, XIX 
 
 lis distinguished from the stiffness of what may be termed 
 spoken langiiaf^'e, and this to an extent which is not 
 always to be met with even in dramatic compositions 
 of the hiirhest order. 
 
 In another respect, the dialect of the Shepherd is peculiar ; 
 it is thoroughly Scottish, and it could not be Anglicised 
 without losing its raciness and spoiling entirely the dramatic 
 propriety of his character. Let it not be supposed, how- 
 ever, that it is in any degree provincial, or that it is a 
 departure from English speech in the sense in which the 
 dialects of Cockueydom and of certain English counties are 
 violations of the language of England. Although now 
 nearly obsolete, it ranks as a sister- tongue to that of 
 England. It is a dialect consecrated by the genius of Burns, 
 and by the usage of Scott ; and now confirmed as classical 
 by its last, and in some respects its greatest, master. Tliis 
 dialect was Burns's natural tongue ; it was one of Sir Walter's 
 most effective instruments ; but the author of the Noctes 
 Ambrosiange wields it with a copiousness, flexibility, and 
 splendour which never have been, and probably never will 
 be, equalled. As the last specimen, then, on a large scale of 
 the national language of Scotland which the world is ever 
 likely to see, I have preserved with scrupulous care the 
 original orthography of these compositions. Glossarial 
 interpretations, however, have been generally subjoined for 
 the sake of those readers who labour under the disadvantage 
 of having been born on the south side of the Tweed. 
 
 These remarks may, perhaps, be a sufficient prologue to 
 the varied entertainments which follow. They may serve to 
 introduce to the reader the dramatis personam of the Noctes 
 Ambrosiange ; they may enable him to form some conception 
 of their distinctive peculiarities, and to understand to what 
 extent they were real, and to what extent they are ideal 
 characters. Such other points as have appeared to me to
 
 XX PREFACE. 
 
 require elucidation in order to a full comprehension of these 
 Dialogues, are cleared up in short notes to the best of my 
 information and ability. But I must be permitted once 
 more to express my deej) regret that it shoidd have been the 
 fate of the Noctes Ambrosianas to go forth into the world in 
 a collected form under other auspices than those of their 
 illustrious author, and without having had the benefit of 
 his notes and emendations. 
 
 J. F. F. 
 
 West Park, St Andrews, 
 July 18, 1855.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 MARCH MDCCCXXV. 
 
 The Shepherd's Day-dreams, 
 
 Hj-mn to the Devil, . 
 
 Barry Cornwall. — Colton, 
 
 Knight's Quarterly, . 
 
 Hibbert on Apparitions, 
 
 Apparitions, . 
 
 Miss Foote, . 
 
 The Shepherd on Pastoral Plays, 
 
 Bowles. — Pope, 
 
 Pope, 
 
 Bowles. — Pope, 
 
 The Lake Poets on Pope, 
 
 Byron. — Hobhouse, . 
 
 Jeffrey. — Campbell, . 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 The Ministry. — Canning, 
 
 Advantages of a divided Cabinet, 
 
 North's is a divided Cabinet, 
 
 Buchanan Lodge, 
 
 The Shepherd on Poultry, 
 
 Tickler Disappears, . 
 
 The Shepherd's Song, 
 
 Song written by Eiddell, 
 
 Tickler reappears. 
 
 II. 
 
 SEPTEMBER MDCCCXXV. 
 
 Barry Cornwall in Edinburgh Review, 
 
 Richard Martin, M.P., 
 
 University College, London, 
 
 Milton. — Wordsworth, 
 
 The Excursion. — Female Poets, 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 Scott, .... 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 Coleridge. — Brougrham, 
 
 Page 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 6 
 
 7 
 
 8 
 
 9 
 10 
 11 
 12 
 14 
 15 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 19 
 20 
 21 
 23 
 24 
 25 
 26 
 27 
 28 
 29 
 
 31 
 32 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 36 
 37 
 38 
 89
 
 JXIl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Brougham, 
 
 His Inaugural Discourse, 
 
 How soon everything is forgotten, 
 
 Southey's Tale of Paraguay, 
 
 What cb-ivel it is. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 40 
 41 
 42 
 43 
 45 
 
 Pre-eminence of Blackwood's Magazine, 
 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 III. 
 
 OCTOBER MDCCCXXV. 
 
 Sport at Dalnacardoch, 
 M'Culloch's Tour, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 48 
 49 
 
 A Hint to Highland Tourists, 
 Joys of Dalnacardoch, 
 Highland Feeling.— Waterfalls, 
 Nature and Art, 
 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 51 
 52 
 63 
 
 The Shepherd in Full 
 The Cockneys, 
 Ladies' Eating, 
 A Charade, 
 
 Dress, 
 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 65 
 56 
 67 
 
 Sermons. —Byron, 
 Prize Poems, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 69 
 
 Macaulay and Praed, 
 De Quincey, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 61 
 
 IV. 
 
 DECEMBEK MDCCCXXV. 
 
 Winter. — The Poor- Laws, . 
 
 Tickler's Appetite, 
 
 Ambrose's Waiting, . 
 
 Shepherd's Song, 
 
 The York Festival, . 
 
 Painting, 
 
 The Old Masters, 
 
 Scottish Naval and Military Academy, 
 
 Pleasures of the Table, 
 
 The Mid-day Hour, . 
 
 Sheridan, 
 
 The Shepherd's Monkey, 
 
 James Montgomery, . 
 
 Lord Nelson, 
 
 England on the Ocean, a Poem, 
 
 The Iliad, 
 
 The Imaginary Editor, 
 
 The Shepherd's Dream, 
 
 Thurtell, 
 
 North's Song, 
 
 Tickler's Song, 
 
 Farewell to the Blue Parlour, 
 
 AfiFecting Predicament,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 xxm 
 
 V. 
 
 FEBRUARY MDCCCXXVI. 
 
 Farewell to the Old, and Welcome to the New Hotel, 
 
 The High School, 
 
 The Shepherd's Secret, 
 
 The Balaam-Box, 
 
 Tickler on the Cremona, 
 
 Tickler Sub- Editor, . 
 
 Tickler sings. 
 
 Shepherd sings. 
 
 Shepherd reproveth Tickler, . 
 
 Song on "The Duke" of Buccleuch, 
 
 Shepherd gets excited, 
 
 Editorial Responsibilities, 
 
 Constable's Miscellany. — Tennant, 
 
 Skating, 
 
 The Shepherd on Skates, 
 
 Ambrose reciteth. 
 
 The Shepherd on Wilson, 
 
 Birds of Prey, 
 
 The Shepherd as John Kemble, 
 
 Poem by Tickler, 
 
 Shepherd in Trepidation, 
 
 Shepherd as Major Moggridge, 
 
 Shepherd unmasked, 
 
 A Reconciliation, 
 
 VI. 
 APRIL MDCCCXXVI. 
 Education, .... 
 Debating Societies in Ettrick, 
 Voices — North's Voice. — The Cheep, 
 Voices — the Skraigh — the Penny Trumpet, 
 Voices — the Lisp and Burr — the Bubble and Squeak, 
 Voices — the Highland Bagpipe. — Faces, 
 The Conceited — the Cunning, 
 The Mahcious, the Hypocritical, and Sensual combined, 
 Tickler is beaten at Backgammon, 
 Cards, 
 
 Card-playing in the Country, 
 Shepherd denovmces Gambling, 
 His Dream of a HeU, 
 Dream continued, 
 Dream concluded, 
 Edinburgh Ladies, 
 Shooting the Elephant, 
 Wolves — Tigers, 
 North Tiger-shooting, 
 Cruelty to Animals, . 
 Fishing, 
 Fox-Hunting, 
 
 Page 
 
 88 
 
 90 
 
 91 
 
 92 
 
 93 
 
 94 
 
 95 
 
 96 
 
 97 
 
 98 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 
 101 
 
 102 
 
 103 
 
 104 
 
 105 
 
 106 
 
 107 
 
 108 
 
 109 
 
 110 
 
 111 
 
 112 
 
 114 
 116 
 117 
 118 
 119 
 120 
 121 
 122 
 124 
 125 
 126 
 127 
 128 
 129 
 130 
 131 
 132 
 133 
 134 
 135 
 136 
 187
 
 SIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Ministei-s as Anjjlers, 
 
 > • • • 1 
 
 138 
 
 Animal Happiness, . 
 
 « 
 
 139 
 
 Prosers, 
 
 • • • a 
 
 140 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 • • • • 
 
 141 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's Letters on 
 
 the Currency, 
 
 142 
 
 Paintings, 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 143 
 
 The Shepherd's Landscapes, 
 
 ■ • • • 
 
 144 
 
 They sit down to Supper, 
 
 • • • • 
 
 146 
 
 VII. 
 JUNE MDCCCXXVL 
 
 The Balaam-Box, .... 
 
 
 
 
 148 
 
 The Incrernators, 
 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 Beelzebub recites, .... 
 
 
 
 
 150 
 
 The Village of Balmaq'ihapple, 
 
 
 
 
 151 
 
 Heather and Whins on fire. 
 
 
 
 
 152 
 
 A Calculation, .... 
 
 
 
 
 153 
 
 Poetry a Drug, .... 
 
 
 
 
 154 
 
 Canning. — Brougham. — Sydney Smith, 
 
 
 
 
 155 
 
 Conversation, .... 
 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 A Snow-Storm in Yarrow, . 
 
 
 
 
 157 
 
 A Calm, 
 
 
 
 
 158 
 
 Cloud-Cathedral. — Preaching, 
 
 
 
 
 159 
 
 Sleeping in Chvu-ch, .... 
 
 
 
 
 160 
 
 How induced, .... 
 
 
 
 
 161 
 
 Popular Preachers, .... 
 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 Country Congregations, 
 
 
 
 
 163 
 
 Tickler as a Preacher, 
 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 Picture of Fozie Tarn, 
 
 
 
 
 165 
 
 Concerts, .... 
 
 
 
 
 166 
 
 Edinburgh Fiddlers, . 
 
 
 
 
 167 
 
 Measures for their Suppression, 
 
 
 
 
 168 
 
 Vocal Music, .... 
 
 
 
 
 169 
 
 North and his Confessor. — The Lodge, 
 
 
 
 
 170 
 
 Poultry. — Poachers, . 
 
 
 
 
 171 
 
 Coursing. — The Pains of Print, 
 
 
 
 
 172 
 
 A Haggis- Feast, 
 
 
 
 
 173 
 
 Town Life, .... 
 
 
 
 
 174 
 
 Country Life, .... 
 
 
 
 
 175 
 
 The Shepherd's Song, 
 
 *. . . . 176 
 
 VIII. 
 
 JULY MDCCCXXVL 
 
 Shepherd on Hackney Coaches, 
 
 . 178 
 
 The Inebriety of the Sober, . 
 
 
 
 
 179 
 
 A Party of Minstrels, . 
 
 
 
 
 180 
 
 Shepherd sings. 
 
 
 
 
 181 
 
 The Rev. Caesar Malan, 
 Tickler drawn into the Vortex, 
 
 
 
 
 183 
 184
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Coleridge's Six Months' Visit, 
 
 Scotch and EngUsh Puppies, 
 
 Extracts from the Six Months' Visit 
 
 Sentence passed upon it, 
 
 Colburn's Puffery, 
 
 Prose-Poetiy advocated. 
 
 Shepherd defends Verse-Poetry, 
 
 A Dirge, 
 
 A Full-length of Tickler, 
 
 A Kit-cat of North, . 
 
 The Absent Man, 
 
 The Author of Modem Athens, 
 
 The Battle of the Blockheads, 
 
 JIrs Radcliffe's Posthumous Works, 
 
 Shepherd on Reviewing, 
 
 His Dread of the Supernatural, 
 
 Ghosts in Tragedy, 
 
 Shepherd's Song, 
 
 North sings. 
 
 To Bed, 
 
 IX. 
 OCTOBER MDCGCXXVI. 
 
 Pago 
 185 
 186 
 187 
 188 
 189 
 190 
 191 
 192 
 193 
 194 
 195 
 196 
 197 
 199 
 200 
 201 
 202 
 203 
 204 
 205 
 
 Wasps. — Shepherd's Dream of being hanged. 
 
 207 
 
 Shepherd's Dream of being beheaded. 
 
 208 
 
 His Speech on the Scaffold, ..... 
 
 209 
 
 Behold the Head of a Traitor! .... 
 
 210 
 
 Shepherd sings, . . . . • . 
 
 211 
 
 Tam Nelson, ....... 
 
 212 
 
 Great Occasions make great Characters, 
 
 213 
 
 French Revolution, ...... 
 
 214 
 
 The Shepherd as M.P. for the Goose-Dubs of Glasgow, 
 
 215 
 
 He describes his Constituency, .... 
 
 217 
 
 Peasant-Poets of Scotland, ..... 
 
 218 
 
 Old Parr, ....... 
 
 219 
 
 Parr's Aphoiisms, ...,,. 
 
 220 
 
 Paris on Diet, ...... 
 
 221 
 
 Shepherd on Paris, ....,, 
 
 222 
 
 Shepherd's Dietetics, ..... 
 
 223 
 
 Shepherd sings, ...... 
 
 224 
 
 A Cat-Concert, ...... 
 
 225 
 
 The Humours of Donnj'brook Fair, . , . 
 
 226 
 
 Dulce est Desipere, ...... 
 
 227 
 
 Shepherd in the Shower-Bath, .... 
 
 228 
 
 The Greek Loan, ...... 
 
 229 
 
 The Song of the Janissary, ..... 
 
 230 
 
 Seeing double, ...... 
 
 231 
 
 Verses to Lucy, ...... 
 
 232 
 
 Literarj' Jealousy, ...... 
 
 234 
 
 North genern-lly abhorred, ..... 
 
 235 
 
 Cheer up, Mr North, ...... 
 
 236
 
 XXVI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 X. 
 
 NOVEMBER MDCCCXXVI. 
 
 The Burning of Moscow, 
 
 A Hunting-Piece, 
 
 Diana on Horseback, 
 
 A Twinge and its Cure, 
 
 GjTiinastics, . 
 
 An Era in Education, 
 
 Description of Edinburgh, 
 
 Shepherd gets drowsy, 
 
 Shepherd struggles against Sleep, 
 
 North goes on describing, 
 
 Tremaine. — The Cockneys, . 
 
 Edinburgh Fishwives, 
 
 New Fishing Company, 
 
 General Wolfe, 
 
 Moore's Life of Byron, 
 
 Annuals. — Miss Mitford, 
 
 Mrs Johnston. — Miss Ferrier, 
 
 Cruikshank's Illustrations, . 
 
 Language. — Veneration, 
 
 William Allan, 
 
 Shepherd on Lockhart, 
 
 Contributors to Blackwood, . 
 
 Their Pertinacity, 
 
 Contributors, classical and naval, 
 
 Magazine-Poetry, 
 
 London Periodicals, . 
 
 Boswell. — Hazlitt, 
 
 The Westminster Review. — Jeffrey, 
 
 Madame Genlis, 
 
 Her Memoirs and Morals, 
 
 The Hamiltonian System, 
 
 The Humbug smashed, 
 
 Madame de Stael, 
 
 English Stars, 
 
 Oysters, 
 
 The Clock put back, . 
 
 XI. 
 
 JANUARY MDCCCXXVIL 
 
 A Receipt for Toddy. — Shepherd's Regimen, 
 
 Snoring. — A Snow-Storm, 
 
 A Brace of Bagmen, 
 
 Lost in the Snow, 
 
 Birds of Prey, 
 
 Portugal. — Canning, 
 
 Joseph Hume, 
 
 Brougham on Hume, 
 
 The Ebb and Flow of Poetrj-, 
 
 Martin the Painter.— Scott's Napoleon, 
 
 Page 
 238 
 239 
 240 
 241 
 242 
 243 
 244 
 245 
 246 
 247 
 248 
 249 
 250 
 251 
 252 
 253 
 254 
 255 
 256 
 257 
 258 
 259 
 260 
 261 
 262 
 263 
 264 
 265 
 266 
 267 
 268 
 269 
 270 
 271 
 272 
 273 
 
 275 
 276 
 277 
 278 
 279 
 280 
 281 
 282 
 283 
 284
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXVll 
 
 Cunningham's Paul Jones, 
 
 Pronounced a Failure, 
 
 Ankles in Blue Stockings, 
 
 A Slim Rotundity commended, 
 
 The Charm of Appropriateness, 
 
 Stages of Society, 
 
 Colonel Hawker, 
 
 Wild-ducks and Whaups, 
 
 Solitude. — Audubon's Exliibition, 
 
 Natural History, 
 
 Oriental Costume, 
 
 Oriental Architecture, 
 
 Phrenology. — Jeffrey vers^is Combe, 
 
 The Phrenologists, 
 
 XII. 
 
 MARCH MDCCCXXVII. 
 
 Page 
 285 
 286 
 287 
 288 
 289 
 290 
 291 
 292 
 293 
 294 
 295 
 296 
 297 
 298 
 
 Friendship. — The Grave, 
 
 
 
 
 
 300 
 
 Shepherd on Blackwood's Magazine, 
 
 
 
 
 301 
 
 Shepherd with Twenty Thousand Pounds, 
 
 
 
 
 302 
 
 Execution of a Mutineer, 
 
 
 
 
 303 
 
 The Mutineer's Father, 
 
 
 
 
 305 
 
 Toasted Cheese, 
 
 
 
 
 306 
 
 Wells, .... 
 
 
 
 
 307 
 
 The Haunted "Well. — Ordinary Observers, 
 
 
 
 
 308 
 
 The Haunted Well, . 
 
 
 
 
 309 
 
 Martin's Paphian Bower, 
 
 
 
 
 311 
 
 Drawing as an Accomplishment, 
 
 
 
 
 312 
 
 Havel all over. 
 
 
 
 
 313 
 
 Watson Gordon's Portrait of Wilson, 
 
 
 
 
 314 
 
 Landscapes, ..... 
 
 
 
 
 315 
 
 Thomson. — Williams, 
 
 
 
 
 316 
 
 Landseer, .... 
 
 
 
 
 317 
 
 Macdonald. — The Opposition Exhibition, 
 
 
 
 
 318 
 
 Nicholson, .... 
 
 
 
 
 319 
 
 Hamilton. — A Day of the Mound, . 
 
 
 
 
 320 
 
 The Dwai-fie Woman and her Family, 
 
 
 
 
 321 
 
 The Spiritual-minded, 
 
 
 
 
 322 
 
 North behind the Scenes, 
 
 
 
 
 323 
 
 The Cockneys on Shakespeare, 
 
 
 
 
 324 
 
 Steady Boys, — Steady, 
 
 
 
 325 
 
 XIII. 
 
 APRIL MDCCCXXVIL 
 
 Doctors. — Coursing, ....... 327 
 
 Tickler's Face. — Wordsworth, 
 
 
 
 
 
 328 
 
 The Shepherd's Defence, 
 
 
 
 
 
 329 
 
 Shepherd's Daily Life, 
 
 
 
 
 
 330 
 
 His Temperance, 
 
 
 
 
 
 331 
 
 Shepherd's Tolerance, 
 
 
 
 
 
 332 
 
 Catholic Emancipation, 
 
 
 
 
 
 333
 
 XXVIU 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A Gentleman of the Press, . 
 
 A Colloquial Luminary, 
 
 Cruelty to Animals, . 
 
 Sir John Malcolm. — Boaden, 
 
 Sarah Siddons, 
 
 Theatrical Fund Dinner, 
 
 Improvements of tho City, . 
 
 Magazines and Reviews, 
 
 Scott's Novels.— Pastoral Poetry, 
 
 Passions in the Town, and in the Country, 
 
 Shepherd on the Lower Orders, 
 
 Byron's Bust, 
 
 Tho Navy. — Almack's. — Crockford-House, 
 
 Wits in general. — Fishing, 
 
 Bishop Hober, . 
 
 Southey.— Coleridge, 
 
 A Secret, 
 
 Enter the Oysters, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 JUNE MDCCCXXVII 
 A Lady to the Rescue, 
 Macassar. — Music, 
 A Midge-veiled Editor, 
 The Veil transferred. 
 Home-made Wine, 
 Cyril Thornton, 
 North and the Widow, 
 The Shepherd's Penance, 
 Spring in the Country, 
 A Gentle Shepherdess, 
 Tickler's Gambols, 
 Story of a Puma, 
 Mr James Wilson, 
 A. Sudden Inroad, 
 A Fascinator.— Cigars, 
 Adieu to the Widow, 
 A Division in the Cabinet, 
 Mutual Concessions, . 
 State of Parties, 
 
 Political Morality at a Low Ebb, 
 A Patchwork Administration, 
 Confound Encoring. — The Misses Paton, 
 North's Method of Angling, 
 Tit for Tat, . 
 Theatricals, . 
 Bi-onto, 
 The Bonassus, 
 North's mysterious Reserve, 
 The She])herd's Loyalty, 
 The Thames Tunnel, . 
 Good-by,
 
 NOCTES ambeosianj:. 
 
 (MARCH 1825.) 
 
 XPH A'EN SYMnOSm KYAIKQN nEPINI220MENAQN 
 HAEA KQTIAAONTA KA0HMENON OINOnOTAZEIN. 
 
 PHoc. ap. A til. 
 
 [ This is a distich hy wise old Phocylides, 
 
 An ancient who wrote cralhed Greek in no silly days ; 
 
 Meaning, '"Tis right FOR good wine-bibbing people, 
 
 Not to let the jug pace round the board like a cripple ; 
 
 But gaily to chat while discussing their tipple." 
 
 An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis — 
 
 And a very fit motto to put to our Nodes. ] 
 
 C. N. ap. Amir. 
 
 Blue Parlour. Midnight. Watchman heard crying '■'- One o^ clock. ''^ 
 
 North. Tickler. The Ettrick Shepherd. 
 The middle Term asleep. 
 
 North. The old gentleman is fairly dished. Pray, are you 
 a great dreamer, James ? Your poetry is so very imaginative 
 that I should opine your sleep to be haunted by many visions, 
 dismal and delightful. 
 
 Shepherd. I never di-eam between the blankets. To me 
 sleep has no separate world. It is as a transient mental 
 annihilation. I snore, but dream not. What is the use of 
 sleep at all, if you are to toss and tumble, sigh and groan, 
 shudder and shriek, and agonise in the con\Tilsions of night 
 mayoralty ? I lie all night like a stone, and in the morning 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 THE SHEPHERDS DAY-DREAMS. 
 
 up I go, like a dewy leaf before the zephyr's breath, glitter- 
 ing in the sunshine. 
 
 North. Whence are all your poetic visions, James, of Kil- 
 meny, and Hynde, and the Chaldee Manuscript? 
 
 Shepherd. Genius, — Genius, my dear sir. May not a man 
 dream, \vhen he is awake, better dreams than when sleep dulls 
 and deadens both cerebrum and cerebellum? 0, happy days 
 that I have lain on the green hill- side, with my plaid around 
 me, best mantle of inspiration, my faithful Hector sitting like 
 a very Christian by my side, glowring far aff into the glens 
 after the sheep, or aiblins^ lifting up liis ee to the gled hover- 
 ing close aneath the marbled roof of clouds, — bonny St 
 Mary's Loch lying like a smile below, and a softened sun, 
 scarcely warmer than the moon hersel, adorning without 
 dazzling the day, over the heavens and the earth, — a beuk o' 
 auld ballants, as yellow as the cowslips, in my hand or my 
 bosom, and maybe, sir, my inldiorn dangling at a button- 
 hole, a bit stump o' pen, nae bigger than an auld wife's pipe, 
 in my mouth ; and a piece o' paper, torn out o' the hinder-end 
 of a volume, crunkling on my knee ; — on such a couch, Mr 
 North, hath your Shepherd seen visions and dreamed dreams ; 
 but his een were never steeked;^ and I continued aye to see 
 and to hear a' outward things, although scarcely conscious at 
 the time o' their real nature, so bright, wavering, and unsure- 
 like was the haill* livin world, frae my lair on the knowe* 
 beside the clear spring, to the distant weather-gleam. [The 
 Shepherd drinks.) Tliis is the best jug I have made yet, sir. 
 
 North. Have you been writing any poetry lately, James? 
 The unparalleled success of Queen Hynde must have inspirited 
 and inspired my dear Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. Success ! She's no had muckle o' that, man. Me 
 and Wordsworth are aboon the age we live in — it's no worthy 
 o' us ; but wait a whyleock^ — wait only for a thousand years, 
 or thereabouts, Mr North, and you'll see who will have speeled® 
 to the tap o' the tree. 
 
 North. Nay, James, you are by far too popular at present 
 to be entitled to posthumous fame. You are second only to 
 Byron. But tell me, have you written anything since the 
 Burning of Beregonium ? 
 
 ^ Aiblins — perhaps. ^ Steeked— closed. ' ffaUl — whole. ^ 
 
 ■* Knowe — knoll. * Whyleock — little while. ^ Speeled — climbed.
 
 HYMN TO THE DEVIL. 3 
 
 Shepherd. Do you wish to hear an Ode to the Devil ? 
 
 North. Nothing more. Look fiendish, James, and suit the 
 action to the word. You have not imitated Burns ? 
 
 Shepherd. Me imitate Bums ! ^ Faith, no ! — Just let me tak 
 a caulker o' the Glenlivet before I begin spootin. Noo for't — 
 
 (Shepherd ^M<s himself in attitude^ and spouts.) 
 
 HYMN TO THE DEVIL. 
 
 Speed thee, speed thee ! 
 
 Liberty lead thee ! 
 Many this night shall hearken and heed thee. 
 Far abroad, 
 Demigod ! 
 
 Wliat shall appal thee ? 
 Javel, or Devil, or how shall we call thee ? 
 Thine the night voices of joy and of weeping, 
 The whisper awake, and the vision when sleeping ; 
 The bloated kings of the earth shall brood 
 On princedoms and provinces bought with blood, 
 Shall slubber, and snore, and to-morrow's breath 
 Shall order the muster and march of death : 
 The trumpets shall sound, and the gonfalons flee. 
 And thousands of souls step home to thee. 
 Speed thee, speed thee, &c. 
 
 The warrior shall dream of battle begun, 
 Of field-day and foray, and foeman undone ; 
 Of provinces sacked, and warrior store, 
 Of hurry and havoc, and hampers of ore ; 
 Of captive maidens for joys abundant. 
 And ransom vast when these grow redundant. 
 Hurray! for the foray. Fiends ride forth a-souUng, 
 For the dogs of havoc are yelping and yowling. 
 Speed thee, speed thee, &c. 
 
 Make the bedesman's dream 
 
 With pleasure to teem ; 
 
 To-day and to-morrow 
 
 He has but one aim. 
 And 'tis still the same, and 'tis still the same. 
 But well thou know'st the sot's demerit. 
 His richness of flesh, and his poorness of spirit ; 
 
 1 In this efiFasion the Shepherd has certainly not imitated Biims.
 
 HYMN TO THE DEVIL. 
 
 And well thy images thou canst frame, 
 On canvass of pride, with pencil of flame ; 
 A broad demesne is a view of glory, 
 For praying a soul from purgatory : 
 And, O, let the dame be fervent and fair, 
 Amorous, and righteous, and husband beware ! 
 For there's a confession so often repeated, 
 The eyes are enlightened, the life-blood is heated. 
 Hish ! — Hush ! — soft foot and silence. 
 The sons of the abbot are lords of the Highlands. 
 Thou canst make lubbard and lighthead agree, 
 Wallow a while, and come home to thee. 
 Speed thee, speed thee, &c. 
 
 Where goest thou next, by hamlet or shore. 
 When kings, when warriors, and priests are o'er ] 
 These for thee have the most to do, 
 And these are the men must be looked unto. 
 On courtier deign not to look down, 
 Who swells at a smile, and faints at a frown. 
 With noble maid stay not to parle. 
 But give her one glance of the golden arle. 
 Then, oh, there's a creature thou needs must see, 
 Upright, and saintly, and stern is she ! 
 'Tis the old maid, with visage demure. 
 With cat on her lap, and dogs on the floor. 
 Master, she'll prove a match for thee, 
 With her psalter, and crosier, and Ave Mari. 
 Move her with things above and below, 
 Tickle her, and teaze her from lip to toe ; 
 Should all prove vain, and nothing can move •, 
 If dead to ambition, and cold to love. 
 One passion still success will crown, 
 A glorious energy all thine own ! 
 'Tis envy ; a die that never can fail 
 With children, matron, or maiden stale. 
 Show them in dreams fi'om night to day 
 A happy mother, and ofi'spring gay ; 
 Show them the maiden in youthful prime, 
 Followed and wooed, improving her time ; 
 And their hearts will sicken with envy and spleen, 
 A lej)erous jaundice of yellow and green : 
 And though frightened for hell to a boundless degree, 
 They'll singe their dry periwigs yet with thee. 
 Speed thee, speed thee, &c.
 
 HYMN TO THE DEVIL. O 
 
 Where goest thou next ? Where wilt thou hie thee ? 
 Still there is rubbish enough to try thee. 
 Whisper the matron of lordly fame, 
 There's a greater than she in splendour and name ; 
 And her bosom shall swell with the grievous load, 
 And torrents of slander shall volley abroad, 
 Imbued with venom and bitter despair ; 
 O sweet are the sounds to the Prince of the Air ! 
 Reach the proud yeoman a bang with a spear, 
 And the tippling burgess a yerk on the ear ; 
 Put fees in the eye of the poisoning leech, 
 And give the dull peasant a kick on the breech : 
 As for the flush maiden, the rosy elf. 
 You may pass her by, she will dream of herself. 
 But that all may be gain and nothing loss, 
 Keep eye on the men with the cowl and the cross ; 
 Then shall the world go swimming before thee, 
 In a full tide of liberty, license, and glory. 
 Speed thee, speed thee, &c. 
 
 Hail, patriot spirit ! thy labours be blest ! 
 
 For of all great reformers, thyself wert the first : 
 
 Thou wert the first, with discernment strong, 
 
 To perceive that all rights divine were wrong ; 
 
 And long hast thou spent thy sovereign breath, 
 
 In heaven above, and in earth beneath, 
 
 And roared it from thy bixrning throne, 
 
 The glory of independence alone ; 
 
 Proclaiming to all, with fervour and irony, 
 
 That kingly dominion's all humbug and tyranny ; 
 
 And whoso listeth may be free. 
 
 For freedom, full freedom's the word with thee ; 
 
 That life has its pleasures— the rest is a sham. 
 
 And all that comes after a Aim and a flam ! 
 
 Speed thee, speed thee ! 
 
 Liberty lead thee ! 
 Many this night shall hearken and heed thee. 
 Hie abroad, 
 Demigod ! 
 Who shall defame thee ? 
 King of the Elements ! how shall we name thee ? 
 
 North. Delicious, James — delicious! That's above Barry 
 Cornwall. 
 
 Shepherd. Him, indeed! Why, Mr North, he daur nae
 
 6 BARRY CORNWALL COLTON. 
 
 niair speak o' the deevil in that gate/ than tak the Sun by the 
 horns when he has entered Taurus. 
 
 North. Admirably spoken, most astronomical of Chaldeans. 
 
 Shepherd. I ken as muclde about the heathen mythology as 
 Barry Cornwall does ; but wha ever hears me taking ony o' 
 their names in vain? It's a great sign o' weakness in ony 
 poet o' the present day to be rinnin awa back into antiquity, 
 when there's sae strong a spirit of life hotchin^ ower y earth 
 and sea in tins very century. 
 
 North. Barry Cornwall is one of my pet poets — quite a 
 love ; he is so free from everything like affectation. I see, in 
 the Autographs of the Living Poets, in Watts' s Souvenir, first, 
 Barry Cornwall, and immediately after that immortal name, 
 B. W. Procter — no more like each other than a pea and a 
 bean. What tliink you of that? Who is B. W. Procter? 
 This is rather too much. 
 
 Shepherd. It's just maist intolerable impertinence. What 
 right has he to tak up the room o' twa autographs for his ain 
 share? But wha's C. Colton? I see his name in the Lite- 
 rary Souvenir. 
 
 North. Author of Lacon, or, Many Things in Few Words ; 
 a work that is advertised to be in the thirteenth edition, and 
 I never have seen any man who has seen a copy of it. I be- 
 gin to doubt its existence. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae beuk ever went into a real, even-down, honny 
 fide thretteen edition in this world, forbye the Bible, Shak- 
 speare, and Jolm Bunyan. It's a confounded lie — and that's 
 " mony things in few words." 
 
 North. Colton is a clergyman and a bankrupt wine-merchant, 
 and E. 0. player, a dicer, and friend of the late W. Weare, 
 Esq., murdered by that atrocious Whig, Jack Thurtell. 
 
 Shepherd. Huts ! 
 
 North. Poz. Ever since his disappearance, laudatory para- 
 graphs about this living and absent poet, evidently sent by 
 himself to the gentlemen of the press, have been infesting the 
 public prints — all puffs of Lacon ! Let liim show himself 
 once more in London, and then I have a few words to whisper 
 pubUcly into the ear of the Eev. C. Colton, author of Hypo- 
 crisy, a Satire, &c. 
 
 Shepherd. What for are you lookin so fierce and fearsome ? 
 
 1 Oaie — manner. 2 J/otchin — heaving up and down.
 
 KNIGHT S QUARTERLY. 7 
 
 But let's change the subject. Wad ye advise me to read 
 High- ways and Bye-ways ? 
 
 North. Yes, James. They are very spirited and amusing 
 volmnes, wiitten by a gentleman and a scholar. Grattan is a 
 fine fellow — a Whig to be sure — but every man has his fail- 
 ing — and I cannot but like him for his very name.^ 
 
 Shepherd. I thocht he would be a good author, for I saw 
 him abused like a tinkler in that feckless fouter, Taylor.^ 
 
 North. Of course — he writes for Colburn.^ 
 
 Shepherd. Hech, su-s ! but that's awfu' mean — ^but I was 
 jalousin* as much. Oh ! Mr North — my dear freen', I was 
 sony soiTy when Knight's Quarterly Magazine took a pain 
 in its head, and gied a wamle ower the counter in the dead- 
 thraws.^ It was rather incomprehensible to me, for the maist 
 part, wi' its Italian literature, and the lave o't ; but the con- 
 tributors were a set o' spunkie chiels — Collegians, as I under- 
 stan', frae Cambridge College.^ What's become o' them now 
 that their Journal is dead ? 
 
 North. I think I see them, like so many resurrection-men, 
 digging up the Album. Yes ! Hogg, they are clever, accom- 
 plished chaps, with many little pleasing impei-tinencies of 
 their own, and may make a figure. How assinine, not to 
 have marched a levy en masse into Ebony's sanctum sanc- 
 torum ! 
 
 Shepherd. I never thocht o' that before. So it was. But 
 then ye behave sae cavalierly to contributors ! It's a horrible 
 thing to be buried aUve m. the Balaam Box ! ^ 
 
 North. By the way, James, that Ode to the Devil of yours 
 makes me ask you, if you have seen Dr Hibbert's book on 
 Apparitions?* 
 
 Shepherd. Ghosts ? — no. Is't gude ? 
 
 North. Excellent. The Doctor first gives a general view 
 
 ^ Thomas Colley Grattan published several works of fiction ; and for some 
 years was British Consul at Boston, U.S. 
 
 2 Feckless fouter — feeble rascal. Taylor and Hessey were the publishers of 
 the London Magazine. 
 
 3 Colburn was the publisher of a rival magazine, the New AlontJdy. 
 
 * Jalousin — suspecting. * Dead-ihratos — agonies of death. 
 
 5 Among these collegians were Macaulay and Praed. 
 '' The depository of rejected contributions. 
 
 8 Sketches of the Philosophy of Apparitions ; or, an Attempt to trace such 
 Illusions to their Physical Causes. By Samuel Hibbert, M.D., F.R.S.E.
 
 8 HIBBERT ON APPARITIONS. 
 
 of the particular morbid affections with which the production 
 of phantoms is often connected. 
 
 Shepherd. What — the blude and stomach? 
 
 North. Just so, James. Apparitions are likewise considered 
 by him as notliing more than ideas, or the recollected images 
 of the mind, which have been rendered more vivid than actual 
 impressions. 
 
 Shepherd. Does the Doctor daur to say that there are nae 
 real ghosts ? If sae, he needna come out to Ettrick. I've 
 heard that failosophers say there is nae satisfactory evidence 
 of the existence of flesh-and-blude men (rax^ me ower the loaf, 
 I want a shave^), but o' the existence o' ghosts and fairies I 
 never heard before that the proof was coimted defective. I've 
 seen scores o' them, baith drank and sober. 
 
 North. Well, Hogg versus Hibbert. Sam very ingeniously 
 points out that, in well-authenticated ghost-stories, of a sup- 
 posed supernatural character, the ideas which are rendered so 
 unduly intense, as to induce spectral illusions, may be traced 
 to such fantastical agents of prior belief, as are incorporated 
 in the various systems of superstition, which for ages possessed 
 the minds of the vulgar. 
 
 Shepherd. There may be some sense in that, after a'. What 
 mair does the Doctor say? 
 
 North. Why, James, my friend Hibbert is something of a 
 metaphysician, although he pins liis faith too slavishly on 
 some peculiar dogmas of the late Dr Brown. ^ 
 
 Shepherd. Metafeesics are ae tiling, and poetry anither; 
 but Dr Brown was a desperate bad poet, Mr North, and it 
 would tak some trouble to convince me that he knew muckle 
 about human nature, either the quick or the dead. 
 
 North. James, you are mistaken. However, my friend 
 Hibbert well observes, that since apparitions are ideas equal- 
 ing or exceeding in vividness actual impressions, there ought 
 to be some important and definite laws of the mind which 
 have given rise to this imdue degree of violence. These he 
 undertakes to explain, and he does so — with the qualification 
 I mention — ingeniously, and even satisfactorily. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a'thegither aboon my capacity. What 
 
 ^ Rax — reach. ^ Shave — slice. 
 
 3 The immediate predecessor of Professor Wilson in the chair of Moral 
 Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh ; born in 1778, died in 1820.
 
 APPAEITIONS. 9 
 
 would become of the Doctor's theory, if he had ever sleepit a' 
 nicht, three in a bed, wi' twa ghosts, as I hae done ? They 
 were baith o' them a confunded deal mair vivid than ony by- 
 gone actual impressions, or sensations, or ideas, or ony ither 
 words of that outlandish lingua. Can an idea nip a man's 
 thees black and blue, and rug out a handfu' o' hair out o' the 
 head o' him? Neither Dr Brown nor Dr Hibbert will gar^ me 
 believe onything sae unwiselike. 
 
 North. The last object, James, of the Doctor's ingenious 
 dissertation was to have established this : That all the sub- 
 ordinate incidents connected with phantoms, might be ex- 
 plained on the following general piinciple ; that in every 
 undue excitement of our feelings (as, for instance, when ideas 
 become more vivid than actual impression), the operations of 
 the intellectual faculty of the mind sustain corresponding 
 modifications, by which the efforts of the judgment are ren- 
 dered proportionably incorrect. 
 
 Shepherd. And does Dr Hibbert make that weel out ? 
 
 North. No. He very truly and prudently observes, that 
 an object of this nature cannot be attempted but in connection 
 with almost all the phenomena of the human mind. To pursue 
 the inquiry, therefore, any farther, would be to make a dis- 
 sertation on apparitions the absurd vehicle of a regular system 
 of metaphysics. 
 
 Shepherd. That would be maist ridiculous, indeed. Neither 
 could the Doctor, honest man, hope to accomplish such a 
 task before he was an apparition himself. But the beuk must 
 be a curious ane indeed, and you must gie me a reading o't. 
 
 North. I will. The second edition, I hear, is printing by 
 Oliver and Boyd, with a somewhat new and much improved 
 arrangement of the metaphysical matter. 
 
 Shepherd. Sir, I wish there was ony waukening o' Mr 
 Tickler. It's no like him to fa' asleep. Whisht ! whisht ! 
 Hear till him ! hear till him ! 
 
 North. Somnium Scipionis ! 
 
 Tickler [asleep). It was creditable to a British public. 
 Poor, dear little soul, she has been cruelly treated altogether. 
 My sweet Miss Laetitia Foote,^ although I am now rather 
 
 Shepherd. Isna the wicked auld deevil dreamin' o' that 
 play-actress ! 
 
 i Crar— make. ^ Afterwards the Countess of Harrington.
 
 10 I MISS FOOTE. 
 
 North. Why, our excellent Tickler is still the same perfect 
 gentleman even in his dreams. Did you ever hear, James, 
 of such unnatural wickedness as that of the parents of this 
 beautiful sinner ? Her own father made her own mother play 
 Eomeo to her Juliet, when she was a girl just entered into 
 her teens ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mercy me ! I wonder the roof o' the bam did 
 not fall and smother them : and can you believe what the 
 newspapers said, that the parents conneeved at her being 
 Cornel Barclay's^ miss? If so, I hope there's naething 
 heterodox in conjecturing that their names are baith down, in 
 round text, in the deevil's doomsday-beuk. But there's the 
 mair excuse and pity for the puir lassie. What paper was't 
 that said she was ruined past a' redemption ? 
 
 North. The Times. But the mean eunuch lied. There is 
 redemption both here and hereafter for a child betrayed by 
 her parents into the embraces of an artful and accomplished 
 seducer. Miss Foote loved him — was faitliful to him — was 
 never extravagant, — in her worse than orphan condition was 
 contented to be recognised as his mistress — did what she 
 could to support her parents by her talents on the stage, — and 
 finally cooled in her affection towards her seducer, to whom 
 she had always been true, only when she discovered that his 
 whole conduct was one continued deception, and that the 
 best years of her life were wearing hopelessly away in anxiety, 
 difficulties, and evils, enough to sicken the strongest, and 
 freeze the warmest heart. 
 
 Shepherd. These are just my sentiments. As for Barclay 
 and Hayne, wha cares about them ? The Cornel is a man of 
 the world, and there may be some excuse for liim, perhaps, if 
 the truth were all known. Mr Hayne seems a sumph. Miss 
 Fit is weel rid o' them baith. 
 
 North. My Pea-green Friend, '^ who is apparently a good- 
 hearted fellow, and supposed himself in love, would have 
 tired of his vdfe in a fortnight, and taken again to the train- 
 ing of White-headed Bob. Miss Foote has been deservedly 
 pardoned by the public voice, — and, suppose we drink her 
 health, poor soul. Miss Foote ! 
 
 1 Colonel Berkeley, afterwards Earl Fitzhardinge. 
 
 - Pea-green Hayne, an exquisite of that peiiod— so called from the verdure 
 of his character and attire.
 
 THE SHEPHERD ON PASTORAL PLAYS. 11 
 
 Tickler [dormiens). Three times three. — Hurra! hurra! hurra! 
 
 Shepherd. That's fearsome. Only tliink how his mind 
 corresponds wi' his Mends, even in a dwam o' drink, — for I 
 never saw liim sae fou since the King's visit ! I'll just pu' the 
 nose o' him, or kittle it wi' the neb o' my keelivine pen.^ 
 [Sicfacit). 
 
 Tickler {awaking). The cases are totally different. But, 
 Hogg, what are you staring at ? Why, you have been sleep- 
 ing since twelve o'clock. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae some thocht o' writing a play — a Pastoral 
 Drama. 
 
 North. What, James ! after Allan Eamsay — after the 
 Gentle Shepherd? 
 
 Shepherd. What for no? That's a stupid apothegm, 
 though you said it. I wad hae mair variety o' characters, 
 and inceedents, and passions o' the human mind in my drama — 
 mair fun, and frolic, and daffin^ — in short, mair o' what you, 
 and the like o' you, ca' coorseness ; — no sae muckle see-sawing 
 between ony twa individual hizzies, as in Allan ; — and, aboon 
 a' things, a mair natural and wiselike ^ catastrophe. My 
 peasant or shepherd lads should be sae in richt earnest, and 
 no turn out Sii's and Lords lapon you at the hinder-end o' the 
 drama. No but that I wad aiblins introduce the upper ranks 
 intil the wark ; but they should stand abeigh fi-ae* the lave o' 
 the characters, — by way o' contrast, or by way o' " simiHtude 
 in dissimilitude," as that haverer^ Wordsworth is sae fond o' 
 talking and writing about. Aboon a' tilings, I wuss to draw 
 the pictur o' a perfect and polished Scotch gentleman o' the 
 auld schule. 
 
 North. Videlicet, — Tickler ! 
 
 Shepherd. Him, the lang-legged sinner! — Na, na; — I'll 
 immortalise baith him and yoursel in my " Ain Life," — in 
 my yawtobeeograffy. I'll pay aff a' auld scores there, I'se 
 warrant you. Deevil tak me, gin*^ I haena a great mind — 
 {a pause,— jug) — to hawn^ yon down to the latest posterity 
 as a cotiple o' 
 
 North. James ! — James ! — James ! 
 
 Shepherd. Confound thae grey glittering eyne o' yours, 
 
 1 Keelivine — chalk pencil. ^ Baffin — humorsome nonsense. 
 
 3 Wiselike—indicioxis. * Abeigh frae— aloof from. 
 
 5 Haverer — proser. ^ Qin, — if. 7 Jlawn — hand.
 
 12 BOWLES — POPE. 
 
 you warlock that you are ! — I maun like you, and respeck 
 you, and admire you too, Mr North ; but och, sirs 1 do you 
 ken, that whiles I just girn, out-by yonner, wi' perfect 
 wudness^ when I think o' you, and your chiels about you, 
 laucliin at, and rinnin down me, and ither men o' genius 
 
 North. James ! — James ! — James ! 
 
 Tickler. Dig it well into him — he is a confounded churl. 
 
 Shepherd. No half sae bad as yoursel, Mr Tickler. He's 
 serious sometimes, and ane kens when he is serious. But as 
 for you, there's no a grain o' sincerity in a' your composition. 
 You wadna shed a tear gin your Shepherd, as you ca' him, 
 were dead, and in the moulds. 
 
 Tickler [evidently much affected). Have I not left you my 
 fiddle in my will. When I am gone, Jamie, use her carefully 
 — keep her in good strings — and, whenever you screw her up, 
 
 think of Timothy Tickler — and [His utterance is choked). 
 
 North. James ! James ! James ! — Timothy ! Timothy ! 
 Timothy! — Something too much of this. Eeach me over 
 that pampUet ; I wish to light my cigar. The last speech 
 and dying words of the Rev. William Lisle Bowles ! 
 
 Shepherd. What ! a new poem ? I houp it is. Lisle Bolls 
 is a poet o' real genius. I never could thole a sonnet till I 
 read his. Is the pamphlet a poem ? 
 
 North. No, Shepherd. It is prose ; — ^being a farther portion 
 of Botheration about Pope.^ 
 
 Shepherd. I care little about Pop — except Ins Louisa and 
 Abelard. That's a grand elegy ; but for coorseness it beats 
 me hollow. The subject is coorse. " A helpless lover bound 
 and bleeding lies," — that is a line, which, if I had written it 
 in the Spy^^ would hae lost me five hundred subscribers. 
 
 North. Mr Bowles, in his edition of Pope, committed him- 
 self, I think, on one point of essential importance. He did 
 not do justice to Pope's character as a man. My friend 
 Bowles (for I love and admire him), has therefore proved 
 somewhat restive and obstinate when taxed with tliis mis- 
 deed. He will not eat in a single word, — no, not even a 
 
 1 Wudness — distraction. 
 
 2 The "botheration about Pope" refers to a protracted controversy originat- 
 ing in a dispute between Bowles and Campbell, as to whether nature or art 
 supplied the better materials for poetry. Most of the leading literary men of 
 the day had been drawn into the discussion. 
 
 ^ A weekly paper published by Hogg in 1810.
 
 BOWLES — POPE. 13 
 
 syllable, — not so mucli as the least letter in the alphabet ; 
 and, being a most able and accomplished man, he comes 
 forth a controversialist, and lays about him with a vigour 
 and skill highly conciliatory and commendable. But he was 
 originally in the wrong respecting Pope's personal character ; 
 and in the wrong will he be until doomsday. 
 
 Tickler. Most assuredly. Who cares a single curse about 
 this, that, or t'other trifle ? Can a man of surpassing intellect 
 and genius not indulge himself in a little peevishness or 
 variableness of humom-, without being taxed with hypocrisy, 
 insincerity, and other base and odious quahties or affections ? 
 How the devil came it about, that a true poet, like Bowles, 
 should have scrutinised and judged the character of such a 
 man as Pope in that cold, calculating, prying, and unindul- 
 gent spirit, which might have been expected from some 
 brainless and heartless proser ? 
 
 North. Not knowing, can't say. 
 
 Tickler. Pope was one of the most amiable men that ever 
 lived. Fine and delicate as were the temper and tempera- 
 ment of his genius, he had a heart capable of the warmest 
 human affection. He was indeed a loving creature ! 
 
 North. Come, come, Timothy, you know you were sorely cut 
 an hour or two ago — so do not attempt Characteristics. But, 
 after all, Bowles does not say that Pope was unamiable. 
 
 Tickler. Yes, he does — that is to say, no man can read, 
 even now, all that he has written about Pope, without think- 
 ing, on the whole, somewhat indifferently of the man Pope. 
 It is for this I abuse our Mend Bowles. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, ay — I recollect now some havers o' Bolls's 
 about the Blounts, — Martha and Theresa, I think, you call 
 them. Puir wee bit hunched-backed, windle-strae-legged, 
 gleg-eed,^ clever, acute, ingenious, sateerical, weel-informed, 
 warm-hearted, real philosopliical, and maist poetical creature, 
 wi' his sounding translation o' a' Homer's works, that reads 
 just like an original War-Yepic, — His Yessay on Man, that, 
 in spite o' what a set o' ignoramuses o' theological critics say 
 about Bohngbroke and Crousass, and heterodoxy and atheism, 
 and like havers, is just ane o' the best moral discourses that 
 ever I heard in or out o' the poupit, — His Yepistles about the 
 Passions, and sic Hke, in the whilk he goes baith deep and 
 
 1 Qleg-eed — sharp-eyed.
 
 14 POPE. 
 
 liigli, far deeper and liigher baith than mony a modern poet, 
 who must needs be either in a diving-bell or a balloon, — His 
 Rape o' the Lock o' Hair, Avi' a' these Sylphs floating about 
 in the machinery o' the Rosicrucian Pliilosophism, just per- 
 fectly yelegant and gracefu', and as gude, in their way, as 
 onything o' my ain about fairies, either in the Queen's Wake 
 or Queen Hynde, — His Louisa to Abelard is, as I said before, 
 coorse in the subject-matter, but, sirs ! powerfu' and pathetic 
 in execution — and sic a pei-fect spate ^ o' versification! His 
 unfortunate lady, wha sticked hersel for love wi' a drawn 
 sword, and was afterwards seen as a ghost, dim-beckoning 
 through the shade — a verra poetical thocht surely, and full 
 both of terror and pity 
 
 North. Stop, James — You will run yourself out of breath. 
 Why, you said, a few minutes ago, that you did not care 
 much about Pope, and were not at all familiar with his works 
 — you have them at your finger ends. 
 
 Shepherd. I never ken what's in my mind tiU it begins to 
 work. Sometimes I fin' mysel just peirfectly stupid — my 
 mind, as Locke says in his Treatise on Government^ quite a 
 carte blanche — I just ken that I'm aHve by my breathing — 
 when, a' at ance, my sowl begins to hum like a hive about to 
 cast off a swarm — out rush a thousand springing thochts, for 
 a while circling round and round like verra bees — and then, 
 like them too, winging their free and rejoicing way into the 
 mountain wilderness, and a' its blooming heather — returning, 
 in due time, with store o' wax on their thees, and a wamefu' 
 o' hinney, redolent of bHssfiil dreams gathered up in the 
 sacred solitudes of Nature. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! isna that 
 Wordswortliian and sonorous ? But we've forgotten wee Pop. 
 Hae you ony mair to say anent him and Bolls ? 
 
 Tickler. Bowles also depreciates his genius. 
 
 North. No, no, no ! 
 
 Tickler. Yes, yes, yes ! 
 
 Shepherd. Gude safe us, Mr Tickler, you're no sober yet, 
 or you wad never contradic Mr North. 
 
 Tickler. Bowles also depreciates his genius. What infernal 
 stuff all that about nature and art ! Why Pope himself settles 
 the question against our friend Bowles in one line : — 
 
 " Nature must give way to Art." 
 
 ^ Spate — stream in flood.
 
 BOWLES — POPE. 15 
 
 North. Pope's poetry is full of nature, at least of what I 
 have been in the constant habit of accounting nature for the 
 last threescore and ten years. But (thank you, James, that 
 snuff is really delicious !) leaving nature and art, and all that 
 sort of thing, I wish to ask a single question : What poet of 
 this age, with the exception perhaps of Byron, can be justly 
 said, when put into close comparison with Pope, to have written 
 the English language at all ? 
 
 Shepherd. Tut, tut, Mr North ; you needna gang far to 
 get an answer to that question. I can write the English lan- 
 guage — I'll no say as well as Pop, for he was an Englishman, 
 but 
 
 North. Well, I shall except you, James ; — ^but, with the 
 single exception of Hogg, from what living poet is it possible 
 to select any passage that will bear to be spouted (say by 
 James Ballantyne' himself, the best declaimer extant) after 
 any one of fifty casually taken passages from Pope? — Not 
 one. 
 
 Tickler. What would become of Bowles himself, with all his 
 elegance, pathos, and true feeling ? — Oh ! dear me, James, 
 what a dull, dozing, disjointed, dawdling, dowdy of a drawl 
 would be his Muse, in her very best voice and tune, when 
 called upon to get up and sing a solo after the sweet and 
 strong singer of Twickenham ! 
 
 North. Or Wordsworth — with his eternal — Here we go up, 
 up, and up, and here we go down, down, and here we go 
 roundabout, roundabout ! — Look at the nerveless laxity of his 
 Excursion ! — What interminable prosing ! — The language is 
 out of condition : — fat and fozy, thick- winded, pui'fled and 
 plethoric. Can he be compared with Pope ? — Fie on't ! no, 
 no, no ! — Pugh, pugh ! 
 
 Tickler. Southey — Coleridge — Moore ? 
 
 North. No ; not one of them. They are all eloquent, dif- 
 fusive, rich, lavish, generous, prodigal of their words. But so 
 are they all deficient in sense, muscle, sinew, thews, ribs, 
 spine. Pope, as an artist, beats them hollow. Catch him 
 twaddling. 
 
 Tickler. It is a bad sign of the intellect of an age to depre- 
 ciate the genius of a country's classics. But the attempt 
 covers such critics with shame, and undying ridicule pursues 
 them and their abettors. The Lake Poets began this sense- 
 
 1 The friend of Sir Walter Scott.
 
 16 THE LAKE POETS ON POPE. 
 
 less clamour against the genius of Pope. You know their 
 famous critique on the moonlight scene in his translation of 
 the Iliad ?^ 
 
 North. I do. Presumptuous, ignorant trash ! But help 
 yourself, Tim, to another jorum. What is the matter with 
 your cigar? Draw it through your lips. It is somewhat 
 arid. You will never be a smoker. 
 
 Tickler. Not I, indeed. There, that is better. Admirable 
 old Koscoe has edited Pope well, and he rebuts Bowles man- 
 fully and successfully. 
 
 North. He does so. Yet, after all, Bowles is the livelier 
 writer. Here's their healths in a bumper. [Bibunt Omnes.) 
 
 Shepherd. I care far less about Pop, and the character and 
 genius of Pop, than I do about our own Byron. Many a cruel 
 thing has been uttered against him, and I wish, Mr North, 
 you would vindicate him, now that his hand is cauld. 
 
 North. I have written a few pages for my Feb. Number, 
 
 1 "As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night ! 
 O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light. 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole ; 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed. 
 And tip with sUver every mountain's head : 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
 Eye the blue vault and bless the useful light." 
 
 Pope's Homer, Jliad, viii., 687-698. 
 
 Wordsworth's critique is as follows; — "To what alow state knowledge of 
 the most obvious and important phenomena had sunk, is evident from the style 
 in which Dryden has executed a description of night in one of his tragedies, 
 and Pope his translation of the celebrated moonhght scene in the Jliad. A 
 blind man in the habit of attending accurately to descriptions casually dropped 
 from the lips of those around him, might easily depict these apjjearances with 
 more tnith. Dryden's lines are vague, bombastic, and senseless ; those of Pope, 
 though he had Homer to guide him, are throughout false and contradictory. 
 The verses of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgotten ; those of Pope 
 still retain their hold upon public estimation — nay, there is not a passage of 
 descriptive poetry which, at this day, finds so many and such ardent admirers. 
 Strange to think of an enthusiast, as may have been the case with thousands, 
 reciting these versos under the cope of a moonlight sky without having his rap- 
 tures in the least disturbed by a suspicion of their absurdity." — (Appendix to 
 Preface.) The merit of Pope's description is fully discussed, and the soundness 
 of Wordsworth's criticism again called in question, in Wilson's review of Sothe- 
 by's Homer, {Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xxx., p. 103-104.)
 
 BYEON HOBHOUSE. 17 
 
 whicli I tViinlc will please you, James. Pray, what do you 
 consider the most wicked act of Byron's whole wicked life? 
 
 Shepherd. I declare to God, that I do not know of any one 
 wicked act in his life at all. Tickler there used to cut him 
 up long ago — what says he now ? 
 
 Tickler. The base multitude, day after day, week after week, 
 month after month, year after year, got up brutal falsehoods 
 concerning his private life, and these they mixed up and 
 blended with their naiTOw and confused conceptions of his 
 poetical productions, till they imagined the real living, flesh- 
 and-blood Byron, to be a monster, familiarly known to them in 
 all liis hideous projDcnsities and practices. He was, with all 
 his faults, a noble being, and I shall love Hobhouse^ as long 
 as I live. What it is to be a gentleman ! 
 
 North. The character of one of the greatest poets the world 
 ever saw, in a very few years, will be discerned in the clear 
 light of tmth. How quickly all misrepresentations die away ! 
 One hates calumny, because it is ugly and odious in its otvti 
 insignificant and impotent stinking self. But it is almost 
 always extremely harmless. I beheve, at this moment, that 
 Byi'on is thought of, as a man, with an almost universal feel- 
 ing of pity, forgiveness, admii-ation, and love. I do not think 
 it would be safe in the most popular preacher to abuse Byron 
 now, — and that not merely because he is now dead, but be- 
 cause England knows the loss she has sustained in the ex- 
 tinction of her most glorious luminary. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae nae heart to speak ony mair about him — 
 puir fallow. I'll try the pickled this time — the scalloped are 
 beginning to lie rather heavy on my stomach. Oysters is the 
 only thing maist we canna get at Altrive. But we have capi- 
 tal cod and haddock now in St Mary's Loch. 
 
 Tickler. James ! — James ! — James ! 
 
 Shepherd. Nane o' your jeering, Mr Tickler. The natural- 
 isation of sea-fishes into fresh-water lochs was recommended 
 some years ago in the Edinburgh Review., and twa-three o' us, 
 cut-by yonner, have carried the thing into effect. We tried 
 the oysters too, but we could mak nathing ava o' them — they 
 dwindled into a kind o' wulks, and were quite fushionless,"'' a' 
 beards and nae bodies. 
 
 ^ John Cam Hobhouse, afterwards Lord Broughton — the friend of Byron when 
 living, and his defender when dead. 
 2 Fiishionless — without sap. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 JEFFREY CAMPBELL. 
 
 Tickler. I thought the scheme plausible at the time. I read 
 it in the Edinburgh^ which I lilte, by the way, much better as 
 a zoological than a political journal. Have you sent a creel 
 of codHngs to the editor ? 
 
 Shepherd. Why, I have felt some delicacy about it, just at 
 present. I was afraid that he might think it a bribe for a 
 favourable opinion of Queen Hynde.^ 
 
 North. No — no. Jeffrey has a soul above bribery or cor- 
 ruption. All the cod in Christendom would not shake his in- 
 tegrity. You had, however, better send half-a-dozen rizzered 
 haddocks to Tom Campbell. 
 
 Shepherd. My boy Tammy wull never choke himsel wi' my 
 fish-banes, Mr North. I care for nae man's good word, unless 
 it be your ain, sir ; howsumever, to speak truth, I cannot but 
 think it verra paltry and mean-like in the author o' the Plea- 
 sures of Hope, never once in his born days, in that Magazine 
 o' his,'^ to hae said a single ceevil, or kind, or britherly word 
 about me. What tlunk ye ? 
 
 North. I think it to the last degree contemptible. Greater 
 men than he, James, have done you justice. North, Scott, 
 Byron, Southey, Coleridge, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm no compleenin. Thank God, I ken my ain 
 worth, as a man and a poet — and let mankind, or the women 
 folk either, judge between Kilmeny and Reullura.^ It's for his 
 ain sake, no for mine, that I could hae wished he had spoken 
 kindly of a brother poet, who have had miclde to struggle 
 against, but have got to the tap o' the tree at last — thanks to 
 my ain speelin. 
 
 North. Tom is fickle and capricious — and ever was so — but 
 he has a fine, a noble genius. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm no dispooting that, Mr North. No doubt, 
 
 his Theodric is a grand, multifarious, sublime poem ; although, 
 
 confound me, gin the warst fifty lines in a' Queen Hynde are 
 
 nae worth the haill vollumm. If ever there was even-down 
 
 cheatery in this world, it is in axing eight shillings for a parcel 
 
 o' auld bits o' poems that hae been in a' the magazines, and 
 
 newspapers, and Cabinets and Mirrors, and so forth, in the 
 
 kingdom. I'm sure if I had a pension from Government of 
 
 £200 a-year, like Tam CampbeU, I wad never play the public 
 
 siccan a shabby trick. 
 
 1 A poem by Hogg, published in 1825. 3 The New Monthly. 
 
 3 Poems, — the one by Hogg, the other by CampbeU.
 
 CAMPBELL. 19 
 
 North. Why, as to that, James, I cannot quite agree with 
 you, my dear Shepherd. There are always some golden 
 points in the clay of Campbell's poetry, which are rinsed out 
 by the running waters of my criticism ; and even his newest 
 trifles in verse will read tolerably enough, when interspersed 
 with judgment throughout his various volumes. 
 
 Hogg. Weel, man, — let us drink his health; and, if you 
 please, standing, with all the honours. 
 
 North. Excuse me, gentle Shepherd. A gouty foot, a rheu- 
 matic knee, ten tumblers, and threescore-and-ten years, im- 
 pose upon me a sedentary habit. As for shouting, remem- 
 ber the hour — nay, there is no occasion for looking at your 
 watch ; as soon as the boiler is empty, we depart. 
 [Mr Campbell's health is drunk cordially.) 
 
 Shepherd. Wha's conceit^ was the Boiler ? 
 
 Tickler. Your humble servant's. Ambrose goes to bed re- 
 gularly at twelve, and Richard half an hour after. Occasion- 
 ally, as at present, old friends are loath to go — so, not to dis- 
 turb the slumbers of as worthy a family as is in all Scotland. 
 I ordered the boiler you now see, at Begby and Dickson's, 
 St Andrew Square. It holds exactly six common kettlefuls 
 — Strike it with the poker — Ay, James, you hear by the clear- 
 ness of the tinkle that it is nearly low water. 
 
 Shepherd. Deel ma care. I ken where the pump is in the 
 back green — and, if the wall's fanged,^ I'll bring up a gush wi' 
 a single drive. If no, let us finish the spiiits by itsel. I 
 never saw the match o' this tall square fallow o' a green bottle 
 for handing spirits. The verra neck o' him bauds spirits for a 
 jug, before you get down to his shouthers ; and we'se a' three 
 be blin' fou or we see the crystal knob inside o' the doup o' 
 him peering up amang the subsiding waters of Glenlivet. 
 
 North. I have bequeathed you Magog in my settlement, 
 James. With it, and Tickler's Cremona, many a cheerful 
 night will you spend, when we two old Codgers have laid ofl 
 Hfe's pack — 
 
 At our feet a green grass turf, 
 And at our head a stone. 
 
 Shepherd. You and Mr Tickler are very gude in leaving 
 
 1 Conceit — notion. 
 
 2 When the piston of a pump-well ceases to work from having become too 
 dry, water is poured down upon it to restore the action. This operation is 
 caWedLfanging the well.
 
 20 THE MINISTRY — CANNING. 
 
 me tilings in your ■wuU ; but I would prefer sometliing in 
 haun — 
 
 North. Then, my dear friend, there is a receipt for your 
 last article — ^the Shepherd's Calendar. 
 
 Shepherd. Twa Tens 1 Come noo, sirs, let me pay the reck- 
 oning. 
 
 Tickler. We have not, I think, drunk the King's ministers 
 to-night. Allow me to give them. 
 
 Hogg. Wi' a' my heart. That man Canning will be the 
 salvation of the cxmtra. 
 
 North. There never was any period, certainly, in wliich 
 the Parliament of the United Kingdoms assembled under cu-- 
 cumstances more interesting than the present. In times of 
 war, no doubt, the topics submitted to discussion may often 
 be, in one point of view, of a more dazzling character — nay, 
 they sometimes have been, singly considered, of more para- 
 mount and overwhelming importance. But in times when the 
 empire is involved in a great conflict with external force, it is 
 absolutely in vain to expect that questions not immediately 
 connected with that conflict, should in Parliament command 
 any more than a subordinate measure of attention from those 
 who are actually inti-usted with the government of the coun- 
 try. The opposition members compel any subjects theyplease 
 into discussion ; but seldom, very seldom, is the discussion 
 thorough or satisfactory. Intellect does not meet intellect 
 here on fair terms. Ministers make speeches, no doubt, but 
 the real aside is, always " wait till the national existence, or, 
 at least, honour be safe, and then we will go with you on an 
 equal footing into the consideration of questions affecting only 
 particular points of her domestic machinery." Is not this true. 
 Tickler? 
 
 Tickler. Certainly ; go on with what you were saying. I 
 like to hear you speak right on without that botheration of the 
 eternal cigar. TMs vice, sir, is the bane of all real flow of 
 talk. 
 
 North. Nonsense — nonsense. The war has been over for 
 ten years — it took not a few years to bring us back to feel a 
 state of peace as natural to us after a war of such duration — 
 it took a considerable time to bring back the habits, the inte- 
 rests, the feelings even, of various classes, into their proper 
 channels. All tliis has now been done : the population of 
 Britain is throughout employed, tranquil, happy, and con-
 
 ADVANTAGES OF A DIVIDED CABIISTiT. 21 
 
 tented. Agriculture and trade are flourishing. Direct taxa- 
 tion, in all probability, will ere long have ceased to exist at 
 all here. Everyt.hing in Britain is peace, industry, and plenty. 
 Now is the time for the serious and deliberate discussions of 
 civil and domestic questions ; and full advantage seems to be 
 taken of the happy time by Ministers, who can now concentrate 
 upon these questions the same great talents that formerly dis- 
 tanced all their antagonists, when exerted on topics of another 
 description — and who, exerting these great talents with their 
 accustomed honesty and integrity, bid fair ere long to chase 
 their adversaries out of the new field as triumphantly as they 
 had routed them on the old. 
 
 Hogg. Vei-ra bonny talk, Mr North ; but what say you to the 
 divisions in the Cabinet ? The house that is divided against 
 itself cannot stand. That's the text, Christopher. 
 
 Tickler. I am really sorry for the thing, but I see no likeli- 
 hood of an end to it. 
 
 North. And I don't vrish to see any, that's my say. 
 
 Tickler. A paradox ! — What's your meaning? 
 
 North. My meaning is plain and simple enough, Mr Tickler. 
 I assert, that if the government of this country is to be in the 
 hands of anything worthy of the name of a Cabinet (intel- 
 lectually considered), and not in the hands of a single Minis- 
 ter, a real premier ; and if the members of the Cabinet are to 
 be honest men (that is to say, Tories), it is absolutely im- 
 possible that there should not exist great differences of opinion 
 within that Cabinet, in relation to questions such as must 
 mainly occupy the attention of the Government and the Par- 
 liament of an empire such as this, in times and under cii'cum- 
 stances like the present. And, sir, I farther assert, that no 
 Cabinet could long maintain its hold upon public respect, if 
 the existence of such difference of opinion were not well known 
 all over the country. 
 
 Tickler. Explain — explain. 
 
 Hogg. Yon was a queer apothegm. 
 
 North. Patience a moment, gents. The country must be 
 represented in the Cabinet, quite as effectually as in the Par- 
 Hament, otherwise the cotmtry will not have confidence in it. 
 We all know very well that questions such as are now in 
 agitation, are questions iu regard to which very great differ- 
 ences of opinion do, and must, prevail in the countiy — in the 
 real sound part of the population. We all know that opposite
 
 22 ADVANTAGES OF A DIVIDED CABINET. 
 
 interests exist in regard to every one of them ; and though 
 we are all aware that no great public good can be done with- 
 out sacrifices of some sort, we are also aware that no great 
 public good can be done, until, through deliberate and sincere 
 discussion, the minds of those by whom the sacrifices are to 
 be made, are satisfied that they must be made. Now, men 
 can never be persuaded that questions of this sort are capable 
 of undergoing that measure of real discussion and investiga- 
 tion which they ought to receive ere Government is pledged 
 to any one side, in any one of them, in any Cabinet but a 
 divided Cabinet. We must be convinced that, in regard to 
 Ireland for instance, the feelings, not of one, nor of two, but 
 of all the really great classes of honest population — of honest 
 interest — of honest feeling — (for I say nothing of the real 
 enemies of the country^ and their monkey tricks), — we must be 
 satisfied that all these are virtually represented within the 
 Cabinet ; otherwise we cannot be convinced that the measure 
 which Government purposes in regard to Ireland is the proper 
 measure ; that is to say, the measru-e best adapted to conciliate 
 the opinion and meet the views of the greatest immber among 
 the parties who have, and must have, different interests and 
 feelings as to the matter in question — the measure that comes 
 nearest to the greatest number of the various measures which 
 these parties severally propose and advocate. 
 
 Tickler. Why, certainly these are not dictator times. 
 
 North. Not they ; not they, truly. Calmness and pnidence 
 must preside now. Public opinion is, after all, the court of 
 first and the court of the last resort. We do not expect 
 differences of opinion to cease either in or out of the Cabinet ; 
 but we expect that the elements of public opinion, however 
 various, shall be virtually represented in the Cabinet — we 
 expect that the Cabinet shall, like a band of skilful chemists, 
 sit in judgment upon those elements as they separately exist, 
 and decide what is the tertium quid that will offer least vio- 
 lence to the greatest number of these elements ; and, tlus 
 being done, we then expect that ParHament shall sanction, 
 and the country approve the measure, which has found favour, 
 not with the opinion of any one intellect, however elevated, 
 but with the candour and wisdom of a set of honest men, who 
 have laboured to understand the interest and the opinions of 
 all, and to conciliate the interests and the opinions of as many
 
 north's is a divided cabinet. 23- 
 
 as they could — who never could have done this unless there 
 had really existed great differences of individual opinion among 
 themselves — and who, in their own conduct in regard to the 
 preparation of their measure, have set an example of that 
 spirit of mutual forbearance and mutual concession which they 
 expected to see imitated in the conduct of the Parliament at 
 large, when their measure is discussed in the Parliament ; in 
 the conduct of the nation at large, when their measure comes 
 to be carried into execution. 
 
 Hogg. Eh, man ! what for are ye no in the House yoursel ? 
 — Ye wad let them hear sense on baith sides o' their heads, 
 I'm thinking. 
 
 Tickler. Well said, James. The upshot then is, Christo- 
 pher, that you would rather have what Eldon, Canning, Wel- 
 Ungton, Liverpool, Peel, Eobinson, and Huskisson agree in 
 considering the most practically pradent thing, than what any 
 one of them thinks the thing most in unison with the dictates 
 of absolute or abstract wisdom. 
 
 North. Even so. And the nation thinks exactly as I do. 
 
 Hogg. I wonder ye dinna resign your ain big chair, then ; 
 and let us have a divided administration of the Magazine. 
 
 North. You could not have chosen a more unfortunate 
 simile, Hogg. Sir, my Cabinet is completely a divided one. 
 I look on myself as the Liverpool of it, — you, Tickler, are 
 decidedly the Canning, — the Adjutant is our Peel and our 
 Wellington both in one, — Y. Y. Y. is om- Eldon 
 
 Hogg. And me ? what am I ? 
 
 North. You are Lord Melville — we leave you the Scotch 
 department ; and when my boats are got into order at Buchanan 
 Lodge,^ you shall have the Admiralty too. Are you a good 
 sailor. Shepherd? 
 
 Hogg. I dinna ken. I never tried yet muckle, except on 
 fresh water. 
 
 Tickler. I should rather consider Hogg as the Eepresenta- 
 tive of the country interests in general. 
 
 North. I have no objections to arrange your seats as you 
 like best yourselves. I hope, however, that, differing upon par- 
 ticular matters as we do, and always must do, we shall always 
 continue to be one in heart and in hand as to the real points. 
 
 ^ The imaginary country-residence of Christopher North, on the banks of 
 the Firth of Forth.
 
 24 BUCHANAN LODGE. 
 
 Hogg. Whilk are ? 
 
 North. The religion of our fathers — the institutions of our 
 fathers — the edification of the public — and our own emolu- 
 ment. 
 
 Tickler. A capital creed. Do you conform, Hogg. 
 
 Hogg. Are ye gaun to raise the price of a sheet this Lady- 
 Day, Mr North ? 
 
 North. My dear Hogg, what would you have? You are 
 rolUng in wealth — are you not ? 
 
 Hogg. Ay ; but I wad like fine to be ower the head a'the- 
 gither, man. That's my apothegm. 
 
 North. Let me see — Well, I think I may promise you a 
 twenty-gallon tree this next Whitsunday, by way of a douceur 
 — a small perquisite. 
 
 Hogg. Twenty gallons, man, — that does not serve our house 
 for sax weeks in the summer part of the year, when a' the 
 leeterary warld is tramping about. But ne'er heed — mony 
 thanks to you for your kind offer, sir. 
 
 North. You must come down to my " happy rural seat of 
 various view," James, on your spring visit to Edinburgh — 
 Buchanan Lodge. 
 
 Shepherd. Wi' a' my heai-t, Mr North. I hear you've been 
 biggin a bonny Lodge near Larkfield yonder, within the mur- 
 mur of the sea. A walk on the beach is a gran' thing for an 
 appetite. Let's hear about your house. 
 
 North. The whole tenement is on the ground flat. I abhor 
 stairs ; and there can be no peace in any mansion where heavy 
 footsteps may be heard overhead. Suppose, James, three 
 sides of a square — You approach the front by a fine serpentine 
 avenue, and enter, slap-bang, through a wide glass-door, into 
 a greenhouse, a conservatory of everything rich and rare in 
 the world of flowers. Folding doors are drawn noiselessly 
 into the walls, as if by magic, and lo I drawing-room and 
 dining-room, stretcliing east and west in dim and distant per- 
 spective, commanding the Firth, the sea, the kingdom of 
 Fife, and the Highland mountains ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mercy on us, what a panorama ! 
 
 North. Another side of the square contains kitchen, servants' 
 room, &c. ; and the third side my study and bedrooms, — all 
 still, silent, composed, standing obscure, unseen, unapproach- 
 able, holy. The fourth side of the square is not, — shnibs,
 
 THE SHEPHERD ON POULTRY. 25 
 
 and trees, and a productive garden shut me in from behind ; 
 while a ring-fence, enclosing about five acres, just suflScient 
 for my nag and cow, form a magical circle, into which nothing 
 vile or profane can intrude. ODoherty alone has overleaped 
 my wall, — but the Adjutant was in training for his great match 
 (ten miles an hour), and when he ran bolt against me in 
 Addison's Walk,^ declared upon honour that he was merely 
 taking a step across the country, and that he had no idea of 
 being within a mile of any human abode. However, he staid 
 dinner — and over the Sunday. 
 
 Shepherd. Do you breed poultry, sir? — You dinna? Do't 
 then. You hae plenty o' bounds within five yacre. But mind 
 you, big^ nae regular hen-house. You'll hae bits o' sheds, nae 
 doubt, aliint the house, amang the ofiishes, and tlnough amang 
 the grounds ; and the belts o' plantations are no very wide, 
 nor the sherubberies stravagin awa into wild mountainous 
 regions o' heather, whins, and breckans. 
 
 North. Your imagination, James, is magnificent, even in 
 negatives. But is all this poetry about hen-roosts ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay. Let the creturs mak their ain nests, where'er 
 they like, like pheasants, or patricks, or muirfowl. Their 
 flesh will be the sappier, and mair highly flavoured on the 
 board, and their shape and plummage beautifuller far, strut- 
 ting about at liberty among your suburbs. Aboon a' things, 
 for the love o' Heevin, nae Cavies P I can never help greeting, 
 half in anger half in pity, when I see the necks o' some half- 
 a-score forlorn chuckies jouking out and in the narrow bars o' 
 their prison-house, dabbing at daigh and drummock.* I wonder 
 if Mrs Fry ever saw sic a pitiful spectacle. 
 
 North. I must leave the feathers to my females, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Canna you be an overseer ? Let the hens aye 
 set theirsels ; and never offer to tak ony notice o' the dockers. 
 They canna thole being looked at, when they come screeching 
 out frae their het eggs, a' in a fever, ■v\T.th their feathers tapse- 
 towry, and howking holes in the yearth, till the gravel gangs 
 down-through and aff among the plummage like dew-draps, 
 and now scouring: aff to some weel-kend corner for drink 
 and victual. 
 
 '''■ So named after the celebrated walk in the grounds of Magdalen College, 
 
 Oxford, where Professor Wilson was educated. ^ Big — build. 
 
 3 Cavies — hen-coops. * Daigh and drummoch — dough and cold porridge.
 
 26 TICKLER DISAPPEARS. 
 
 North. You amaze me, James. You are opening up quite 
 a new world to me. The mysteries of incubation. . . . 
 
 Hogg. Hae a regular succession o' clackins frae about the 
 middle o' March till the end o' August, and never devour aff a 
 haiU clackin at ance. Aye keep some three or four pullets 
 for eerocks, or for devom'ing through the winter ; and never 
 set aboon fourteen eggs to ae hen, nor indeed mair than a 
 dizzen, unless she be a weel-feathered mawsie,^ and broad 
 across the shoulders. 
 
 North. Why, the place will be absolutely overrun with 
 barn-door fowl. 
 
 Shepherd. Barn-door fowl ! Hoot awa ! You maun hae a 
 breed o' gem-birds. Nane better than the Lady-legg'd Eeds. 
 I ken the verra gem-eggs, at the first pree, frae your dung- 
 liill — as different as a pine-apple and a fozy turnip. 
 
 North. The conversation has taken an unexpected turn, my 
 dear Shepherd. I had intended keeping a few deer. 
 
 Shepherd. A few deevils ! Na — na. You maun gang to the 
 Thane's ;^ or if that princely cliiel be in Embro' or Lurnion, to 
 James Laidlaw's and Watty Bryden's, in Strathglass, if you 
 want deer. Keep you to the How-towdies. 
 
 North. I hope, Mr Hogg, you will bring the mistress and 
 the weans to the house-warming? 
 
 Shepherd. I'll do that, and mony mair besides them. — 
 Whare the deevil's Mr Tickler ? 
 
 North. Off. He pretended to go to the pump for an aquatic 
 supply, but he long ere now has reached Southside.^ 
 
 Shepherd. That's maist extraordinar. I could hae ta'en my 
 Bible oath that I kept seeing him a' this time sitting right 
 foreanent me, with his lang legs and nose, and een like 
 daggers — but it must hae been ane o' Hibbert's phantasms — 
 an idea has become more vivid than a present sensation. Is 
 that philosophical language ? What took him aff? I could 
 sit for ever. Catch me breaking up the conviviality of the 
 company. I'm just in grand spirits the nicht — come, here's 
 an extempore lilt. 
 
 1 An easy- tempered, somewhat slovenly female, is called in Scotland a mawsie. 
 
 2 The Thane was the Karl of Fife, whose estates in Braemar abound in red 
 deer. James Lai Jlaw aud Walter Bryden were sheep-farmers in Strathglass. The 
 former was the brother of William Laidlaw, Sir Walter Scott's friend and factor. 
 
 3 Mr Robert Sym, of whom Timothy Tickler was in some respects the 
 eidolon, resided in No. 20 George Square, on the south side of Edinburgh.
 
 THE shepherd's SONG. 27 
 
 Air, " Whistle and Til come to ye, my Lad" 
 
 1. 
 
 If e'er you would be a brave fellow, young man, 
 Beware of the Blue and the Yellow/ young man ; 
 
 If ye wud be Strang, 
 
 And wish to write lang, 
 Come join wi' the lads that get mellow, young man. 
 Like the crack o' a squib that has fa'en on, young man, 
 Compared wi' the roar o' a cannon, young man. 
 
 So is the Whig's blow 
 
 To the pith that's below 
 The beard o' auld Geordie Buchanan,^ young man. 
 
 2. 
 I heard a bit bird in the braken, young man, 
 It sang till the Whigs were a' quaking, young man, 
 
 And aye the sad lay 
 
 Was, Alack for the day ! 
 For the Blue and the Yellow's forsaken, young man. 
 The day is arrived that's nae joking, young man ; 
 'Tis vain to be murmuring and mocking, young man : 
 
 A Whig may be leal. 
 
 But he'll never fight weel, 
 As lang as he dadds wi' a docken, young man. 
 
 3. 
 
 O wha wadna laugh at their capers, young man ? 
 Like auld maidens fash'd wi' the vapours, young man, 
 
 We have turned them adi'ift 
 
 To their very last shift. 
 That's — puffing the Radical Papers^ young man. 
 If ye wad hear tell o' their piugle,^ young man, 
 Gae list the wee bird in the dingle, young man ; 
 
 Its note o' despair. 
 
 Is sae loud in the air. 
 That the windows of heaven play jingle, young man. 
 
 4. 
 m give you a toast of the auldest, young man ; 
 The loyal head ne'er was the cauldest, young man ; 
 
 " Our King and his Throne, 
 
 Be his glory our own," 
 
 1 The " Blue and the Yellow" is the Edinhurgh Review. 
 
 2 The effigies of George Buchanan is the frontispiece to Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 3 Fingle — difficulty.
 
 28 SONG WRITTEN BY RIDDELL. 
 
 And the last of his days aye the bauldest, young man. — 
 But as for the loun that would hector, young man, 
 And pit us at odds vd' a lecture, young man, 
 
 May he dance cutty-mun, 
 
 Wi' his neb to the sun, 
 And his doup to the General Director,^ young man. 
 
 North. A perfect Pistrucci ! 
 
 Shepherd. Hand your tongue, and I'll sing you ane o' the 
 bonniest sangs you ever heard in a' your born days. I dinna 
 ken that I ever wrote a better ane mysel. It is by a friend 
 o' mine — as yet an obscure man — Henry Eiddell — t'ither day 
 a shepherd like mysel — but now a student. 
 
 Song. — To the Air of " Lord Lennox. " 
 
 1. 
 "When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain ; 
 
 When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to roam ; 
 And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, 
 
 Inviting his love to return to her home ; 
 There meet me, my Mary, adown by the wild-wood. 
 
 Where violets and daisies sleep saft in the dew ; 
 Our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood. 
 
 And pure as the heavens' own orient blue. 
 
 2. 
 
 Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming ; 
 
 Thy cheek shall be fann'd by the breeze of the lawn ; 
 The Angel of Love shall be 'ware of thy coming, 
 
 And hover around thee till rise of the dawn. 
 O, Mary ! no transports of Heaven's decreeing 
 
 Can equal the joys of such meeting to me ; 
 For the light of thine eye is the home of my being, 
 
 And my soul's fondest hopes are all gather'd to thee. 
 
 North. Beautifrd, indeed, James — Mr Eiddell is a man of 
 much merit, and deserves encouragement. The verses on the 
 death of Byron, published a week ago by my friend John 
 
 "^ This is a mysterious allusion to that part of the town where executions 
 take place. — C. N. Mr David Bridges, cloth-merchant, had a shop in the 
 vicinity of the spot where persons " dance cutty-mun wi' their nebs to the 
 sun," or, in plain language, are hanged. From a taste which he supposed 
 himself to have in painting, he was dubbed by the Blackwood wits " General 
 Director of the Fine Arts in Scotland."
 
 TICKLER REAPPEARS. 29 
 
 Anderson, show feeling and originality. But would you be- 
 lieve it, my beloved Shepherd, my eyes are gathering straws. 
 
 Re-enter Tickler. 
 
 Shepherd. There's Harry Longleggs. 
 
 Tickler. I felt somewhat hungry so long after supper, and 
 having detected a round of beef in a cupboard, I cut ofi" a seg- 
 ment of a circle, and have been maldng myself comfortable at 
 the solitary kitchen-fire. 
 
 North [rising). Come away, my young friend — Give me 
 your arm, James. That will do, Shepherd — softly, slowly, 
 my dearest Hogg — no better supporter than the author of the 
 Queen's Wake. 
 
 Shepherd. What a gran' ticker is Mr Ambrose's clock ! It 
 beats like the strong, regular pulse of a healthy house. 
 Whirr ! Whirr ! Wliirr ! Hear till her gee'ing the warning. 
 I'll just finish these twa half tumblers o' porter, and the wee 
 drappie in the bit blue noseless juggy. As sure's death, it 
 has chapped Three. The lass that sits up at the Harrow^ '11 
 hae gane to the garret, and how '11 1 get in ? 
 
 {Sits canit). — O let me in this ae night, 
 This ae ae ae night, &c. 
 
 With a' our daffin, we are as sober as three judges with double 
 gowns. 
 
 Tickler. As sober I 
 
 Shepherd. Dear me, Mr North, what's that in your coat- 
 pouch ? 
 
 North [subridens illi). Two numbers of Maga, you dog. The 
 London trashery has had hitherto the start of me in the 
 market.^ Our next Number is for April — and April showers 
 bring May-flowers. 
 
 Mr Ambrose looks out in his nightcap — wishing good-night 
 with his usual suavity — Exeunt — Tickler in advaiice — 
 and North leaning on the Shepherd. 
 
 1 The sign of the hostehie near the Grassmarket where Hogg resided when 
 in Edinbvirgh. 
 
 2 Previous to this time the London periodicals had the start of Blachoood's 
 Magazine, inasmuch as they were published at the beginning of the month, 
 while Blachcood did not appear until the end of it. Blackwood brought 
 up his lee-way on the 28th of Febmary 1825, by putting forth two numbers 
 at once — ^the one for Febmary, and the other for Marck These were the two 
 numbers which North had in his coat-pocket.
 
 II. 
 
 (SEPTEMBER 1825.) 
 
 Blue Parlour. — North and Tickler. 
 
 North. With what admirable ingenuity hath our Ambrose 
 contrived to procure a perpetual play of Zephyr, even during 
 the summer noon, in this Sanctum Sanctorum ! 
 
 Tickler. What a scientific thorough- draught ! How pro- 
 found these shadows ! Not a leaf is withered on that beau- 
 tiful geranium ! Never was that flowering myrtle more 
 " brightly, deeply, beautifully green." Week after week that 
 carnation tree displays new orbs of crimson glory. Saw ye 
 ever, North, such a tiger-lily, so wildly, fiercely beautiful, like 
 its forest brother, the animal that terrifies the desert with his 
 glittering and gorgeous motion, as he bounds over brake and 
 jungle in famine or in play ? 
 
 North. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy ! First Timothy ? 
 
 Tickler. Too poetical? Why, that red champagne has 
 stirred up all the ethereal particles that mysteriously consti- 
 tute the soul ; and, as Jeffrey said to Coleridge, " Why, sir, 
 my whole talk is poetry." 
 
 North. Whoever wishes to know what poetry is, to know it 
 clearly, distinctly, and permanently, let him read Barry Corn- 
 wall's article thereon in the last Number of the Edinburgh 
 Review.^ 
 
 Tickler. That young gentleman deserves a dressing at your 
 hands or mine. North, for he often runs a-muck now ; not in 
 the Malay, however, but Cockney fashion, and the pen must 
 be wrested out of his lily hand. 
 
 North. The image is not unamusing ; a slight, slim poet- 
 aster mincing a-muck among the great English bards ! I love 
 
 1 No. Lxxxra.
 
 BARRY CORNWALL m EDINBURGH REVIEW, 31 
 
 Barry, for lie writes pretty — ^very pretty verses — and has an 
 eye for the beautiful ; but in the character of critic .... 
 
 Tickler. He courts the world's applause, by endeavouring 
 to imitate Leigh Hunt, Hazhtt, Jeffrey, the London Magazine^ 
 himself, Johnny Keates, and the morning papers ; and in such 
 slang he jargons the characters of Shakespeare and Milton. It 
 is indeed despicable to see the old Blue and YeUow reduced 
 to such drivelHng as tliis ; — but what are you reading. North ? 
 
 North. The account of the Lion-fight at Warwick ; a most 
 brutal business — hideous and loathsome. But why confuse 
 such infamous cruelty with such a cheerful pastime as pugil- 
 ism ? ^ Would you believe it, that the editor of the New Times 
 has discontinued those admii-able accounts of all the great 
 fights that made his paper as much prized in the sporting as 
 it has long been in the political and fashionable world ? I do 
 not find that he has shut his columns to those grossly indecent 
 quack advertisements that render newspapers unfit to lie on 
 the breakfast-table of an honest family. Is tliis consistent ? 
 
 Tickler. Very silly. By so doing, he disappoints a vast 
 number of his subscribers. What right has he to disappoint 
 five hundred country gentlemen, all anxious to know the 
 character and result of any battle ? 
 
 North. None. They take his paper, to be sure, for other 
 and higher reasons ; but they are entitled to find in its 
 columns full and particular accounts of all such contests, — for, 
 light or wrong, they form part of our national pastimes, create 
 a prodigious interest among all classes, and a man looks and 
 feels hke a ninny on going into company in utter ignorance 
 of that event which furnishes the sole conversation of that one 
 day. I trust this hint will be taken. 
 
 Tickler. Confound all cruelty to animals ! — ^but I much 
 question the efficacy of law to protect the inferior creation 
 against the human. Let that protection be found in the 
 moral indignation of the people. That Irish jackass, Martin,^ 
 
 1 " After supper Dr Johnson said, ' I am sorry that prize-fighting has gone 
 out ; every art should be preserved, and the art of defence is surely impor- 
 tant."'^BoswELL's Life, eh. xxxix. 
 
 2 Richard Martin, M.P. for Galway, carried through Parliament a bill for the 
 prevention and punishment of cruelty to animals, and sedulously watched its 
 enforcement, by infesting- the police-offices with informations. In BlackicoooTs 
 Magazine for October 1825, the vehement expressions here directed against 
 the Irish member are qualified and explamed.
 
 32 RICHAKD MARTIN, M.P. 
 
 throws an air of ridicule over tlie whole matter by his insuf- 
 ferable iJiotism. I hope to see his skull, thick as it is, 
 cracked one of these days ; for that vulgar and angry gabble 
 with which he weekly infests the police-offices of the metro- 
 polis, is a greater outrage to humanity than any fifty blows 
 ever inflicted on the snout of pig, or the buttocks of beeve ; 
 blows which, in one and the same breath, the blustering and 
 blundering blockhead Avould fain prosecute, punish, and pardon. 
 
 North. It is not possible to define cnielty to animals, so as 
 to bring it within the salutary operation of law. That being 
 the case, there should be no law on the subject. I am an old, 
 weak man, now, but I was once young and strong ; and this 
 fist, Timothy, now with difficulty folded into a bunch of fives, 
 — for these chalk-stones forbid, — has levelled many a brute in 
 the act of unmercifully beating his horse, his ass, or his wife. 
 Every man ought to take the law into his own hands on such 
 occasions. Thus only can the inferior animals walk the 
 streets of London in any degree of security. 
 
 Tickler. Pray, Mr Richard Martin, did you ever try to 
 drive a pig ? or to keep a flock of sheep, or a drove of cattle 
 together, in the midst of the riot, tumult, and confusion of 
 Smithfield ? It is no such easy job, I can tell you ; and no- 
 thing short of a most impertinent and provoking puppy must 
 that person be, who stops short a drover in all his agonies of 
 exasperation, for merely banging the hide of an over-fed ox, 
 about to join the colours of another regiment. 
 
 North. Why don't they murder him at once ? 
 
 Tickler. Oh ! he cannot expect to sit in another Parliament. 
 I presume you know that he is to be Chancellor of the Uni- 
 versity of London ? 
 
 North. I do. University of London ! With what an air of 
 pride will a young man look about him, in a company of 
 poor Oxonians and Cantabs, who may have just finished his 
 education in the University of London ! ^ 
 
 Tickler. Tims,^ I am told, is to be a Professor. Yet, joking 
 
 ^ There are tliree collegiate institutions in the metropolis — first, University 
 College, London, founded in 1825, to which reference is made in the text ; 
 secondly. King's College, London, established in 1829 ; and thirdly, the Uni- 
 versity of London, established in 1836. 
 
 2 The writers in Blackwood' s Magazine had affixed the harmless nickname 
 of " Tims" to Mr P. G. Patmore, author of Letters on England, by Victoire 
 Count de Soligny, 1823 ; and My Friends and Acquaintances, 1854.
 
 UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON. 33 
 
 apart, I am sorry there is to be no theological chair. I had 
 intended occupying it, and had even sketched out a course of 
 lectures ; but understanding that ODoherty was a candidate, 
 I retired before the claims of the Adjutant. ^ 
 
 North. The Adjutant! Do you mean to tell me that the 
 Standard - Bearer is a Unitarian? Impossible! ODoherty 
 could never have intended to accept the chair. 
 
 Tickler. On the whole it is better, perhaps, that he is to be 
 appointed Professor of Gymnastics. Clias^ does not mean 
 to oppose him ; and therefore, for the Adjutant's sake, let us 
 drink success to this institution : — " Sir Morgan ODoherty, 
 and the University of London;" icith all the honours. Hip, 
 hip, hip — ^c. ^'c. 4'c. 
 
 North. Young persons, my good friend, will, no doubt, get 
 information of various kinds at the said London University ; 
 but it will always be a vulgar, coarsish sort of an academe. 
 Tnie it is, that the expense of a complete and gentlemanly 
 education at Oxford or Cambridge is a serious thing, and must 
 deter many parents from sending their sons thither ; but such 
 education as this metropolitan school will supply, never will 
 be considered as a satisfactory substitute for the other, either 
 by the heads of families, or the young gentlemen themselves ; 
 and it is plain that the students must be of a low grade in 
 society. Be it so : it is well. Let its real character be under- 
 stood, and many of the objections to the scheme will fall to 
 the ground ; just as many of the expectations of its utility will 
 do, now absurdly exaggerated and misrepresented. 
 
 Tickler. No Divinity — no Polite Literatui'e — no Classics ! 
 — What a Menagerie it will be of Bears and Monkeys ! a 
 nm-sery for contributors to the Westminster Review. 
 
 North. Pray, Tickler, have you read Milton's Treatise on 
 Chi-istianitv?^ 
 
 Tickler. I have ; and feel disposed to agree with him in 
 his doctrine of polygamy. For many years I lived veiy 
 
 ^ The late William Maginn, LL.D., dealt out his pasquinades and facetiae 
 in Blackxi-ooiT s Magazine, and elsewhere, under the name of Morgan ODoherty. 
 
 2 Captain P. H. Clias, whose work, entitled An Elementary Course of Gym- 
 nastic Exercises, was reviewed by Professor Wilson in Blacknood's Magazine 
 (No. CXV.), died at Berne in 1854, and is reported to have bequeathed his 
 skeleton to the museum in that town, as evidence of the beneficial effects of 
 judicious gymnastic training. 
 
 3 At that time recently discovered. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 34 MILTON — WORDSWORTH. 
 
 comfortably without a wife ; and since tlie 1820, I have been 
 a monoeramist. But I confess that there is a sameness in that 
 system. I should like much to try polygamy for a few years. 
 I wish Milton had explained the duties of a polygamist ; for 
 it is possible that they may be of a very intricate, complicated, 
 and unbounded nature, and that such an accumulation of 
 private business might be thrown on one's hands, that it 
 could not be in the power of an elderly gentleman to overtake 
 it ; occupied, too, as he might be, as in my own case, in con- 
 tributing to the Periodical Literature of the age. 
 
 North. Sir, the system would not be found to work well in 
 this climate. Milton was a great poet ; but a bad divine, and 
 a miserable pohtician. 
 
 Tickler. How can that be ? — Wordsworth says that a great 
 poet must be great in all things. 
 
 North. Wordsworth often writes like an idiot ; and never 
 more so than when he said of Milton, " his sotd was like a 
 star, and dwelt apart ! " For it dwelt in tumult, and miscliief, 
 and rebelKon. Wordsworth is, in all things, the reverse of 
 Milton — a good man, and a bad poet. 
 
 Tickler. What ! — That Wordsworth whom Maga cries up as 
 the Prince of Poets ? 
 
 North. Be it so ; I must humour the fancies of some of my 
 friends. But had that man been a great poet, he would have 
 produced a deep and lasting impression on the mind of Eng- 
 land ; whereas his verses are becoming less and less known 
 every day, and he is, in good truth, already one of the illus- 
 trious obscure. 
 
 Tickler. I never thought him more than a very ordinary 
 man — with some imagination, certainly, but with no grasp of 
 understanding, and apparently little acquainted with the 
 liistory of his kind. My God ! to compare such a writer with 
 Scott and Byron ! 
 
 North. And yet, with his creed, what might not a great 
 poet have done ? — That the language of poetry is but the 
 language of strong human passion ! — That in the great ele- 
 mentary principles of thought and feeling, common to all the 
 race, the subject-matter of poetry is to be sought and found ! 
 — That enjoyment and suffering, as they wring and crush, or 
 expand and elevate, men's hearts, are the sources of song ! — 
 And what, pray, has he made out of this true and philoso- 
 phical creed? — A few ballads (pretty at the best), two or
 
 THE EXCURSION — FEMALE POETS. 35 
 
 three moral fables, some natural description of scenery, and 
 lialf-a-dozen narratives of common distress or happiness. Not 
 one single character has he created — not one incident — not 
 one tragical catastrophe. He has thrown no light on man's 
 estate here below ; and Crabbe, with all his defects, stands 
 immeasurably above Wordsworth as the Poet of the Poor. 
 
 Tickler. Good. And yet the youngsters, in that absurd 
 Magazine of yours, set him up to the stars as their idol, and 
 kiss his very feet, as if the toes were of gold. 
 
 North. Well, well ; let them have their own way awhile. 
 I confess that the " Excursion" is the worst poem, of any 
 character, in the English language. It contains about two 
 hundred sonorous lines, some of which appear to be fine, even 
 in the sense, as well as the sound. The remaining seven 
 thousand tliree hundred are quite ineffectual. Then, what 
 labour the builder of that lofty rhyme must have undergone ! 
 It is, in its own way, a small Tower of Babel, and aU built 
 by a single man ! 
 
 Tickler. Wipe your forehead. North; for it is indeed a 
 most perspiring thought. I do not know whether my gal- 
 lantry blinds me, but I prefer much of the female to the male 
 poetry of the day. 
 
 NoiHh. thou Polygamist ! 
 
 Tickler. There is Joanna Baillie. Is there not more genius, 
 passion, poetry, in the tragedy of Count Basil, than in any 
 book of Wordsworth ? 
 
 North. Ten times. 
 
 Tickler. There is Mrs Hemans. Too fond, certes, is she of 
 prattling about Greece and Kome, and of being classical, 
 which no lady can hope to be who has never been at one of 
 the English pubUc schools, and sat upon the fifth form. But 
 is there not often a rich glow of imagery in her compositions, 
 fine feelings and fancies, and an imconstrained and even 
 triumphant flow of versification which murmiirs poetry ? 
 
 North. There is. 
 
 Tickler. Is not L. E. L.^ a child of genius, as well as of the 
 Literary Gazette; and does she not throw over her most im- 
 passioned strains of love and rapture a delicate and gentle spirit 
 from the recesses of her own pure and holy woman's heart ? 
 
 North. She does. 
 
 1 Miss L. E. Landon, afterwards Mrs Maclean : born in 1802 — died in 1838, 
 at or near Sien-a Leone.
 
 36 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Tickler. And was not Tighe an angel, if ever there was 
 one on earth, beautiful, airy, and evanescent as her own 
 immortal Psyche ? 
 
 North. She was. 
 
 Tickler. And what the devil, then, would you be at with 
 your great bawling He-Poets from the Lakes, who go round 
 and round about, stnitting upon nothing, like so many turkey- 
 cocks gobbUng with a long red pendant at their noses, and 
 frightening away the fair and lovely swans as they glide 
 down the waters of immortality ? 
 
 North. With Fahrenheit at 80 in the shade, I praise the 
 poetry of no man.^ You have carte blanche to abuse every- 
 body, Tickler, till the thermometer is less ambitious. 
 
 Tickler. Wordsworth is a poet — but unluckily is a weak 
 man. His imagination shows liim fine sights, but his intel- 
 lect knows not how to deal with them, so that they evanish 
 in glittering and gorgeous evaporation. 
 
 North. Just so. Tickler — and then how ludicrously he 
 overrates his own powers. This we all do ; but Wordsworth's 
 pride is Hke that of a straw-crowned king in Bedlam. For 
 example, he indited some silly lines to a hedge-sparrow's 
 nest with five eggs, and, years afterwards, in a fit of exulta- 
 tion, told the world, in another poem equally childish, that 
 the " Address to the Sparrow" was " one strain that will 
 not die !" Ha ! ha ! ha ! Can that be a great man? 
 
 Tickler. Had that man in youth become the member of any 
 profession (which all poor men are bound to do), he would 
 soon have learned in the tussle to rate his powers more truly. 
 How such a man as Jeffrey, with liis endless volubility of 
 ingenious argumentation, would have squabashed him before 
 a jury ! Suppose him Attorney-general in the Queen's trial, 
 stammering before Brougham, who kept lowering upon him 
 with that cadaverous and cruel countenance, on a sudden 
 instinct with a hellish scorn ! Or opposed in Parliament to 
 the rapier of Canning, that even while glancing brightly 
 before the eye, has already inflicted twenty disabling wounds ! 
 Or editor of a Poetical, Philosophical, and Political Journal, 
 
 ^ " With Fahrenheit at 80 in the shade, I praise the poetry of no man." 
 Christopher was very intolerant of heat ; and his remark accounts, humorously 
 enough, for the somewhat capricious and disparaging tone of criticism which 
 pervades this dialogue.
 
 SCOTT. 37 
 
 and under the influence of a malignant star, opposed, vi et 
 armis, to Christopher North, the Victor in a Thousand Fields ! 
 
 North. Ay, ay, Tickler — my dear Tickler — He would have 
 found his level then — but his excessive vanity .... 
 
 Tickler. Contrasted with the ujiassuming, and indeed retir- 
 ing modesty — I might say bashfulness — of your mind and 
 manners, su', the arrogance of the stamp-master .... 
 
 North. Hush — no illiberal allusion to a man's trade. 
 
 Tickler. I ask pardon. No person more illiberal on this very 
 point than our lyrical ballad-monger. His whole writings, in 
 verse and prose, are full of sneers at almost every profession 
 but his ovm. — and that being the case .... 
 
 North. Scott's poetry puzzles me — it is often very bad. 
 
 Tickler. Very. 
 
 North. Except when his martial soul is up, he is but a 
 tame and feeble writer. His versification in general flows on 
 easily — smoothly — almost sonorously — but seldom or never 
 with impetuosity or grandeur. There is no strength, no feli- 
 city in his diction — and the substance of his poetiy is neither 
 rich nor rare. The atmosphere is becoming every moment 
 more oppressive. How stands the Therm. ? 
 
 Tickler. Ninety. But then when liis martial soul is up — 
 and up it is at sight of a spear-point or a pennon — then indeed 
 you hear the true poet of chivalry'. What care I, Kit, for all 
 his previous drivelling — if drivelling it be — and God forbid I 
 should deny drivelling to any poet, ancient or modem — for 
 now he makes my very soul to burn within me, — and, coward 
 and civilian though I be, — yes, a most intense and insuper- 
 able coward, piizing life and limb beyond all other earthly 
 possessions, and loath to shed one single drop of blood either 
 for my King or country, — ^yet such is the trumpet-power of 
 the song of that son of genius, that I start from my old 
 elbow-chair, up with the poker, tongs, or shovel, no matter 
 which, and flomishing it round my head, cry, 
 
 " Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! " 
 
 and then, dropping my voice, and returning to my padded 
 bottom, whisper, 
 
 " Were the last words of INIarmion ! " 
 
 North. Bravo — bravo — bravo ! 
 
 Tickler. I care not one single curse for all the criticism that
 
 38 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ever was canted, or decanted, or recanted. Neither does the 
 world. The world takes a poet as it finds him, and seats him 
 above or below the salt. The world is as obstinate as a 
 million mules, and will not turn its head on one side or an- 
 other for all the shouting of the critical population that ever 
 was shouted. It is very possible that the world is a bad 
 judge. Well, then — appeal to posterity, and be hanged to 
 you — and posterity will affirm the judgment, with costs. 
 
 North. How you can jabber away so, in such a temperature 
 as this, confounds me. You are indeed a singular old man. 
 
 Tickler. Therefore I say that Scott is a Homer of a poet, 
 and so let liim doze when he has a mind to it ; for no man I 
 know is better entitled to an occasional half-canto of slumber. 
 
 North. Did you ever meet any of the Lake-Poets in private 
 society ? 
 
 Tickler. Five or six times. Wordsworth has a grave, 
 solemn, pedantic, awkward, out-of-the-worldish look about 
 him, that rather puzzles you as to his probable profession, till 
 he begins to speak — and then, to be sure, you set him down 
 at once for a Methodist preacher. 
 
 North. I have seen Chantrey's bust. 
 
 Tickler. The bust flatters his head, which is not intellec- 
 tual. The forehead is narrow, and the skull altogether too 
 scanty. Yet the baldness, the gravity, and the composure, 
 are impressive, and, on the whole, not unpoetical. The eyes 
 are dim and thoughtful, and a certain sweetness of smile 
 occasionally lightens up the strong lines of his countenance 
 with an expression of courteousness and philanthropy. 
 
 North. Is he not extremely eloquent ? 
 
 Tickler. Far from it. He labours like a whale spouting — 
 his voice is wearisomely monotonous — he does not know when 
 to have done with a subject — oracularly announces pei"petual 
 truisms — never hits the nail on the head — and leaves you 
 amazed with all that needless pother, which the simple bard 
 opines to be eloquence, and which passes for such with his 
 Cockney idolaters, and his catechumens at Ambleside and 
 Keswick. 
 
 North. Not during dinner, surely ? 
 
 Tickler. Yes — during breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, and 
 supper, — every intermediate moment, — nor have I any doubt 
 that he proses all night long in his sleep.
 
 COLERIDGE — BROUGHAM. 39 
 
 North. Shocking indeed. In conversation, the exchange 
 should be at par. That is the grand secret. Nor should any 
 Christian ever exceed the maximum of three consecutive 
 sentences — except in an anecdote. 
 
 Tickler. merciful heavens ! my dear North — What eternal 
 talkers most men are now-a-days — all at it in a party at once 
 — each farthing candle anxious to shine forth with its own 
 vile wavering wick — tremulously apprehensive of snuifers — 
 and stinking away after expiration in the socket ! 
 
 North. Bad enough in toAivn, but worse, far worse, in country 
 places. 
 
 Tickler. The surgeon ! The dominie ! The old minister's 
 assistant and successor! The president of the Speculative 
 Society ! Two landscape-painters ! The rejected contributor 
 to Blackwood ! The agricultural reporter of the county ! The 
 surveyor ! Captain Campbell ! The Laird, his son ! The 
 stranger gentleman on a torn- ! The lecturer on an orrery ! 
 The poet about to publish by subscription ! The person from 
 Pitkeathly ! The man of the house himself — My God ! his 
 wife and daughters ! and the widow, the widow ! I can no 
 more, the widow, the widow, the widow ! [Sinks back in his 
 chair. ) 
 
 North. I have heard Coleridge. That man is entitled to 
 speak on till Doomsday — or rather the genius witliin him — 
 for he is inspired. Wind him up, and away he goes, discours- 
 ing most excellent music — without a discord — full, ample, 
 inexhaustible, serious and divine ! 
 
 Tickler. Add him to my list — and the band of instrumental 
 music is complete. 
 
 North. What stuff is spoken about the oratory of pulpit and 
 parliament ! 
 
 Tickler. Brougham is a volcano — an eruption — a devouring 
 flame — a storm — a whirlwind — a cataract — a torrent — a sea — 
 thunder and earthquake. You might apply the same terms, 
 with the same truth, to a Billingsgate fishwife. 
 
 North. Brougham's invective is formidable cliiefly for its 
 vulgarity. One hates, loaths, fears to be pelted with the mud 
 and missiles of an infuriated demagogue — -just as a gentleman 
 declines the proffered combat with a carman, although con- 
 scious that in three rounds he would leave the ruffian sense- 
 less in the ring.
 
 40 BROUGHAM. 
 
 Tickler. That sometimes occurs — as in the case of Canning. 
 
 North. The straight hitting of the Foreign Secretary soon 
 dorses your round-about hand-over-head millers, like Harry 
 Brougham. 
 
 Tickler. Yet how that outrageous violence and fury, arms 
 aloft, eyes agog, cheeks convulsed, and Kps quivering, passes 
 with the multitude for demonstration of strength and science ! 
 
 North. Brougham never fights at points — he throws away 
 his blows — and beyond all the other men, lays liimself open 
 to fatal punishment, although he has weight, length, and 
 reach, and generally enters the ring in good condition, and 
 after long and severe training, yet has he lost every battle. 
 His backers are never confident — yet in a casual turn-up, it 
 must be allowed that he is an ugly customer. 
 
 Tickler. Notv^dthstanding the trath of all this, I am a great 
 admirer of Brougham. He is unquestionably a man of great 
 and versatile talents. 
 
 North. Yes — and to hear his lickspittles speak, you would 
 think that a man of great and versatile talents was a miracle ; 
 whereas there are some thousands of them publicly acknow- 
 ledged in England at tliis day. We hear of his wonderful 
 literary talents — wherein exhibited ? 
 
 Tickler. The Edinburgh Review. 
 
 North. Very well — many able papers in the Edinburgh 
 Review no doubt — which are his ? Let us suppose all of them, 
 and that the trash is Jeffrey's, Smith's, Mackintosh's, &c.; 
 are the best of those papers astounding, prodigious, miracu- 
 lous, prophetic of the Millennium ? I read them without awe 
 — my hair does not rise — my knees do not tremble — no cold 
 sweat overspreads my aged frame. I read on — on — on — am 
 pleased to see intuitively the fallacy of all he writes — and fall 
 asleep vsdth a calm conscience. 
 
 Tickler. He is a great mathematician. 
 
 North. So is his brother Billy, who was to have beaten 
 Joshua King at Cambridge, and come forth from the Senate- 
 house senior Wrangler, with " Incomparabilis " at his name. 
 But on the day of trial he was found wanting — and showed 
 liimself no mathematician at all, although he too, it is said, 
 writes his scientific articles in the Edinburgh Review. Yes ! 
 he is the Euclid of the Edinburgh. 
 
 Tickler. His Colonial Policy ?
 
 HIS INAUGUKAL DISCOURSE. 41 
 
 North. Speeches in the Speculative Society, and trial- 
 essays for the Edinburgh Review — a foolish farrago — although 
 on some subjects I prefer the ignorant sincerity of the boy 
 there exhibited, to the instructed hypocrisy of the man in his 
 late bellowings on Slavery and the Blacks. 
 
 Tickler. Then what say you to his Glasgow affair ? ^ 
 
 North. Why, as to his Inaugural Discourse, it is far from 
 being a bad performance, but stiff, pedantic, and cumbrous. 
 It was written, he tells the world, on the Northern Circuit ; 
 and his childish sycophant in the Edinburgh Review opens his 
 mouth to a dangerous extent at this wonder of wonders, bray- 
 ing, that " it sounds like monstrous and shocking exaggera- 
 tion, or fabulous invention." 
 
 Tickler. The short and the long of it is, then, that, when 
 inquired into, Henry Brougham's literary and scientific pre- 
 tensions sink into absolute notliingness, and that there are at 
 this moment at least fifty thousand men in England equal to 
 this prodigy in all the attaimnents of scholarship, and certainly 
 not fewer than ten thousand his superior, incomparably, both 
 in argument and capacity ? 
 
 North. Doubtless, Tickler, — add his Bar practice and Par- 
 Kamentary howKng, and still he can be accounted for without 
 the aid of " fabulous invention." 
 
 Tickler. He is a first-rate fellow in his way, and that I can 
 say, without "monstrous or shocking exaggeration." But his 
 stature does not reach the sky, although his head is frequently 
 in the clouds. Copley'' is his master. 
 
 North. That is a capital article on the Drama in the last 
 number of Maga. It cuts up your dogmata, in your sprightly 
 review of Doubleday's Babington, with civility and discretion. 
 
 Tickler. Indeed ! What I asserted in my sprightly review 
 of Doubleday's Babington was simply this, that it was easier 
 for a man of great poetical genius to write dramatic poetry 
 than any other kind. In the course of my very sprightly 
 review I remarked, that " with a powerful intellect, a vivid 
 imagination, and a keen insight into human nature, particu- 
 larly into its passions, where is the prodigious difficulty of 
 writing a good tragedy ? " 
 
 North. Why, I confess I see none. 
 
 ^ Henry Brougham was Lord-Rector of the University of Glasgow in 1824. 
 - Afterwards Lord Lyndhurst.
 
 42 HOW SOON EVERYTHING IS FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Tickler. But hear our friend. — "To tliis I answer, None 
 whatever ; and when we shall find first-rate intellect, imagina- 
 tion, and knowledge of human passion combined, we shall 
 have fomid the true writer of tragedy, and the true Phoenix 
 besides." 
 
 North. And what say you in reply ? 
 
 Tickler. I say, that I cannot but wonder at such a sentence 
 from so clever a correspondent. Why, are not all great poets 
 that ever existed such men as I have described ? There was 
 no description of a Phoenix, but of any one of some hundreds, 
 or perhaps thousands, or tens of thousands of men and Chris- 
 tians. I did not argue the question at any great length ; but 
 I made out my point unanswerably, that epic poetry (for 
 example) was more difficult than dramatic, — and that 
 
 North. Come, come — nobody remembers one single word 
 that either of you have said upon that, or any other subject. 
 It is pleasant to know how immediately everything said or 
 done in this world is forgotten. Murder a novel, or a man, or 
 a poem, or a child — forge powers of attorney without cessation 
 during the prime of hfe, till old maids beyond all computation 
 have been sold unsuspectingly out of the stocks in every 
 country village in England — for a lustre furnish Balaam to a 
 London magazine, at tliixty shillings per bray — in short, let 
 any man commit any enormity, and it is forgotten before the 
 first of the month ! Who remembers anything but the bare 
 names — and these indistinctly — of Thm-tell, and Hunt, and 
 Fauntleroy, and Hazlitt, and Tims, and Soames, and Southeran. 
 Soap-bubbles all — blown, burst, vanished, and forgotten. 
 
 Tickler. Why, you might almost venture to repubhsh Maga 
 herself in numbers, under the smirk of a New Series. I know 
 a worthy and able minister of our church, who has been preach- 
 ing (and long may he preach it) the self-same sermon for 
 upwards of forty years. About the 1802 I began to suspect 
 him ; but having then sat below him only for some dozen 
 years or so, I could not, of course, in a matter of so much 
 delicacy, dare trust to my very imperfect memory. During 
 the Whig ministry of 1806, my attention was strongly riveted 
 to the "practical illustrations," and I could have sworn to the 
 last twenty minutes of his discourse, as to the voice of a 
 friend familiar in early youth. About the time your Magazine 
 first dawned on the world, my belief of its identity extended
 
 SOUTHEY'S tale of PARAGUAY. 43 
 
 to the whole discourse ; and the good old man himself, in the 
 delight of his heart, confessed to me the truth a few Sabbaths 
 after the Chaldee. 
 
 North. Come, now, tell me trath, have you ever palmed off 
 any part of it upon me in the shape of an article ? 
 
 Tickler. Never, 'pon honour ; but you shall get the whole 
 of it some day, as a Number One ; for, now that he has got 
 an assistant and successor, the sermon is seldom employed, 
 and he has bequeathed it me in a codicil to his will. 
 
 North. Tickler, you think yourself a good reader — there is 
 Southey's new poem, " The Tale of Paraguay." Spout. 
 
 Tickler. I read well — although hardly a John Kemble or a 
 James Ballantyne. I do not read according to rules, but I 
 follow my feelings, and they never mislead me. Accordingly, 
 I never read the same composition in the same way, yet each 
 way is the right one. But jiidge for yourself. . . . Give 
 me Southey [Bises and reads.) 
 
 " He was a man of rarest qualities, 
 Who to this barbarous region had confined 
 A spirit with the learned and the wise 
 Worthy to take its place, and from mankind 
 Receive their homage, to the immortal mind 
 Paid in its just inheritance of fame. 
 But he to humbler thoughts his heart inclined ; 
 From Gratz amid the Styrian hills he came, 
 And Dobrizhoffer was the good man's honour'd name. 
 
 " It was his evil fortune to behold 
 The labours of his painful life destroy'd ; 
 His flock which he had brought within the fold 
 Dispersed ; the work of ages render' d void, 
 And all of good that Paraguay enjoy' d 
 By blind and suicidal power o'erthrown. 
 So he the years of his old age employ'd, 
 A faithful chronicler, in handing down 
 Names which he loved, and things weU worthy to be known. 
 
 " And, thus when exiled from the dear-loved scene, 
 
 In proud Vienna he beguiled the pain 
 
 Of sad remembrance : and the Empress Queen, 
 
 That great Teresa, she did not disdain 
 
 In gracious mood sometimes to entertain
 
 44 SOUTHEY'S tale OF PARAGUAY. 
 
 Discourse with him both pleasurable and sage ; 
 And sure a willing ear she well might deign 
 To one whose tales may equally engage 
 The wondering mind of youth, the thoughtful heart of age. 
 
 " But of his native speech because well-nigh 
 Disuse in him forgetfi;luess had wrought, 
 In Latin he composed his history ; 
 A garrulous, but a lively tale, and fraught 
 With matter of delight and food for thought. 
 And if he could in Merlin's glass have seen 
 By whom his tomes to speak our tongue were taught,i 
 The old man would have felt as pleased, I ween, 
 As when he won the ear of that great Empress Queen. 
 
 " Little he deem'd when with his Indian band 
 He through the wilds set forth upon his way, 
 A Poet then unborn, and in a land 
 Which had proscribed his order, should one day 
 Take up from thence his moralising lay, 
 And shape a song that, with no fiction drest, 
 Should to his worth its grateful tribute pay, 
 And sinking deep in many an English breast, 
 Foster that faith divine that keeps the heart at rest." 
 
 North. Very bad — very bad. 
 
 Tickler. I offer to read you for a rump and dozen. Sir, 
 wliich of us call you bad — the poet or the spouter ? 
 
 North. Both, both — bad, bald, mean, and miserable ! 
 
 Tickler. Bald ! — Can't help that. Would you have me wear 
 a wig? — But here's at it again. — [Meads.) 
 
 " The Moon had gather' d oft her monthly store 
 Of light, and oft in darkness left the sky, 
 Since Monnema a growing burthen bore 
 Of life and hope. The appointed weeks go by ; 
 And now her hour is come, and none is nigh 
 To help : but human help she needed none. 
 A few short throes endured with scarce a cry, 
 Upon the bank she laid her new-born son. 
 Then slid into the stream, and bathed, and all was done. 
 
 1 Dobrizhoffer's History of the Ahipones, was translated into English by a 
 daughter of S. T. Coleridge.
 
 WHAT DRIVEL IT IS. 45 
 
 " Might old observances have there been kept, 
 Then should the husband to that pensile bed, 
 Like one exhausted with the birth have crept, 
 And laying down in feeble guise his head, 
 For many a day been nursed and dieted 
 With tender care, to chiding mothers due. 
 Certes a custom strange, and yet far spread 
 Through many a savage tribe, howe'er it gi'ew, 
 And once in the old world known as widely as the new. 
 
 " This could not then be done ; he might not lay 
 The bow and those imerring shafts aside : 
 Nor through the appointed weeks forego the prey, 
 Still to be sought amid those regions wide, 
 None being there who should the while provide 
 That lonely household with their needful food ; 
 So still Quiara through the forest plied 
 His daily task, and in the thickest wood 
 Still laid his snares for birds, and still the chace pursued." 
 
 North. Conceived and brought forth in the true spirit of a 
 howdie ! * — 
 
 "Then slid into the stream, and bathed, and all was done I " 
 
 Tickler. Look at the passage, North, with your own eyes. 
 You see it — so do I. Shall I ring the bell for Ambrose and 
 other witnesses ? 
 
 North. " What is wi-it is writ." But oh ! how unlike the 
 spirit of Byron ! It is indeed pitiable. 
 
 Tickler. What the devil are you whimpering at? — Not a 
 poet living who has not indulged in his drivel. 
 
 North. Oh ! not surely to that degree ! 
 
 Tickler. Yes ; beyond the superlative. Then hear the people 
 in Parliament. What ludicrous pomposity in the enunciation 
 of old, decrepid, emaciated truths, walking arm-in-arm with 
 skeleton falsehoods ! Are there, I ask you, six men in the 
 House of Commons who could support a part in our Noctes 
 AmbrosiancB ? 
 
 North. I intend shortly to try. We shall then see of what 
 metal they are made. 
 
 Tickler. Who are the first men in England? — The spirits 
 of the age ? 
 
 1 Ilowdie — midwife.
 
 46 PRE-EMINENCE OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 North. I know none superior to our two selves. The world 
 tires speedily of everytliing set before it, except The Maga- 
 zine. All the other periodicals seem to sicken their sub- 
 scribers. To conduct the state is, I verily believe, much 
 easier than to conduct Ebony. The state goes on of itself. 
 All that the ministry is expected to do, is not to stop the 
 state. But we carry the Magazine on. A national bank- 
 ruptcy would be notliing in comparison to om* stopping pay- 
 ment. 
 
 Tickler. I know not whether your death, or that of the 
 Grreat Unknown, would most fatally ecKpse the gaiety of 
 nations. 
 
 North. Mine. 
 
 Tickler. List ! — I hear MuUion, Hogg, and ODoherty. 
 
 [Door hurst open, and they enter.)
 
 III. 
 
 (OCTOBER 1825.) 
 
 North. Let us have some sensible conversation, Timothy. 
 At our time of life such colloquy is becoming. 
 
 Tickler. Why the devil would you not come to Dalnacar- 
 doch?^ Glorious guffawing all night, and immeasurable mur- 
 der all day. Twenty-seven brace of birds, nine hares, three 
 roes, and a red deer, stained the heather on the Twelfth, 
 beneath my single-barrelled Joe — not to mention a pair of 
 patriarchal ravens, and the Loch-Ericht eagle, whose leg was 
 broken by the Prince when hiding in the moor of Rannoch. 
 
 North. Wliy kiU the royal bird ? 
 
 Tickler. In self defence. It bore down upon Sancho like a 
 simbeam from its eyrie on the cliff of Snows, and it would 
 have broken his back with one stroke of its wing, had I not 
 sent a ball right through its heart. It went up, with a yeU, 
 a hundred fathom into the clear blue air ; and then, striking a 
 green knoll in the midst of the heather, bounded down the 
 rocky hill-side, and went shivering and whizzing along the 
 black surface of a tarn, till it lay motionless in a huge heap 
 among the water-lilies. 
 
 North. Lost? 
 
 Tickler. I stripped instanter — six feet four and three quar- 
 ters in puris naturalihus — and out-Byroning Byron, shot, in 
 twenty seconds, a fmiong across the Fresh. Grasping the 
 bird of Jove in my right, with my left I rowed my airy state 
 towards the spot where I had left my breeches and other ha- 
 biliments. Espying a trimmer, I seized it in my mouth, and on 
 relanding at a small natural pier, as I hope to be shaved, lo ! a 
 pike of twenty-poimd standing, with a jaw like an alligator, 
 
 ^ A shooting quarter in the highlands of Perthshire, occupied in the summer 
 of 1825 by some fiiends of Professor Wilson.
 
 48 SPORT AT DALNACARDOCH. 
 
 and reaching from my hip to my instep, smote the heather, like 
 a flail, into a shower of blossoms. 
 
 North. "Was there a cloud of witnesses ? 
 
 Tickler. To be sure there was. A hundred stills beheld 
 me from the mountain- sides. Shepherd and smuggler cheered 
 me like voices in the sky ; and the old genius of the solitary 
 place rustled applause through the reeds and rushes, and 
 birch-trees among the rocks — paced up and down the shore 
 in triumph 
 
 North. What a subject for the painter ! Oh ! that Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence,^ or our own John Watson,^ had been there to put 
 you on canvass ! Or, shall I rather say, would that Chantrey 
 had been by to study you for immortal marble I 
 
 Tickler. Braced by the liquid plunge, I circled the tarn at 
 ten miles an hour. Unconsciously I had taken my Manton 
 into my hand — and unconsciously reloaded — when, just as I 
 was clearing the feeder-stream, not less than five yards across, 
 up springs a red-deer, who, at the death of the eagle, had 
 cowered down in the brake, and wafted away his antlers in 
 the direction of Benvoirlich. We were both going at the top 
 of owl speed when I fired, and the ball piercing his spine, the 
 magnificent creature sunk down, and died almost without a 
 convulsion. 
 
 North. Red-deer, eagle, and pike, all dead as mutton ! 
 
 Tickler. I sat down upon the forehead, resting an arm on 
 each antler — Sancho sitting with victorious eyes on the car- 
 cass. I sent him off to the tarn-side for my pocket-pistol, 
 charged with Glenlivet, No. 5. In a few minutes he returned, 
 and crouched down with an air of mortification at my feet. 
 
 North. Ho ! ho ! the fairies have spirited away your nether 
 integuments ! 
 
 Tickler. Not an article to be seen ! — save and except my 
 shoes ! — Jacket, waistcoat, flannel shirt, breeches, all melted 
 away with the mountain dew. There was I like Adam in Para- 
 dise, or, 
 
 " Lady of the Mere, 
 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance." 
 
 North. Did not the dragon-flies attack you — the winged 
 ants — and the wasp of the desert ? 
 
 ^ Sir Thomas Lawrence died in 1830. 
 
 2 Afterwards Sir John Watson Gordon, President of the Ptoyal Scottish 
 Academy.
 
 m'culloch's tour, 49 
 
 Tickler. A figure moved along the horizon — a female figure 
 — a Light and Shadow of Celtic Life — and, as I am a Christian, 
 I beheld my buckskin breeches dangling over her shoulders. 
 I neared upon the chace, but saw that Malvina was making 
 for a morass. Whiz went a ball within a stride of her petti- 
 coats, and she deflected her course towards a wood on the 
 right. She dropped our breeches. I literally leaped into 
 them ; and, like Apollo in pursuit of Daphne, pursued my im- 
 petuous career. 
 
 North. To Diana ! to Diana ascends the virgin's prayer ! 
 
 Tickler. Down went, one after the other, jacket, waistcoat, 
 flannel shirt, — would you believe it, her own blue linsey- 
 woolsey petticoat. Thus Kghtened, she bounded over the 
 little knolls like a bark over SiciKan seas ; in ten minutes 
 she had fairly run away from me hull-down, and her long 
 yellow hair, streaming like a pendant, disappeared in the 
 forest. 
 
 North. What have you done with the puir lassie's petti- 
 coat? 
 
 Tickler. I sent it to my friend Dr M'Culloch to lie among 
 his other relics. 
 
 North. The Doctor is a clever man ; but those four volumes* 
 of his are too heavy a load for the shoulders of the public. 
 Besides, the Doctor does not always speak the truth. You 
 have perhaps seen the Examination^ of his Tour ? 
 
 Tickler. Shrewd, searching, sarcastic, severe. The ex- 
 aminer — said to be a literary gentleman of the name of Brown 
 — gets the Doctor's head into Chanceiy in the first round, and 
 continues at grievous head-work during the contest, which is 
 short, the Doctor sHpping through his arms exhausted. An 
 ugly customer ! 
 
 North. People writing up books from old worm-eaten 
 weather-stained journals, must fall into many blunders — mis- 
 statements — misrepresentations. The examiner charges the 
 Doctor with wilful falsehood — and as he backs his charge with 
 proofs most ably led, the Doctor's character as a man of vera- 
 city does at this present moment stand in need of vigorous 
 vindication. 
 
 1 The Highlands and Western Isles of Scotland. By John M'Culloch, M.D. 
 
 ^ A Critical Examination of Dr M'CuUocKs Work on the Highlands of 
 Scotland. By James Brown, LL.D., Advocate, author of The Ristory of 
 the Highla.nds and Highland Clans. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 60 A HINT TO HIGHLAND TOUEISTS. 
 
 Tickler. One piece of insolence he never can do away with. 
 Throughout all the four volumes, he addresses himself wdth 
 the most nauseating familiarity to Sir Walter Scott, as if the 
 illustrious Baronet had been his bosom-friend. " You and I, 
 Sir Walter," is the order of the page. 
 
 North. That would sicken a horse. 
 
 Tickler. In narrating conversations vdth Highlanders, the 
 aim of which dramas is to expose them to ridicule, he always 
 represents them as employing the Lowland dialect. Why not 
 assert they spoke French or Hebrew ? 
 
 North. His attempts against wit are most atrocious. Hea- 
 ven protect us ! do you suppose he talks so in company ? 
 
 Tickler. Anybody that did not know the worthy Doctor so 
 weU as I do, would, I think, guess him to be a monstrous 
 miser. Everybody, according to his account, is in league to 
 cheat him — and one cannot read twenty pages of his work 
 without figuring to oneself the Doctor plodding along warily, 
 with his liand in his breeches' pocket, seeming his silk purse, 
 made out of a sow's-ear, from violation. Did he never reflect 
 on the extreme poverty of the Highlanders in many remote 
 moors and mountains, and understand the cause and charac- 
 ter of their love of money ? Is it less excusable in them than 
 in himself? 
 
 North. If idle folks will wander over the Higlilands, and get 
 the natives to show them how to follow their noses through 
 the wildernesses, ought they not to pay handsomely for being 
 saved from perdition, in bogs, quagmires, mosses, shelving 
 lake-shores, fords, and chasms? 
 
 Tickler. Undoubtedly ; and if the orphan son of some old 
 Celt, who perhaps fought under Abercromby, and lost his 
 eyes in ophthalmia, leave his ordinary work beside his sliiel- 
 ing, be it what it may, or give up a day's sport on the hiU or 
 river to accompany a Sassenach^ some tliirty miles over the 
 moors, with Ins bit nag too loaded with mineralogy and botany, 
 and all other matter of trash, are five shillings, or twice five, 
 a sufficient remuneration ? Not they indeed. Pay him like 
 a post-chaise, fifteenpence a-mile, and send him to his hut 
 rejoicing through a whole winter. 
 
 North. Spoken Hke a gentleman. So, with boats, a couple 
 
 ^ Sassenach — a Lowlauder ur Englishman.
 
 JOYS OF DALNACARDOCH. 51 
 
 of poor fellows live, and that is all, by rowing waif and stray 
 Sassenachs over lochs, or arms of the sea. No regular ferry, 
 mind you. Perhaps days and weeks pass by without their 
 boat being called for — and yet grumble and growl is the go 
 as soon as they hold out a hand for silver or gold. EecoUect, 
 old or young hunks, that you are on a tour of pleasure — that 
 you are as fat as a barn-door fowl ; and these two boatmen — 
 there they are grinding Gaehc — as lean as laths ; — what the 
 worse will you be of being cheated a httle ? But if you grudge 
 a guinea, why, go round by the head of the loch, and twenty 
 to one you are never seen again in this world. 
 
 Tickler. The Highlanders are far from being extortioners. 
 An extraordinary price must be paid for an extraordinary ser- 
 vice. But, oh ! my dear North, what grouse-soup at Dalna- 
 cardoch ! You smell it on the homeward hill, as if it were ex- 
 haling from the heather ; — deeper and deeper still, as you ap- 
 proach the beautiful chimney vomiting forth its intermitting 
 columns of cloud-hke peat-smoke, that melts afar over the 
 wilderness ! 
 
 North. Yes, Tickler — it was Burke that vindicated the 
 claims of smells to the character of the sublime and beautiful. 
 
 Tickler. Yes, yes ! Burke it was. As you enter the inn, 
 the divine afflatus penetrates your soul. When up- stairs, 
 perhaps in the garret, adorning for dinner, it rises like a 
 cloud of rich distilled perfumes through every chink on the 
 floor, every cranny of the wall. The little mouse issues from 
 his hole, close to the foot of the bed-post, and raising himself, 
 squirrel-Uke, on his hinder-legs, whets his tusks with his 
 merry paws, and smooths his whiskers. 
 
 North. Shakespearean ! 
 
 Tickler. There we are, a band of brothers round the glori- 
 ous tureen! Down goes the ladle into '■'■ a profundis clamavi," 
 and up floats from that blessed Erebus a dozen cunningly 
 resuscitated spirits. Old cocks, bitter to the back-bone, lov- 
 ingly alternating with young pouts, whose swelling bosoms 
 might seduce an anchorite ! 
 
 North {rising). I must ring for supper. Ambrose — Ambrose 
 — Ambrose ! 
 
 Tickler. No respect of persons at Dalnacardoch ! I plump 
 them into the plates around sans selection. No matter al-
 
 52 HIGHLAND FEELING. WATERFALLS. 
 
 though the soup play jawp^ from preses to croupier. There, 
 too, sit a few choice spirits of pointers round the board — Don 
 — Jupiter — Sancho — "and the rest" — with steadfast eyes 
 and dewy chops, patient alike of heat, cold, thirst, and 
 hunger — dogs of the desert indeed, and nose-led by unerring 
 instinct right up to the cowering covey in the heather groves 
 on the mountain-side. 
 
 North. Is eagle good eating, Timothy ? Pococke the tra- 
 veller used to eat lion : lion pasty is excellent, it is said — but 
 is not eagle tough ? 
 
 Tickler. Thigh good, devilled. The delight of the High- 
 lands is in the Highland feeling. That feeling is entirely 
 destroyed by stages and regular progression. The waterfalls 
 do not tell upon sober parties — it is tedious in the extreme 
 to be drenched to the skin along high-roads — the rattle of 
 wheels blends meanly with thunder — and lightning is con- 
 temptible, seen from the window of a glass coach. To enjoy 
 mist, you must be in the heart of it as a solitary hunter, 
 shooter, or angler. Lightning is nothing unless a thousand 
 feet below you,^ and the live thunder must be heard leaping, 
 as Byron says, from mountain to mountain, otherwise you 
 might as well listen to a mock peal from the pit of a theatre. 
 
 North. The Fall of Foyers is terrible — a deep abyss, savage 
 rock-works, hideous groans, ghost-Hke vapours, and a rumble 
 as if from eternity. 
 
 Tickler. The Falls of the Clyde are majestic. Over Corra 
 Linn the river rolls exultingly ; and, recovering itself from 
 that headlong plunge, after some troubled struggles among 
 the shattered cliffs, away it floats in stately pomp, dallying 
 with the noble banks, and subsiding into a deep bright foam- 
 ing current. Then what woods and groves crowning the 
 noble rocks ! How cheerful laughs the cottage pestered by 
 the spray ! and how vivid the verdure on each ivied ruin ! 
 The cooing of the cushats is a solemn accompaniment to the 
 cataract, and aloft in heaven the choughs reply to that voice 
 of the Forest. 
 
 1 Jawp — splash. 
 
 2 In his "Address to a Wild Deer," Professor Wilson says of the hunter: 
 
 " 'Tis bis, by tbe mouth of some cavern his seat, 
 The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, 
 Wliile the thunder below him that growls from tbe cloud, 
 To him comes on echo more awfully loud."
 
 NATUKE AKD ART. 53 
 
 North. Yes, Tickler — what, after all, equals natui-e ! Here 
 in Ambrose's — waiting for a board of oysters — the season has 
 recommenced — I can sit with my cigar in my mouth, and as 
 the whiif ascends, fancy sees the spray of Stonebyres, or of 
 the Falls of the Beauly, the radiant mists of the Dresne ! I 
 agree ^vith Bowles, that nature is all in all for the purpose of 
 poetry — Art stark naught.^ 
 
 Tickler. Yet softly. Who planted those trees by that river 
 side ? — Art. Who pruned them ? — Ai't. Who gave room to 
 their giant arms to span that roaring chasm? — Art. Who 
 reared yon edifice on the clifi"? — Art. Who flung that stately 
 arch from rock to rock, under which the martins twitter over 
 the unfeared cataract ? — Art. Who darkened that long line 
 of precipice with dreadful or glorious associations? — Art, 
 pohty, law, war, outrage, and history, writing her hierogly- 
 phics with fire on the scarred visage of those natural battle- 
 ments. Is that a hermit's cell? Art scooped it out of the 
 living stone. Is that an oratory ? Ai't smoothed the floor for 
 the knee of the penitent. Are the bones of the holy slumber- 
 ing in that cemeteiy ? Ai't changed the hollow rock into a 
 tomb, and when the dead saint was laid into the sepidchre. 
 Art joined its music with the torrent's roar, and the mingled 
 anthem rose to the stars which Art had numbered and 
 sprinkled into stations over the firmament of Heaven. What 
 then would Bowles be at, and why more last words to Eoscoe ? 
 Who made liis ink, his pens, and his paper? — Art. Who 
 pubHshed his books? — Art. Who criticised them? — Art. 
 Who would fain have damned them ? — The Art of the Edin- 
 burgh Review. And who has been their salvation ? — The Ai't 
 of Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 North. Go on, I'U follow thee. Is a great militai-y road 
 over a mountain, groaning with artillery, bristling with 
 bayonets, sounding with bands of music, trampling wdth 
 cavahy, red, blue, and yellow, with war-di-esses, streaming it 
 may be with blood, and overburdened with the standards of 
 mighty nations, less poetical than a vast untrodden Andes, 
 magnificent as may be its solitudes beneath the moon or 
 stars ? Is a naked savage more poetical than with liis plume, 
 club, war-mat, and tomahawk? Is a log of wood, be it a 
 whole uprooted pine, di-ifting on the ocean, as poetical as a 
 
 ^ See ante, p. 12, note 2.
 
 64 THE SHEPHERD IN FULL DRESS. 
 
 hundred-oared canoe ? What more sublkne than the anchor 
 by which a great ship hangs in safety within roar of the 
 whirlpool ? Than the plummet that speaks of the rock foun- 
 dations of the eternal sea ? 
 
 Tickler. What is the chief end of man ? — Art. That is a 
 clencher. 
 
 North. I cannot imagine, for the life of me, what Ambrose 
 is about. Hush ! there he comes. [Enter Ambrose.) What is 
 the meaning of this, sir ? 
 
 Ambrose. Unfold. 
 [Folding-doors thrown open, and supper-table is shown.) 
 
 Tickler. What an epergne ! Art — art. What would our 
 friend Bowles say to that, North? "Tadmore thus, and 
 Syrian Balbec rose." — [Transeunt omnes.) 
 
 Scene II. — The Pitt Saloon. 
 
 North. Hogg, with his hair powdered, as I endure ! — God 
 bless you, James — ^how are you all at Altrive ? 
 
 Shepherd. All's well — wool up — nowte^ on the rise — ^harvest 
 stacked -without a shower — potatoes like stones in the Meg- 
 gat^ — turnips like cabbages, and cabbages like baloons — 
 bairns brawly, and Mistress bonnier than ever. — It is quite an 
 annus mirabilis. 
 
 Tickler. James, my heart warms to hear your voice. That 
 suit of black becomes you extremely — you would make an 
 excellent Moderator of the General Assembly.^ 
 
 Shepherd. You mistake the matter entirely, Tickler; your 
 eyesight fails you ; — my coat is a dark blue — waistcoat and 
 breeches the same — but old people discern objects indistinctly 
 by candle-light, — or I shaU rather say, by gas-Hght. The 
 radiance is beautiful. 
 
 Tickler. The radiance is beautiful ! 
 
 Shepherd. Why, you are like old Polonius in the play ! I 
 hate an echo — be original or silent. 
 
 Tickler. James ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Hogg, if you pleese, sir. Why, you think 
 because I am good-natured, that you and North, and " the 
 rest," are to quizz the Shepherd ? Be it so — no objections — 
 But hearken to me, Mr Tickler, my name will be remembered 
 
 1 Nowte — cattle. ^ A stream near Hogg's farm. 
 
 3 Of the Church of Scotland.
 
 THE COCKNEYS. 55 
 
 when the dust of oblivion is yard-deep on the gravestone of 
 the whole generation of Ticklers. — Who are you — what are 
 you — whence are you — whither are you going, and what have 
 you got to say for yourself? A tall fellow, undoubtedly — but 
 Measure for Measure is the comedy in which I choose to act 
 to-night — so, gentlemen, be civil — or I will join the party at 
 Spinks' ^ — and set up an opposition Magazine, that .... 
 
 North. This is most extraordinary behaviour, Mr Hogg, 
 and any apology 
 
 Shepherd. I forgive you, Mr North — but 
 
 North. Come — come, you see Tickler is much affected. 
 
 Shepherd. So am I, sir, — ^but is it to be endured 
 
 Tickler. Pardon me, James ; say that you pardon me — at 
 my time of Hfe a man cannot afford to lose a friend. No, he 
 cannot indeed. 
 
 Shepherd. Your hand, Mr Tickler. But I wiU not be the 
 butt of any company. 
 
 North. I fear some insidious enemy has been poisoning your 
 ear, James. Never has any one of us ceased, for a moment, 
 to respect you, or to hear you with respect, from the time that 
 you WTOte the Chaldee Manuscript 
 
 Shepherd. Not another word — not another word — if you 
 love me. 
 
 North. Have the Cockneys been bribing you to desert us, 
 James ? 
 
 Shepherd. The Cockneys ! Puir misbegotten deevils ! (I 
 maun speak Scotch again now that I'm in good humour). I 
 would rather crack nuts for a haill winter's nicht wi' a monkey, 
 than drink the best peck o' mawt that ever was brewed wi' 
 the King himsel o' that kintra. 
 
 North. I understood you were going to visit London this 
 winter. 
 
 Shepherd. I am. But I shall choose my ain society there, 
 as I do in Embro' and Yarrow. Oh ! Mr North, but the 
 Cockneys are vicious upon Scotland the noo — and mair espe- 
 cially upon your Magazine. You may hae seen a noble, gran', 
 majestic cotch wi' four, or aiblins sax bluid-horses, wheeHng 
 awa so smoothly, and wi' sae little splutter, that it seemed to 
 be rinnin only at about seven miles an hour, when a' the 
 
 ^ Spinks' Hotel, — the resort (real or supposed) of opposition literarj' con- 
 vivialists.
 
 Oo LADIES EATING, 
 
 while it was snoovin^ at tliirteen, — and a' at ance some half- 
 a-score o' mangy mongrels come yelping frae a close, or court, 
 whare they had been howkin out food from the fulzie, and 
 tr}T.ng to bite the verra rims, and spokes, and axle-tree, and 
 hoofs, half-hungry and haK-angry, half-fearfu' and half-spitefu', 
 some wi' cocket tails, but maist o' them wi' tails atween their 
 legs, and wi' bleared e'en watching the wliip at every flourish 
 o' the gawcy^ driver, sittin on his box like a thi-one o' state, 
 — ane gets a clour on the head o' him frae a stane that gangs 
 spinnin aff the wheel — anither gets a stamp frae the hind- 
 hoof o' Bucephalus — a tliird sprawls into the keimel, pursy 
 and short-winded on garbage — a fourth staggering in his 
 fright between twa passers-by, after a caning from the one, is 
 kicked by the other underneath a cobbler's stall — a fifth Hes 
 down, panting as if his heart would break in the Macadamised 
 mire of the approach to a great city, and pretends to be chaw- 
 ing a bone, whereas he is in truth licking his mangled paws 
 — a sixth splutters off in qmie an opposite direction, wi' a 
 yell that rues the day in which he and eleven other cynics 
 were bom — while a seventh (stranger to the rest of the pack) 
 comes jingling by with a kettle at liis tail, and throws quite 
 a martial afr over the meeting from his instrumental music — 
 an eighth 
 
 North, Stop, James — stop — You have given me a pain in 
 my side. 
 
 Shepherd. WiU you pree^ this blumanch, Mr North — 
 it gangs sHpping awa down the hawse* without let or im- 
 pediment, and lies on the stomach as snaw on snaw, Mr 
 Tickler. 
 
 Tickler. God bless you, James — another lobster — scarcely 
 killed yet — ^but sweet as kisses .... 
 
 Shepherd. Kisses ! Think shame o' yoursel. You that 
 micht be, and perhaps are, a great-great-great-grandfather, 
 speaking o' kisses afore twa callants^ like me and Mr North! 
 
 North. By the by, Shepherd, have you ever observed that 
 ladies — married ladies chiefly — who are more than ordinarily 
 religious, are very fond of good eating ? 
 
 Shepherd. Without religion a woman's just an even-doun 
 deevil — wi' religion she canna, in spite o' her teeth, be ony- 
 
 1 Snoovin — making way quietly but rapidly. ^ Qawcy — portly. 
 
 3 Free— ivy. * Hawse — throat. ^ Callant — young lad.
 
 A CHARADE. 57 
 
 tiling else than an angel. But oh, sirs ! Gluttony and greed 
 in God's maist glorious earthly creatxires is fearsome ! 
 
 North. I agree with Byron in thinking that a lady shoTild 
 be cautious what and how she eats — in presence of her lover 
 or husband. Tripe, oysters, pork chops, pease soup, a lady 
 should be shy of. 
 
 Shepherd. And rumbledethumps. 
 
 North. May I ask, with all due solemnity, what are they ? 
 
 Shepherd. Something like Mr HazKtt's character of Shake- 
 speare. Take a peck of purtatoes, and put them into a boyne' 
 — at them with a beetle — a dab of butter — the beetle again — 
 anither dab — then cabbage — purtato — beetle and dab — saut 
 meanwhile — and a shake o' common black pepper — feenally, 
 cabbage and purtato throughither — pree, and you'll fin' them 
 decent rumbledethumps. 
 
 North. Speaking of Mr Hazlitt — what think you of this 
 charade ? 
 
 Pygmalion is proud o'er his cups to disclose 
 
 Like a gem from Golcouda my Twit^ at his nose ; 
 
 Bacchus Hunt through the kingdom of Cockaigne is reckon' d, 
 
 In his bright yellow breeches, the Flower of my Second ; 
 
 " Be my Whole," cries Kit North, " to the winds flimg away, 
 
 When my clans of Contributors rush to the fray." 
 
 Shepherd. I have it — I have it. It's a gude sharradd — but 
 rather ower easy. Scabbards ! — Scab, ye ken, and bards. 
 
 Tickler. I hate personalities. Besides, why call that a scab 
 which is only a pimple ? 
 
 1 Boyne — a large pot. 
 
 2 For " twit" we shovild read "first ;" and so it was originally written. Twit 
 was perhaps an accident of the press ; perhaps a substitution by some pungent 
 ally of Wilson's, who, having seen the proof, inserted the more pointed word. 
 " Pygmalion " was Hazlitt, who had published a book entitled " Liber amoris, 
 or the New Pygmalion," for the character of which the reader is referred to 
 BlackwoocCs Magazine, vol. xiii. p. 640. Leigh Hunt "in his bright yellow 
 breeches" (a facetious allusion to his nether attire, when a pupil of Christ's 
 Hospital, London, where so many eminent men have been educated), was 
 the translator of Eedi's Bacchus in Tuscany. These personalities (biting 
 enough, perhaps, at the time) were compensated at a later period by Chris- 
 topher North, when, indignantly repudiating an offer made by some low 
 hireling to run down Leigh Hunt and his London Jouryial, he exclaims, in 
 words worthy of being written in letters of gold, " The Animositibs arjb 
 MORTAL ; BUT THE HUMANITIES LIVE FOR EVER." — See Noctes Amhros\an(B for 
 August 1834. Leigh Hunt's Legend of Florence was reviewed by Professor 
 Wilson in Blackwood (March 1840) in terms of high commendation.
 
 58 SERMONS. — BYRON. 
 
 Shepherd. I wuss tlie conversation would tak something 
 mair o' a leeterary turn — or wax plailosophical, or theological, 
 or even political. Has ony gude body o' Divinity been pub- 
 lished since I was last at Ambrose's, Mr Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. No. A few volumes of Discourses, Sermons, Lec- 
 tures, Charges, and so forth, but nothing worth taking with 
 you to Yarrow, James. They want unction sadly. 
 
 North. In every sermon I have written — and the number is 
 not few — I have carefully avoided subdivisions and practical 
 conclusions. I have inspired a vital spirit through the whole 
 composition. My sermons have always been exhortations — 
 extreme length thirty minutes. They have in general been 
 successfully preached to crowded congregations — ^little sleep, 
 and no snoring — and have pleased both town and country. 
 
 Shepherd. Havers. Either you or Mr Tickler would be an 
 awfa' sight in a poupit — though I have seen some grim 
 carls there, it maun be confessed, dreigh^ at the thocht, and 
 dour^ at the delivery. But let me see, is there ony thing 
 stirring in the poetical way ? Alas ! poor Byron. 
 
 North. People say, James, that Byron's tragedies are 
 failures. Fools I Is Cain, the dark, dim, disturbed, insane, 
 hell-haunted Cain, a failure ? Is Sardanapalus, the passionate, 
 princely, philosopliical, joy-cheated, throne-wearied voluptu- 
 ary, a failure ? Is Heaven and Earth, that magnificent con- 
 fusion of two worlds, in which mortal beings mingle in love 
 and hate, joy and despair, with immortal — the children of dust 
 claiming alliance with the radiant progeny of the skies, till 
 man and angel seem to partake of one divine being, and to 
 be essences eternal in bliss or bale, — is Heaven and Earth, I 
 ask you, James, a failure? If so, then Apollo has stopt 
 payment — promising a dividend of one shilling in the pound 
 — and all concerned in that house are bankrupts. 
 
 Tickler. You have nobly — gloriously vindicated Byron,' 
 North, and in doing so, have vindicated the moral and intel- 
 lectual character of our country. Miserable and pernicious 
 creed, that holds possible the lasting and intimate union of 
 the first, purest, liighest, noblest, and most celestial powers 
 of soul and spirit, with confirmed appetencies, foul and 
 degrading lust, cowardice, cruelty, meanness, hypocrisy, 
 
 1 Dreigh — ^tedious. ^ Dour — harsh. Lat. durus. 
 
 3 In BlachwoodCs Magazine for February 1825.
 
 PRIZE POEMS. 59 
 
 avarice, and impiety ! You, — in a strong attempt made to hold 
 up to execration the nature of Byron as deformed by all those 
 hideous vices, — you, my friend, reverently unveiled the coun- 
 tenance of the mighty dead, and the lineaments struck 
 remorse into the heart of every asperser. You wi'ote a noble 
 prose commentary on those verses of my friend Charles Grant ^ 
 — although, perhaps, you never saw them — but congenial 
 gpii'its speak one language on all great themes, in every age 
 and in every country, separated though they may be by lands or 
 seas, or by the darkness of centuries. Beautiful verses they are. 
 
 " Talents, 'tis true, quick, various, bright, hath God 
 To Virtue oft denied, on Vice bestow'd ; 
 Just as fond Nature lovelier colours brings 
 To deck the insect's than the eagle's "wings. 
 But then of Man, the high-born nobler part. 
 The ethereal energies that touch the heart, 
 Creative Fancy, labouring Thought intense, 
 Imagination's wild magnificence, 
 And all the dread sublimities of song — 
 These, Virtue ! these to thee alone belong ! " 
 
 Shepherd. Gude safe us, man, Mr Tickler, but these be 
 bonny, bonny verses. Wha's the composer ? 
 
 Tickler. College — University — Cambridge — Prize verses, 
 James. 
 
 Shepherd. The deevil they are — that's maist extraordinary. 
 
 North. It is the fashion to undervalue Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge Prize Poems — but it is a stupid fashion. Many of them 
 are most beautiful. Heber's " Palestine ! " A flight, as upon 
 angel's wing, over the Holy Land ! How fine the opening ! 
 
 " Eeft of thy sons ! amid thy foes forlorn, 
 Mourn, widow'd Queen ! forgotten Zion, mourn ! 
 Is this thy place, sad City, this thy throne. 
 Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone ? 
 Where suns unblest their angiy lustre iiing. 
 And way-worn travellers seek the scanty spring ? 
 Where now the pomp that kings with envy view'd ? 
 Where now the might that all those kings subdued ? 
 No martial myriads muster in thy gate, 
 No prostrate nations in thy temple wait, 
 
 ^ Afterwards Lord Olenelg.
 
 60 MACAULAY AND PRAED. 
 
 No prophet-lords thy glittering courts among 
 Wake the full lyre, or sweep the flood of song, 
 But meagre Want and haggard Hate is there, 
 And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear ; 
 While cold Oblivion, mid thy ruins laid. 
 Folds his dark wing beneath the ivied shade." 
 
 Tickler. More than one of Wrangham's Prize Poems are 
 excellent — Eichard's " Aboriginal Britons " is a powerful and 
 picturesque performance — Chinnery's " Dying Gladiator" 
 magnificent — and Milman's "Apollo Belvidere " splendid, 
 beautiful, and majestic. 
 
 North. Macaulay and Praed have written very good Prize 
 Poems. These two young gentlemen ought to make a figure 
 in the world. By the way, you would be glad to see, Tickler, 
 that Knight's Quarterly Magazine is rediviva f 
 
 Tickler. I was so. May it flourish. It is an able and elegant 
 miscellany. Methinks I see the Opium-Eater in last number. 
 Having now connected himself with gentlemen, may his career 
 be bright and prosperous, for he is a man of a million. 
 
 North. His original genius and consummate scholarsliip 
 speedily effected the damnation of Taylor and Hessey's 
 Magazine, according to my prophecy. All the other contri- 
 butions looked such ninnies beside him, that the pubHc burst 
 out a-laughing in the poor Magazine's face. Then one and 
 all of them began mimicking our friend, and pretended to be 
 Opium-eaters. Now, the effect of the poppy upon the puppy 
 is most offensive to the bystanders, and need not be described. 
 A few grains were administered to the Ass's head in the 
 Lion's skin,^ who forthwith opined himself to be an editor, and 
 brayed upon the contributors, in the language of Shakespeare, 
 
 Friends, countrymen, and Luddites,- 
 Lend me tour ears. 
 
 Taylor and Hessey, heaiing " the din of battle bray," fled 
 from the field. 
 
 Tickler. I fear the commissariat department is at present 
 badly conducted. The army is in great want of provisions. 
 
 Shepherd. Puir fallows ! they seem sairly disheartened, and 
 to have lost a' discipline. What's the use o' their aye 
 tantararaing wi' the trumpet, and rat-a-tooing on the drum, 
 
 ^ The Lion's Head was the title under which Taylor and Hessej^s Magazine 
 .addressed its " Notices to Correspondents." 2 Luddites — rebels.
 
 DE QUINCE Y. 61 
 
 when the troops are inaistly a' without muskets or beggonets/ 
 have never got richtly out o' the aukward squad, keep trampin 
 on ane anither's heels, and aye cursin and swearin like so 
 mony Ummers^ lugged alang by the poleish^ to Bridewell? 
 
 Tickler. Political Economy is not a subject for a Magazine. 
 Its principles should be explained at once — brought continu- 
 ously before the mind. They may be applied to important 
 subjects of trade and polity in a Magazine, as they often have 
 been in yours, North — but the elements of the science must 
 be given in a volume. The Opium-Eater frittered away his 
 philosophy of that science in detached papers that produced 
 no effect on the public mind.* 
 
 North. I agree with you perfectly. Would that we had 
 his promised " Eomance!" For, with all his logic, he is a 
 man of imagination, and, bating a little formal pedantry 
 now and then, a master of the English language, God bless 
 him. 
 
 Tickler. James, you are the worst smoker of a cigar in 
 Christendom. No occasion to blow like a hippopotamus. 
 Look at me or North — you would not know we breathed. 
 
 Shepherd. It's to keep mysel frae fallin asleep. I never 
 heard you baith muckle mair stupider than you have been a' 
 the nicht. A' my wonder is, how you contrive to keep up 
 that Magazine. It's a waefu' sicht to see a' the other Magas 
 pining awa in a kind o' green sickness, just for want o' con- 
 tributors, little bigger in bulk than the Living Skeleton now 
 in London. But there gangs our ain Maga, a strapping quean, 
 wi' a satisfied ee, a lilting voice, and a step o' elasticity, and, 
 may I say it without coorseness, she's perpetually in the 
 family-way. But Maga's your honest wedded wife, Mr North 
 — and all her productions are legitimate. Hear till that auld 
 watchman, crawing the hour like a bit bantam. What's the 
 cretur screeching? Twa o'clock!! Mercy me! — we maiin 
 be aff. {^Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 1 Beggonets — bayonets. 
 
 2 Limmers — worthless characters, usually applied to women. 
 ^ Poleish — poUce. 
 
 * Of these " detached papers" which have since been republished in Mr 
 De Quincey's collected works, Mr M'Culloch says (in his, Literature of Political 
 Economy) that " they are unequalled, perhaps, for brevity, pungency, and 
 force. They not only bring the Ricardian theory of value into strong relief, 
 but triumphantly repel, or rather annihilate, the objections urged against it 
 by Malthus, Say, and others. They may indeed be said to have exhausted 
 the subioct."
 
 IV. 
 
 (DECEMBER 1825.) 
 
 North, Shepherd, Tickler. 
 
 North. Thank heaven for winter 1 Would that it lasted all 
 year long ! Spring is pretty well in its way, with budding 
 branches and carolling birds, and wimpling bumies, and 
 fleecy skies, and dew-like showers softening and brightening 
 the bosom of old mother earth. Summer is not much amiss, 
 with umbrageous woods, glittering atmosphere, and awaken- 
 ing thunder-storms. Nor let me libel Autumn in her gorgeous 
 bounty, and her beautiful decays. But Winter, dear cold- 
 handed, warm-hearted Winter, welcome thou to my fur-clad 
 bosom ! Thine are the sharp, short, bracing, invigorating 
 days, that screw up muscle, fibre, and nerve, like the strings 
 of an old Cremona discoursing excellent music — thine the 
 long snow- silent or hail-rattling nights, with eartlily firesides 
 and heavenly luminaries, for home comforts, or travelling 
 imaginations, for undisturbed imprisonment, or unbounded 
 freedom, for the affections of the heart and the flights of the 
 soul ! Thine too 
 
 Shepherd. Thine too, skatin, and curlin, and grewin,* and 
 a' sorts o' deevilry amang lads and lasses at rockins and 
 kirns. Beef and greens I Beef and greens I 0, Mr North, 
 beef and greens ! 
 
 North. Yes, James, I sympathise with your enthusiasm. 
 Now, and now only, do carrots and turnips deserve the name. 
 The season this of nimps and rounds. Now the whole nation 
 sets in for serious eating — serious and substantial eating, 
 James, half leisure, half labour — the table loaded with a lease 
 
 1 Grewin — coursing.
 
 WINTER. — THE POOR-LAWS. 63 
 
 of life, and each dish a year. In the presence of that Haggis, 
 I feel myself immortal. 
 
 Shepherd. Butcher-meat, though, and coals, are likely, let 
 me tell you, to sell at a perfec' ransom frae Martinmas to 
 Michaelmas. 
 
 North. Paltry thought. Let beeves and muttons look up, 
 even to the stars, and fuel be precious as at the Pole. Another 
 sHce of the stot, James, another slice of the stot — and, Mr 
 Ambrose, smash that half-ton lump of black diamond till the 
 cliimney roar and radiate like Mount Vesuvius. — Why so 
 glum, Tickler ? — why so glum ? 
 
 Tickler. Tlais outrageous merriment grates my spirits. I 
 am not in the mood. 'Twill be a severe winter, and I think 
 of the poor. 
 
 North. Why the devil think of the poor at this time of day ? 
 Are not wages good, and work plenty, and is not charity a 
 British virtue ? 
 
 Shepherd. I never heard sic even-doun nonsense, Mr Tickler, 
 in a' my born days. I met a puir woman ganging alang the 
 brigg, wi' a deevil's dizzen o' bairns, ilka ane wi' a daud^ o' 
 breid in the tae haun and a whang ^ o' cheese i' the tither, 
 while their cheeks were a' blawn out like sae mony Boreases, 
 wi' something better than wun' ; and the mither hersel, a weel- 
 faur'd hizzie, tearia awa at the fleshy shank o' a marrow-bane, 
 mad wi' hunger, but no wi' starvation, for these are twa dif- 
 ferent things, Mr Tickler. I can assure you that puir folks, 
 mair especially gin they be beggars, are hungry four or five 
 times a-day; but starvation is seen at night sitting by an 
 empty aumry^ and a cauld hearthstane. There's little or nae 
 starvation the now, in Scotlan' ! 
 
 North. The people are, on the whole, well off. — Take some 
 pickles, Timothy, to your steak. Dickson's* mustard is 
 superb. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna say that I a'thegither just properly un- 
 derstan' the system o' the puir-laws ; but I ken this, that puir 
 folks there will be till the end o' Blackwood's Magazine^ and, 
 that granted, maun there no be some kind o' pro\'ision for 
 them, though it may be kittle^ to calculate the preceese 
 amount ? 
 
 1 Baud — lump. ^ Whang— ^ce. •* Aumry — cupboard in a comer. 
 * An Edinburgh seedsman. ^ Kittle — difficult.
 
 64 TICKLER S APPETITE. 
 
 North. Are the English people a dependent, ignorant, gro- 
 velling, mean, debased, and brutal people ? 
 
 Shepherd. Not they, indeed — they're a powerfu' population, 
 second only to the Scotch. The English puir-laws had better 
 be cut down some twa-three millions, but no aboHshed. Thae 
 Political Economy creatures are a cruel set — greedier their- 
 sels than gaberlunzies^ — yet grudging a handfu' o' meal to 
 an auld wife's wallet. Charity is in the heart, not in the head, 
 and the open haun should be stretched out o' the sudden, 
 unasked and free, not held back wi' clutched fingers like a 
 meeser, while the Wiseacre shakes his head in cauldrife^ cal- 
 culation, and ties a knot on the purse o' him on principle. 
 
 North. Well said, James, although perhaps your tenets are 
 scarcely tenable. 
 
 Shepherd. Scarcely tenable? Wha'll take them frae me 
 either by force or reason ? Oh ! we're fa'en into argument, 
 and that's what I canna thole' at meals. Mr Tickler, there's 
 nae occasion, man, to look sae down-in-the-mouth — everybody 
 kens ye're a man o' genius, without your pretending to be 
 melancholy. 
 
 Tickler. I have no appetite, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae appeteet ! how suld ye hae an appeteet ? A 
 bowl o' Molly go-tawny soup, wi' bread in proportion — twa 
 codKns (wi' maist part o' a labster in that sass), the first gash 
 o' the jiget — stakes — then I'm maist sure, pallets, and finally 
 guse — no to count jeellies and coosturd, and bluemange, and 
 many million mites in that Campsie StUton — better than ony 
 English — a pot o' Draught — twa lang shankers o' ale — noos 
 and thans a sip o' the auld port, and just afore grace a caulker 
 o' Glenlivet, that made your een glower and water in your 
 head as if you had been lookin at Mrs Siddons in the sleep- 
 walking scene in Shakspeare's tragedy of Macbeth — gin ye 
 had an appeteet after a' that destraction o' animal and vege- 
 table matter, your maw would be like that o' Death himsel, 
 and your stamach insatiable as the grave. 
 
 Tickler. Mr Ambrose, no laughter, if you please, sir. 
 
 North. Come, come, Tickler — had Hogg and Heraclitus 
 been contemporaries, it would have saved the shedding of a 
 world of tears. 
 
 Shepherd. Just laugh your fill, Mr Ambrose. A smtle is 
 ^ Gaberlumies — mendicants. ^ Cauldrife — chill. ^ Thole — endure.
 
 Ambrose's waiting. 65 
 
 aye becoming that honest face o' yours. But I'll no be 
 sae wutty agam, gin I can help it. 
 
 [Exit Mr Ambrose tvith the epergne.) 
 
 Tickler. Mr Ambrose understands me. It does my heart 
 good to know when his arm is carefully extended over my 
 shoulder, to put down or to remove. None of that hurry-and- 
 no-speed waiter-like hastiness about our Ambrose ! With an 
 ever-observant eye he watches the goings-on of the board, like 
 an astronomer watcloing the planetary system. He knows 
 when a plate is emptied to be filled no more, and lo ! it is 
 withdrawn as by an invisible hand. Dming some " syncope 
 and solemn pause" you may lay down your knife and fork 
 and wipe your brow, nor dread the evanishing of a half- 
 devoured howtowdy ; the moment your eye has decided on a 
 dish, there he stands plate in hand in a twinkling beside 
 tongue or turkey ! No playing at cross purposes — the sheep's 
 head of MulUon usurping the place of the kidneys of ODo- 
 herty. The most perfect confidence reigns round the board. 
 The possibility of mistake is felt to be beyond the fear of the 
 hungriest imagination; and sooner shall one of Jupiter's satel- 
 lites forsake liis orbit, jostling the stars, and wheeling away 
 into some remoter system, than our Ambrose run against any of 
 the subordinates, or leave the room while North is in his chair. 
 
 North. Hear the Glenlivet ! — hear the Glenlivet ! 
 
 Shepherd. No, Mr North, nane o' your enviou^ attributions 
 o' ae spirit for anither. It's the sowl within him that breaks 
 out, hke lightning in the collied ^ night, or in the dwawm-like'' 
 silence o' a glen the sudden soun' o' a trumpet. 
 
 Tickler. Give me your hand, James. 
 
 Shepherd. There noo — there noo. It's aye me that's said 
 to be sae fond o' flattery ; and yet only see how by a single 
 word o' my mouth I can add sax inches to your stature, Mr 
 Tickler, and make ye girn like the spirit that saluted De 
 Gama at the Cape o' Storms. 
 
 North. Hear the Glenlivet ! — hear the Glenlivet ! 
 
 Shepherd. Hush, ye haveril.^ Give us a speech yoursel, 
 Mr North, and then see who'll cry, " Hear the Glenlivet ! — 
 
 1 " Like lightning in the collied night," Midsummer Night's Dream. Collied 
 — blackened as with coal. 
 
 2 Dwavjm-iike — swoon-like. ^ ffaveril—a. chattering half-witted person. 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 66 
 
 SHEPHERDS SONG. 
 
 hear the Glenlivet ! " then. But hand your tongues, baith o' 
 you— dinna stu- a fit. And as for you, Mr Tickler, howk 
 the tow out o' your lug, and hear till a sang. 
 
 THE BKAKENS^ Wl' ME.^ 
 
 Air — "Driving the Steers." 
 
 1-^ 
 
 
 -^2j- 
 
 
 i 
 
 'P^. 
 
 4- *- »- 
 
 I'll sing of yon glen o' red heather, An' a dear thing that ca's 
 
 S- 
 
 —,0^- 
 
 W^ 
 
 3i£p3=^T3eg^ 
 
 -•— "=^ — I ^^ 
 
 it her hame, Wha'a a' made o' love-life to - ge - ther, Frae the 
 
 lEjEpE^j^pgfig;; 
 
 :i=i^ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^>^P=^ 
 
 tie o' the shoe to the kembe. Love beckons in ev'-ry sweet motion, Com- 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 =F=j*: 
 
 ? 
 
 -*- 
 
 
 
 El: 
 
 -•- 
 
 
 — •— 
 
 =F 
 
 manding due homage to gie ; But the shrine of my dear - est de - vo - tiou 
 
 lE"fe5E^^-E3^E?3d 
 
 m: 
 
 Is the bend o' her bou - ny ee bree. 
 
 2. 
 I fleeched and I prayed the dear lassie 
 
 To gang to the brakens wi' me, 
 But though neither lordly nor saucy, 
 
 Her answer was, " Laith will I be. 
 Ah, is it uae cruel to press me 
 
 To that which wad breed my heart wae. 
 An' try to entice a poor lassie 
 
 The gate she's o'er ready to gae. 
 
 1 Brakens — fern. 
 
 2 Wi'itten by Hogg.
 
 THE YORK FESTIVAL. 67 
 
 3. 
 
 " I neither hae father nor mither, 
 
 Good counsel or caution to gie, 
 And prudence has whisper'd me never 
 
 To gang to the brakens wi' thee. 
 I neither hae tocher nor mailing, 
 
 I hae but ae boast — I am free ; 
 But a' wad be tint without failing 
 
 Amang the green brakens wi' thee." 
 
 4. 
 " Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me, 
 
 And try youi- ain love to beguile. 
 For ye are the richest young lady 
 
 That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile. 
 Your smile that is blither than ony, 
 
 The bend o' your sunny ee-bree. 
 And the love-blinks aneath it sae bonny, 
 
 Are five hunder thousand to me." 
 
 5. 
 There's joy in the blithe blooming feature, 
 
 "When love lurks in every young line ; 
 There's joy in the beauties of nature. 
 
 There's joy in the dance and the wine ; 
 But there's a delight will ne'er perish 
 
 'Mong pleasures so fleeting and vain. 
 And that is to love and to cherish 
 
 The fond little heart that's our ain. 
 
 Tickler [Passing his hand across his eyes). " I'm never merry 
 when I hear sweet music." 
 
 North. Your voice, James, absolutely gets mellower through 
 years. Next York Festival you must sing a solo — " Angels 
 ever bright and fail-," or " Farewell, ye limpid streams and 
 floods." 
 
 Shepherd. I was at the last York Festival, and one day I 
 was in the chorus, next to Grundy of Kii-k-by-Lonsdale. I 
 kent my mouth was wide open, but I never heard my ain 
 voice in the magnificent roar. 
 
 North. Describe — James — describe. 
 
 Shepherd. As weel describe a glorious dream of the seventh 
 heaven. Thousands upon thousands o' the most beautiful
 
 68 PAINTING. 
 
 angels sat mute and still in the Cathedral. Weel may I call 
 them angels, although a' the time I knew them to be frail 
 evanescent creatures o' this ever-changing earth. A sort o' 
 paleness was on their faces, ay, even on the faces where the 
 blush-roses o' innocence were blooming like the flowers o' 
 Paradise — for a shadow came ower them frae the awe o' their 
 religious hearts that beat not, but were chained as in the pre- 
 sence of their Great Maker. All eyne were fixed in a solemn, 
 raised gaze, something mournful-like I thocht, but it was only 
 in a happiness great and deep as the calm sea. I saw — I did 
 not see the old massy piUars — now I seemed to behold the 
 roof o' the Cathedral, and now the sky o' heaven, and a licht 
 — I had maist said a murmuring licht, for there surely was a 
 faint spirit-like soun' in the streams o' splendour that came 
 through the high Gothic window, left shadows here and there 
 throughout the temple, till a' at ance the organ sounded, and 
 I could have fallen down on my knees. 
 
 North. Thank you kindly, James. 
 
 Shepherd. I understand the hint, sir. Catch me harpin 
 ower lang on ae string. Yet music's a subject I could get 
 geyan^ tiresome upon. 
 
 Tickler. So is painting and poetry. 
 
 Shepherd. Paintin ! na — that's the warst ava. Gang into 
 an exhibition, and only look at a crowd o' Cockneys, some wi' 
 specs, and some wi' quizzing-glasses, and faces without ae 
 grain o' meaning in them o' ony kind whatsomever, a' glower- 
 ing perhaps at a picture o' ane o' Nature's maist feaifu' or 
 magnificent warks ! Mowdiewarts,'' they micht as weel look 
 at the new-harled' gable-end o' a bam. Is't a picture o' a 
 deep dungeon-den o' ruefu' rocks, and the waterfa' its ragin 
 prisoner, because nae wizard will with his key open but a 
 wicket in the ancient gates of that lonesome penitentiary? Is't 
 a picture o' a lang lang endless glen, wi' miles on miles o' 
 dreary mosses, and hags, and lochs — thae wee black fearsome 
 lochs that afttimes gurgle in their sullen sleep, as if they 
 wanted to grup and drown ye as you gang by them, some 
 lanely hour, takin care to keep at safe distance along the 
 benty* knowes — mountain above mountain far and near, some 
 o' them illuminated wi' a' their woods till the veiTa pine-trees 
 
 1 Oei/an— rather. 2 Mowdiewarts — moles. 
 
 3 New-Tuirled — new-plastered. * Benty — covered with bent-grass.
 
 THE OLD MASTEKS, 69 
 
 seem made o' heaven's STinshine, and itliers, wi' a weight o' 
 shadows that drown the sight o' a' their precipices, and gar 
 the michty mass o' earth gloom like thunder- clouds, wi' nae 
 leevin thing in the solitude but your plaided self, and the 
 eagle like a mote in the firmament — siccan a scene as Tam- 
 son^ o' Duddingston wad trummel*^ as he daured to paint it, — 
 What, I ask, could a Princes Street maister or missy ken o' sic 
 a wark mair than a red-deer wad ken o' the inside o' George's 
 Street Assembly Rooms, gin he were to be at Gow's ball? 
 
 Tickler. Or in the vegetable market. North, have you seen 
 that woi-thy original Martin,^ since he came to town ? 
 
 North. I have — and I have seen his collection too, at 
 No. 44 North Hanover Street ; rare, choice, splendid. What 
 a Paul Potter ! What a Jolm Both ! What a Rembrandt ! 
 What a Corregio ! It is a proud thing to know that such 
 pictui'es find purchasers in Scotland ; for we are not rich. 
 
 Tickler. Neither are we poor. We say that Edinburgh is a 
 city of palaces. Tliis is a somewhat exaggerated spirit of 
 vain talk ; but certainly it contains no small number of large 
 commodious houses, in which five, ten, twenty thousand a-year 
 may be spent with consistency and deconim ; and of the fur- 
 niture of each shall no part be pictures ? Bare walls in the 
 houses of wealthy men betray a poorness of spirit. Let them 
 go to my friend Martin. 
 
 Tickler. " The Burgo-Master " — Rembrandt's of course — I 
 remember to have seen years ago. It is from the collection 
 of Vandergucht. What a solemn and stem expression over 
 forehead and eyes ! You do not say the picture speaks ; for 
 the old Bm-go-Master is plainly a man of few words — but it 
 thinks, and you see embodied there a world of intellect. What 
 did these fellows do with all that powerful mind ? One and 
 all of them ought to have left behind them — systems. 
 
 North. They were better employed — fathers, heads of 
 houses, civic rulers. But I see yet before me that "Virgin and 
 Child" — a study, I believe, for Corregio's famous pictm-e in the 
 Louvre, "The Marriage of St Cathaiine." What meek maternal 
 love mingled with a reverential awe of her own divine Babe ! 
 
 ^ The Rev. John Thomson, minister of Duddingston, near Edinburgh, was 
 the first Scottish landscape-painter of his day. He died in 1840, aged 62. 
 
 2 Trummel — tremble. 
 
 3 Xot John Martin, the painter of " Belshaz2.ar's Feast" and the "Deluge."
 
 70 NEW MILITARY ACADEMY. 
 
 How beautifully has Mary braided, scarcely braided, folded up 
 as with a single touch, ere yet her child had awoke, that soft 
 sillcen shining hair — tresses rich in youthful luxuriance, yet 
 tamed down to a matron simphcity, in sweet accordance with 
 that devout forehead and bliss-breathing eyes ! 
 
 Tickler. Such pictures scarcely bear to be spoken of at all. 
 Let them hang in their silent holiness upon the wall of our 
 most secret room, to be gazed on at times when we feel the 
 emptiness and vanity of all things in this life, and when our 
 imagination, coming to the relief of our hearts, willingly wafts 
 us to the heaven wliich inspired such creations of genius. 
 Those great painters, North, were great divines. 
 
 North. A mere landscape of this earth is better fitted for 
 ordinary hours. In that Paul Potter, did you ever breathe 
 anything like the transparency of the atmosphere — ever feel 
 such warmth of meridian sunshine ! Two quiet human figures, 
 I think, and a couple of cows, that's all ; and yet that little 
 bit of canvass is a picture — a poem of the pastoral life. 
 
 Tickler. Here's Martin's health — a bumper. 
 
 Shepherd. Pray, what is tliis New Military Academy?^ Is 
 it a gude institution, Mr North ? 
 
 North. I think it is. It will not only give young soldiers 
 some useful knowledge, but put spirit and spunk into them 
 before they enter upon service. 
 
 Tickler. Most happy was I to see Signer Francalanza appoint- 
 ed fencing-master to the Institution, He is a perfect teacher. 
 
 North. And a man of probity. 
 
 Tickler. And of accomplishments.^ Could I touch the 
 guitar like the Signer, I would set out for Venice to-morrow, 
 and serenade myself into the love of the fairest dames in Italy. 
 
 Shepherd. Fie shame, Mr Tickler I fie shame, and you a 
 married man ! 
 
 Tickler. I had forgot it, James. 
 
 Shepherd. That's no true. Nae man ever forgot he was 
 married. As for the gittarre, I wadna niffer^ the fiddle for that 
 triflin bit chirpin tam-thoom o' an instnmaent. Yet I allow 
 
 1 An admirable institution, which still flourishes under the energetic super- 
 intendence of Captain Orr. 
 
 2 This excellent man was a general favourite in Edinburgh society, and 
 worthy of the commendations hero bestowed upon him. He returned to Italy, 
 his native country, and died there some years ago. 
 
 3 Niffer — exchange.
 
 PLEASURES OF THE TABLE. 71 
 
 that Mr Frank Alonzo fingers 't wi' mickle taste and spirit ; 
 and liis singing o' outlandish airs makes ane maist think that 
 he understands French and Italian himsel. 
 
 North. What tliink you, James, of the projected Fish 
 Company ? 
 
 Shepherd. Just everything that's gude. I never look at 
 the sea without lamenting the backward state of its agricul- 
 ture. Were eveiy eatable land animal extinc', the human 
 race could dine and soup out o' the ocean till a' eternity. 
 
 Tickler. No fish- sauce equal to the following : Ketchup — 
 mustard — cayenne pepper — ^butter amalgamated on your plate 
 propria manu, each man according to his own proportions. 
 Yethohn ketchup made by the gipsies. Mushrooms for 
 ever — damn walnuts. 
 
 North. I care little about what I eat or drink. 
 
 Shepherd. Lord have mercy on us — what a lee ! There 
 does not, at tliis blessed moment, breathe on the earth's 
 surface ae human being that doesna prefer eating and drink- 
 ing to all ither pleasures o' body or sowl.^ This is the rule : 
 Never think about either the ane or the ither but when you 
 are at the board. Then, eat and drinlc wi' a' your powers — 
 moral, intellectual, and physical. Say Httle, but look freendly 
 — tak care chiefly o' yoursel, but no, if you can help it, to 
 the utter oblivion o' a' ithers. This may soun' queer, but it's 
 gude manners, and worth a' Chesterfield. Them at the twa 
 ends o' the table maun just reverse that rule — till ilka body 
 has been twice served — and then aff at a haun-gallop. 
 
 North. What think ye of luncheons ? 
 
 Shepherd. That they are the disturbers o' a' earthly happi- 
 ness. I dauma trust mysel wi' a luncheon. In my haims 
 it becomes an imtimeous denner — for after a hantle o' cauld 
 meat, muirfowl pies, or even butter and bread, what reason- 
 able cretur can be ready afore gloamin for a het denner? 
 So, whene'er I'm betrayed into a luncheon, I mak it a luncheon 
 wi' a vengeance ; and then order in the kettle, and finish aif 
 wi' a jug or twa, just the same as gin it had been a regular 
 denner wi' a table-cloth. Bewaur the tray. 
 
 1 "Some people," says Dr Samuel Johnson, "have a foolish way of not 
 minding, or pretending not to mind, what they oat. For my part, I mind my 
 belly very studiously, and very carefully ; for I look upon it, that he who does not 
 mind his belly, wUl hardly mind anything else." — Boswell's Z?/€, chap. xvii.
 
 72 THE MID-DAY HOUR. 
 
 North. A few anchovies, such as I used to enjoy with my 
 dear Davy^ at the corner, act as a whet, I confess, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 Shepherd. I never can eat a few o' onything, even ingans. 
 Ance I begin, I maun proceed ; and I devoor them — ilka ane 
 being the last — till my een are sae watery that I think it is 
 raining. Break laot in upon the integrity o' time atween 
 breakfast and the blessed hoiu" o' denner. 
 
 North. The mid-day hour is always, to my imagination, the 
 most delightful hour of the whole Alphabet. 
 
 Shepherd. I understaun. During that hour — and there is 
 nae occasion to allow difference for clocks, for in nature every 
 object is a dial — how many thousand groups are collected a' 
 ower Scotland, and a' ower the face o' the earth — ^for in every 
 clime wondrously the same are the great leading laws o' man's 
 necessities — under bits o' bonny buddin or leaf-fu' hedgeraws, 
 some bit fragrant and flutterin birk-tree, aneath some ower- 
 hangin rock in the desert, or by some diamond well in its 
 mossy cave — breakin their bread wi' thanksgiving, and eatin't 
 wdth the clear blood o' health meanderins; in the heaven-blue 
 veins o' the sweet lasses, while the cool airs are playing 
 amang their hafiins-covered^ bosoms — wi' many a jeist and 
 sang atween, and aibhns kisses too, at ance dew and sunshine 
 to the peasant's or shepherd's soul — then up again wi' lauchter 
 to their wark amang the tedded grass, or the corn-rigs sae 
 bonny, scenes that Eobbie Bums lo'ed sae weel and sang sae 
 gloriously — and the whilk, need I fear to say't, your ain 
 Ettrick Shepherd, my dear fellows, has sung on his auld 
 Border harp, a sang or twa that may be remembered when the 
 bard that wauk'd them is i' the mools, and " at his feet the 
 green-grass turf, and at his head a stane." 
 
 Tickler. Come, come, James, none of your pathos — none of 
 your pathos, my dear James. [Looking red about the eyes.) 
 
 North. We were talking of codlins.* 
 
 Shepherd. True, Mr North, but folk canna be aye talkin o' 
 codlins, ony mair than aye eatin them ; and the great charm 
 o' conversation is being aff on ony wind that blaws. Pleasant 
 conversation between friends is just like walking through a 
 mountainous kintra — at every glen-mouth the wun' blaws frae 
 
 ^ David Bridges. See ante, p. 28, notel. ^ Hajlins- covered — ^half-covered. 
 ^ Codlins — small cod ; not apples, as the American editor supposes.
 
 SHERIDAN. 73 
 
 a different airt* — the bit baimies come tripping alang in oppo- 
 site directions — noo a harebell scents the air — noo sweet-briar 
 — noo heather bank — here is a gniesome quagmire, there a 
 plat o' sheep-nibbled grass smooth as silk, and green as 
 emeralds — here a stony region of cinders and lava — there 
 groves o' the lady-fern embowering the sleeping roe — here the 
 liillside in its own various dyes resplendent as the rainbow, 
 and there woods that the Druids would have worshipped — 
 hark, sound sounding in the awfu' sweetness o' evening wi' 
 the cushat's sang, and the deadened roar o' some great 
 waterfa' far aff in the very centre o' the untrodden forest. 
 A' the warks o' ootward natur are symbolical o' oiu- ain im- 
 mortal souls. Mr Tickler, is't not just even sae ? 
 
 Tickler. Sheridan — Sheridan — what was Sheridan's talk to 
 our own Shepherd's, North ? 
 
 North. A few quirks and cranks studied at a looking-glass'* 
 — puns painfully elaborated with pen and ink for extempo- 
 raneous reply — bon-mots generated in malise prepense — witti- 
 cisms jotted down in short-hand to be extended when he had 
 put on the spur of the occasion — the drudgeries of memory to 
 be palmed oif for the ebullitions of imagination — the coinage 
 of the counter passed for currency hot from the mint of fancy 
 — squibs and crackers ignited and exploded by a Merry- 
 Andrew, instead of the lightnings of the soul darting out forked 
 or sheeted from the electrical atmosphere of an inspired genius. 
 
 Shepherd. I wish that you but saw my monkey, Mr North. 
 He would make you hop the twig in a guffaw. I hae got a 
 pole erected for liim, o' about some 150 feet high, on a knowe 
 ahint Mount Benger ; and the way the cretur rins up to the 
 knob, lookin ower the shouther o' him, and twisting his tail 
 roun' the pole for fear o' playin thud on the grun', is comical 
 past a' endurance. 
 
 North. Think you, James, that he is a link ? 
 
 Shepherd. A link in creation? Not he, indeed. He is 
 merely a monkey. Only to see him on his observatory, be- 
 holding the stmrise ! or weeping, like a Laker, at the beauty 
 o' the moon and stars ! 
 
 1 Airt — point of the compass. 
 
 3 How carefully Sheridan's impromptus were prepared beforehand, may be 
 learned from Moore's Life of that celebrated wit, just pubUshed at the date 
 of this number of the Nodes.
 
 74 THE shepherd's MONKEY. 
 
 North Is he a bit of a poet ? 
 
 Shepherd. Gin he conld but speak and write, there can be 
 nae manner o' doubt that he would be a gran' poet. Safe us! 
 what een in the head o' liim ! Wee, clear, red, fiery, watery, 
 malignant-lookin een, fu' o' inspiration. 
 
 Tickler. You should have him stuffed. 
 
 Shepherd. Stuffed, man ! say, rather, embalmed. But he's 
 no likely to dee for years to come — indeed, the cretur's en- 
 gaged to be married ; although he's no in the secret himsel 
 yet. The bawns^ are published. 
 
 TicJcler. Why, really, James, marriage, I think, ought to be 
 simply a civil contract. 
 
 Shepherd. A civil contract ! I wuss it was. But oh I Mr 
 Tickler, to see the cretur sittin wi' a pen in's hand, and pipe 
 in's mouth, jotting down a sonnet, or odd, or lyrical ballad ! 
 Sometimes I put that black velvet cap ye gied me on his 
 head, and ane o' the bairns's auld big-coats on liis back ; and 
 then, sure aneugh, when he takes his stroll in the avenue, he 
 is a heathenish cliristian. 
 
 North. Why, James, by this time, he must be quite Like one 
 of the family ? 
 
 Shepherd. He's a capital flee-fisher. I never saw a monkey 
 throw a lighter line in my life. But he's greedy o' the gude 
 linns, and canna thole to see onybody else giaippin great 
 anes but himsel. He accompanied me for twa-three days in 
 the season to the Trows, up aboon Kelso yonner ; and Kersse^ 
 allowed that he worked a salmon to a miracle. Then, for 
 rowing a boat ! 
 
 Tickler. Why don't you bring him to Ambrose's ? 
 
 Shepherd. He's sae bashfu'. He never shines in company ; 
 and the least thing in the world will mak him blush. 
 
 Tickler. Have you seen the Sheffield Iris., containing an 
 account of the feast given to Montgomery'' the poet, his long- 
 winded speech, and his valedictory address to the world as 
 abdicating editor of a provincial newspaper ? 
 
 Shepherd. I have the Iris — that means Eainbow — in my 
 pocket, and it made me proud to see sic honours conferred on 
 
 ^ Bawns — banns. 2 Kersse, a celebrated Kelso salmon-fisher. 
 
 3 James Montgomery, author of The World before the Flood, and other 
 esteemed poems, was bom in 1771, and died in 1854.
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 75 
 
 genius. Lang-Avunded speech, Mr Tickler! WTiat, would 
 you have had Montgomery mumble twa-three sentences, and 
 sit down again, before an assemblage o' a hundred o' the most 
 respectable o' his fellow-townsmen, with Lord Milton at their 
 head, a' gathered thegither to honour with heart and hand 
 One of the Sons of Song ? 
 
 North. Eight, James, right. I love to hear one poet praise 
 another. There is too Httle of that nowadays. Tantczne 
 animis celestibus ircB? 
 
 Shepherd. His speech is full of heart and soul — amang the 
 best I hae read ; and to them that heard and saw it, it must 
 have been just perfectly delightful. 
 
 Tickler. Perhaps he spoiled it in the delivery ; probably he 
 is no orator. 
 
 Shepherd. Gude faith, Mr Tickler, I suspec you're really no 
 very weel the nicht, for you're desperate stupid. Nae orator, 
 aibHns ! But think you it was naething to see the man in his 
 glory, and to hear him in his happiness ? Yes, glory, su', for 
 what do poets live for but the sympathy of God's rational 
 creatures ? Too often we know not that that sympathy is ours 
 — nor in what degree, nor how widely we have awakened it. 
 But here Montgomery had it flashed back upon his heart by 
 old famihar faces, and a hundred firesides sent their repre- 
 sentatives to bless the man whose genius had cheered their 
 light for thirty winters. 
 
 Tickler. Hear, hear! Forgive me, my dear Shepherd; I 
 merely wished to bring you out, to strike a chord, to kindle a 
 spark, to spring a mine 
 
 Shepherd. Hooly and fairly. There's no need o' exaggera- 
 tion. But my opinion — my feeling o' Montgomery is just 
 that which he himself, in this speech — there's the paper, but 
 dinna tear't — has boldly and modestly expressed. " Success 
 upon success in a few years crowned my labom's — not, indeed, 
 with fame and fortune, as these were lavished on my greater 
 contemporaries, in comparison of whose magnificent posses- 
 sions on the British Parnassus my little plot of ground is as 
 Naboth's vineyard to Ahab's kingdom ; but it is my own : it is 
 no copyhold ; I borrowed it, I leased it from none. Every foot 
 of it I enclosed from the common myself ; and I can say, that 
 not an inch which I had once gained here have I ever lost."
 
 76 LORD NELSON, 
 
 North. On such an occasion, Montgomery was not only en- 
 titled, but bound to speak of himself — and by so doing he 
 "has graced his cause." His poetry will live, for he has 
 heart and imagination. The religious spirit of his poetiy is 
 affecting and profound. But you know who has promised to 
 give me an " Article on Montgomery ;" so meanwhile let us 
 drink his health in a bumper. 
 
 Shepherd. Stop, stop, my jug's done. But never miind, I'll 
 drink't in pure speerit. [Bibunt omnes.) 
 
 Tickler. Did we include his poHtics ? 
 
 Shepherd. Faith, I believe no. Let's tak anither bumper 
 to his politics. 
 
 North. James, do you know what you're saying ? — the man 
 is a Whig. If we do drink his poHtics, let it be in empty 
 glasses. 
 
 Shepherd. Na, na. I'll drink no man's health, nor yet ony 
 ither thing, out o' an empty glass. My political principles 
 are so well known, that my consistency would not suffer were 
 I to drink the health o' the great Wliig leader, Satan himsel; 
 besides, James Montgomery is, I verily believe, a true patriot. 
 Gin he thinks liimself a Whig, he has nae understanding what- 
 ever o' his ain character. I'll undertak to bring out the Tory- 
 ism that's in him in the course o' a single Noctes. Toryism is 
 an innate principle o' human nature — Wliiggism but an evil 
 habit. 0, sirs, this is a gran' jug ! 
 
 Tickler. I am beginning to feel rather hungry. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae been rather sharp-set ever sin' Mr Ambrose 
 took awa the cheese. 
 
 North. 'Tis the night of the 21st of October— The battle of 
 Trafalgar — Nelson's death — the greatest of aU. England's 
 heroes — 
 
 " His march was o'er the mountain-wave, 
 His home was on the deep." 
 
 Nelson not only destroyed the naval power of all the enemies 
 of England, but he made our naval power immortal. Thank 
 God, he died at sea. 
 
 Tickler. A noble creature ; his very failings were ocean- 
 bom. 
 
 Shepherd. Yes — a cairn to his memory would not be out of 
 place even at the head of the most inland glen. Not a sea-
 
 ENGLAND ON THE OCEAN, A POEM. 77 
 
 mew floats up into our green solitudes tliat tells not of Nel- 
 son. 
 
 North. His name makes me proud tliat I am an islander. 
 No continent has such a glory. 
 
 Shepherd. Look out o' the window — What a fleet o' stars in 
 Heaven ! Yon is the Victory — a hundred gun-ship — I see the 
 standard of England flying at the main. The brichtest lumin- 
 ary o' niclit says in that halo, " England expects every man 
 to do his duty." 
 
 North. Why might not the battle of Trafalgar be the sub- 
 ject of a great poem? It was a consummation of national 
 prowess. Such a poem need not be a narrative one, for that 
 at once becomes a Gazette, yet still it might be graphic. The 
 purport of it would be, England on the Ocean ; and it woidd 
 be a Song of Glory. In such a poem the character and feel- 
 ings of British seamen would have agency ; and very minute 
 expression of the passions "odth which they fight, would be in 
 place. Indeed, the life of such a poem would be wanting, if 
 it did not contain a record of the nature of the Children of the 
 Ocean — the stragglers in war and storm. The character of 
 sailors, severed from all other life, is poetical. 
 
 Tickler. Yes — it would be more difficult to ground a poem 
 under the auspices of the Duke of York. 
 
 North. The fleet, too, borne on the ocean, human existence 
 resting immediately on great Elementary Natm-e ; and con- 
 nected immediately with her great powers ; and ever to the 
 eye single in the ocean-soHtudes. 
 
 Tickler. Trae. But military war is much harder to conceive 
 in poetry. Our army is not an independent existence, having 
 for ages a peculiar life of its own. It is merely an arm of the 
 nation, which it stretches forth when need requires. Thus 
 though there are the highest qualities in our soldiery, there 
 is scarcely the individual life which fits a body of men to 
 belong to poetry. 
 
 North. In Schiller's Camp of Wallenstein there is individual 
 life given to soldiers, and with fine efifect. But I do not see 
 that the army of Lord Wellington, all through the war of the 
 Peninsula, though the most like a continued separate life of 
 anything we have had in the mihtary way, comes up to poetry. 
 
 Tickler. Scarcely, North. I think that if an army can be
 
 78 THE ILIAD. 
 
 \dewed poetically, it must be merely considering it as the 
 courage of the nation, clothed in shape, and acting in visible 
 energy ; and to that tune there might be warlike strains for 
 the late war. But then it could have notliing of peculiar 
 military life, but would merge in the general life of the nation. 
 There could be no camp life. 
 
 Shepherd. I don't know, gentlemen, that I follow you, for 
 I am no great scholar. But allow me to say, in better Eng- 
 lish than I generally speak, for that beautiful star — Venus, I 
 suspec, or perhaps Mars — in ancient times they shone together 
 — that if any poet, breathing the spirit of battle, knew inti- 
 mately the Peninsular War, it would rest entirely with liimseK 
 to derive poetry from it or not. Every passion that is intense 
 may be made the groundwork of poetry ; and the passion 
 with which the British charge the French is sufficiently in- 
 tense, I suspec, to ground poetry upon. Not a critic of the 
 French School would deny it. 
 
 North. Nothing can be better, or better expressed, my dear 
 James. That war would furnish some battle-chants — but the 
 introduction of our land-fighting into any great poetry would, I 
 conjecture, require the intermingling of interests not warlike. 
 
 Shepherd. I think so too. What think you of the Iliad, 
 Mr North. 
 
 North. The great occupation of the power of man, James, 
 in early society, is to make war. Of course, his great poetry 
 vpill be that which celebrates war. The mighty races of men, 
 and their mightiest deeds, are represented in such poetry. 
 It contains " the glory of the world " in some of its noblest 
 ages. Such is Homer. The whole poem of Homer (the Iliad) 
 is war, yet not much of the whole Iliad is fighting ; and that, 
 with some exceptions, not the most interesting. If we con- 
 sider warlike poetry purely as breathing the spirit of fighting, 
 the fierce ardour of combat, we fall to a much lower measure 
 of human conception. Homer's poem is intellectual, and full 
 of affections ; it would go as near to make a pliilosopher as a 
 soldier. I should say that war appears as the business of 
 Homer's heroes, not often a matter of pure enjoyment. One 
 would conceive, that if there could bo found anywhere, in 
 language, the real breathing spirit of lust for fight, which is 
 in some nations, there would be conceptions, and passion of
 
 THE IMAGINARY EDITOR. 79 
 
 blood-tliirst, wliicL. are not in Homer. There are flashes of 
 it in ^schylus. 
 
 Shepherd. I ^dsh to heaven I could read Greek, I'll begin 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Tickler. The songs of Tyrteeus goading into battle are of 
 that kind, and their class is evidently not a liigh one. Far 
 above them must have been those poems of the ancient 
 German nations, which were chaunted in the front of battle, 
 reciting the acts of old heroes to exalt their courage. These 
 being breathed out of the heart of passion of a people, must 
 have been good. The spirit of fighting was there involved 
 with all their most eimobHng conceptions, and yet was merely 
 pugnacious. 
 
 North. The Iliad is remarkable among military poems in 
 this, that, being all about war, it instils no passion for war. 
 None of the high inspiring motives to war are made to kindle 
 ti s heart. In fact, the cause of war is false on both sides. 
 But there is a glory of war, Hke the sj)lendour of sunshine, 
 resting upon and enveloping all. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm beginning to get a little clearer in the upper 
 storey. That last jug was a poser. How feel you, gentlemen — 
 do you think you're baith quite sober? Oiu' conversation is 
 rather beginning to get a little heavy, Tak a mouthfu', 
 (North quaffs.) 
 
 Tickler. North, you look as if you w^ere taking an obsei-va- 
 tion. Have you discovered any new comet ? 
 
 North. Do you think. Shepherd, as much building has been 
 going on within these dozen years in the moon as ia the New 
 Town of Edinburgh ? 
 
 Shepherd. Nae doubt, in proportion to the size of the moon's 
 metropolis. Surely a' the cliinmeys devoor their ain smoke 
 yonder, sae pure are a' the pxu-lieus o' the planet. Think you 
 there is ony Ambrose in the orb ? or ony editors ? 
 
 North. Why, Janles, speaking of editors, I had a strange 
 dream t'other night. I dreamed I saw the editor of the 
 Imaginary Magazine, 
 
 Shepherd. Faith, that was comical. But what was't ? 
 
 North. The moment I saw him, I knew that he was the 
 editor of the Imaginary Magazine — the non-existing Cluis- 
 topher North of a non- existing Maga ; and what amused me
 
 80 THE SHEPHERDS DKEAM. 
 
 mucli was, that I saw from the expression of his countenance 
 that he was under prosecution for a UbeL 
 
 Shepherd. Had he advised any man to commit murder ? 
 
 North. He entered into a long detail of his Magazine, and 
 all the leading articles were on subjects I had never before 
 heard of; yet I knew the hbellous article instinctively. In- 
 deed, he showed me his last Number ; and I thought that, 
 after perusing a few pages, I had put it into my pocket. 
 " In an unknown tongue he warbled melody." 
 
 Shepherd. The stuff that di-eams are made of! — Wliat did 
 he offer you per sheet ? 
 
 North. Kinga men kulish abatton. These were his very words. 
 
 Shepherd. Dang it, you're bamming me. 
 
 North. No ; he seemed in a great fright about his January 
 Number, and looked up in my face with such an inexpHcable 
 face of his own, that I awoke. 
 
 Shepherd. I recollec ance dreaming o' an unearthly Hallow- 
 Fair. It was held on a great plain, and it seemed as if a' the 
 sheep in the universe were there in ae flock. Shepherds, too, 
 frae every planet in space. Yet, wherever I walked, each 
 nation kent me ; and cliiels frae China, apparently, and the 
 lands ayont the Pole, jogged ane anither's shouthers, and 
 said, " That's the Ettrick Shepherd." I gaed into the tent 
 o' a Tartar, and selt liim a score o' gimmers * for a jewel he 
 had stown frae the tm^ban o' a Turk that was getting fu' wi' 
 Prester John. Sic dancin ! 
 
 " It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 And on a dulcimer she play'd, 
 Singing of Mount Abora !" 
 
 Then what a drove o' camels, and dromedaries, and elephants, 
 "indorsed with towers!" Lions, and tigers, and panthers, 
 and hunting-leopards, in cages hke cottages, sold and pur- 
 chased by kings! And, in anither region o' the boundless 
 Bazaar, eagles, vultures, condors, rocs, that nodded their heads 
 far aboon the quadmped quadrillions, and flapped the sultry 
 air into a monsoon with their wings. 
 
 Tickler. Sleeping or waking, North, the Shepherd is your 
 match. 
 
 Shepherd. Ye ken I once thought o' writing a book of 
 
 1 Gimmer — a two-year-old ewo.
 
 THURTELL. 81 
 
 dreams. Some o' murders, that would hae made Tliurtell^ 
 appear a man of the utmost tenderness o' disposition — horrible 
 natural events, that were catastrophes frae beginning to end — 
 
 a' sorts o' night-meers 
 
 Tickler. James, North's falling asleep — stir him up with a 
 long pole. 
 
 ^ John Thurtell was executed in December 1823 for the murder of his fellow- 
 gambler and black-leg, William Weare, on the S-lth of the preceding October. 
 In reference to this tragedy Mr Lockhart has the following entry in his Life 
 of Sir Walter Scott (vol. ix., p. 251, 2d ed.) :— " On the afternoon of the 28'th 
 of May 1828, Sh- Walter started for the North, but coiild not resist going out 
 of his waj^ to see the spot where ' Mr William Weare, who dwelt in Lyon's 
 Inn,' was murdered. His diary says, ' Our elegant researches carried us out 
 of the high-road and through a labj-rinth of intricate lanes, which seem made 
 on pm-pose to afford strangers the full benefit of a dark night and a dnmk 
 driver, in order to visit GiU's Hill in Hertfordshire, famous for the murder of 
 Mr Weare. The place has the strongest title to the description of Words- 
 worth, — 
 
 "A merry spot, 'tis said, in days of yore ; 
 But something ails it now — the spot is cursed." 
 
 The principal part of the house has been destroyed, and only the kitchen 
 remains standing. The garden has been dismantled, though a few laurels and 
 flowering-shrubs, i-un wild, continue to mark the spot. The fatal pond is now 
 only a green swamp, but so near the house that one cannot conceive how it 
 was ever chosen as a place of temporary concealment for the murdered body. 
 Indeed, the whole history of the murder, and the scenes which ensued, are 
 strange pictures of desperate and shortsighted wickedness. The feasting, the 
 singing, — the mui-derer, with his hands stiU bloody, hanging round the neck of 
 one of the females, — the watch-chain of the murdered man, argue the greatest 
 apathy. Even Probert, the most frightened of the party, fled no farther for 
 relief than to the brandy bottle, and is found in the very lane, nay, at the very 
 spot of the murder, seeking for the weapon, and exposing himself to the view 
 of the passengers. Another singular mark of stupid audacity was then- 
 venturing to wear the clothes of their victim. There was a want of foresight 
 in the whole arrangements of the deed, and the attempts to conceal it, 
 which a professed robber would not have exhibited. There was just one 
 shade of redeeming character about a business so bnatal perpetrated by men 
 above the very lowest rank of life ; it was the mixture of revenge, which 
 afforded some relief to the circumstances of treachery and premeditation. 
 Weare was a cheat, and had no doubt pillaged Thurtell, who, therefore, deemed 
 he might take greater liberties with him than with others. The dirt of the 
 present habitation equalled its -m-etched desolation, and a ti-uculent-looking 
 hag, who showed us the place, and received half-a-crown, looked not unlike the 
 natural inmate of such a mansion. She hinted as much herself, saving, the 
 landlord had dismantled the place because no respectable person would live 
 there. She seems to live entu-ely alone, and fears no ghosts, she says. One thing 
 about this tragedy was never explained. It is said that Weare, as is the habit 
 with such men, always carried about his person, and between his fiamiel waist- 
 coat and shirt, a sum of ready money equal to £1500 or £2000. No such money 
 was ever recovered ; and as the sum divided by Thurtell among his accom- 
 plices was only about £20, he must, in slang phrase, have bucketted his pals.'" 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 82 
 
 NORTHS SONG. 
 
 North {rubbing his eyes). Well, since you insist upon it, 
 
 here it goes. 
 
 SONG. 
 AiB— " Crambambulee." 
 
 teS: 
 
 ^ — ]-\ — I — 1-3 — l-i-- -«- 
 
 ir^ 
 
 iilB'»^-*-i±^-i—t 
 
 -V-4S-H^ 
 
 :33^^ 
 
 Cram- BAM -BU - LEE I 
 
 all the world o-ver, Thou'rt motlier's milk to 
 
 -^4^^- 
 
 =P 
 
 -»- 
 -•- 
 
 t: 
 
 4^- 
 
 
 tV 
 
 -»- • -«■ -•; -•- -•- ^- 
 
 ire like tbei 
 
 -•- -• 
 
 Germans true, tra li ra. 
 
 No cure like tbee 
 
 . can sage dis- 
 
 b=5z|Bz:z^z^=i^ii| 
 
 
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 CO - ver For co - lie, love, or de - vils blue, tra - 11 - ra. 
 
 
 
 3^=^^ 
 T t 
 
 1: 
 
 EifyEiEiEt^lEi^^EjEiEiJE^JzJlEEiEEi^ 
 
 ^fizzit^^^^^^^^^^^^E^^i^^E^]'^^'^'^^ 
 
 Blow hot or cold, from morn to night. My dram is still my soul's delight. Cram- 
 
 a^ 
 
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 1^5^=::^ 
 
 
 h=i-- 
 
 mi 
 
 -i — • — •- 
 
 :t;= 
 
 mt 
 
 bam-bim - bam - bu - lee ! Cram-bam - bu - lee ! 
 
 ai^: 
 
 :t 
 
 It
 
 TICKLERS SONG. 83 
 
 Hungry and cliill'd with bivouacking, 
 
 We rise ere song of earliest bird — Tra li ra 
 
 Cannon and drums our ears are cracking, 
 
 And saddle, boot, and blade's the word — Tra li ra. 
 
 " Vite en I'avant," our bugle blows, 
 
 A flying gulp and off it goes, 
 
 Crani-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee ! — Crambambulee ! 
 
 Victory's ours, off speed despatches, 
 Hom-ra ! The luck for once is mine — Tra li ra. 
 Food comes by morsels, sleep by snatches. 
 No time, by Jove, to wash or dine — Tra li ra. 
 From post to post my pipe I cram, 
 Full gallop smoke, and suck my dram. 
 Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee ! — Crambambulee ! 
 
 When I'm the peer of kings and kaisers. 
 
 An order of my own I'll found — Tra li ra. 
 
 Down goes our gage to all despisers, 
 
 Our motto through the world shall sound — Tra li ra. 
 
 " Toujoui's fidele et sans souci, 
 
 C'est I'ordre de Crambambulee !" 
 
 Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee ! Crambambulee ! 
 
 Tickler. Bravo ! One good turn deserves another. 
 
 THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. A NEW SONG. 
 Tune — " Through all the Employments of Life." 
 
 Oh ! Learning's a very fine thing. 
 
 As also is wisdom and knowledge, 
 For a man is as great as a king, 
 
 If he has but the airs of a college. 
 And nowadays all must admit, 
 
 In Learning we're wondrously favour-' d, 
 For you scarce o'er your window can spit, 
 
 But some learned man is beslaver' d ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 We'll all of us shortly be doom'd 
 
 To part with our plain understanding,
 
 Hi TICKLER S SONG. 
 
 For Intellect now has assumed 
 An attitude truly commanding ! 
 
 All ranks are so dreadfully wise, 
 
 Common sense is set quite at defiance, 
 
 And the child for its porridge that cries, 
 Must cry in the language of Science. 
 
 Sing, tol de I'ol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 The Weaver it surely becomes 
 
 To talk of his web's involution, 
 For doubtless the hero of thrums 
 
 Is a member of some institution : 
 He speaks of supply and demand 
 
 With the airs of a great legislator, 
 And almost can tell you off-hand. 
 
 That the smaller is less than the greater ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &g. 
 
 The Tailor, in cutting his cloth. 
 
 Will speak of the true conic section ; 
 And no tailor is now such a Goth 
 
 But he talks of his trade's genuflection ! 
 If you laugh at his bandy-legg'd clan. 
 
 He calls it unhandsome detraction, 
 And cocks \ip his chin like a man, 
 
 Though we know that he's only a fraction ! 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 The Blacksmith 'midst cinders and smoke, 
 
 Whose visage is one of the dimmest, 
 His furnace profoundly will poke 
 
 With the air of a practical chemist : 
 Poor Vulcan has recently got 
 
 A lingo that's almost historic, 
 And can tell you that iron is hot, 
 
 Because it is filled with caloric ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 The Mason, in book-learned tone, 
 
 Describes in the very best grammar 
 The resistance that dwells in the stone, 
 
 And the power that resides in the hammer ; 
 For the son of the trowel and hod 
 
 Looks as big as the Frog in the Fable, 
 While he talks in a jargon as odd 
 
 As his brethren the builders of Babel ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &;c.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE BLUE PARLOUE. 85 
 
 The Cobbler who sits at your gate 
 
 Now pensively points his hog's bristle, 
 Though the very same cobbler of late 
 
 O'er his work used to sing and to whistle. 
 But cobbling' s a paltry pursuit 
 
 For a man of polite education — • 
 His works may be trod under foot, 
 
 Yet he's one of the Lords of Creation ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 Oh ! learning's a very fine thing ! 
 
 It almost is treason to doubt it — 
 Yet many of whom I could sing. 
 
 Perhaps might be as well without it ! 
 And without it my days I will pass. 
 
 For to me it was ne'er worth a dollar, 
 Ajid I don't wish to look like an Ass 
 By trying to talk like a Scholar ! 
 
 Sing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 Let schoolmasters bother their brains 
 
 In their dry and their musty vocation ; 
 But what can the rest of us gain 
 
 By meddling with such botheration ? 
 We cannot be very far wrong. 
 
 If we hve like our fathers before us, 
 Whose Learning went round in the song, 
 
 And whose cares were dispelled in the Chorus. 
 Singing, tol de rol lol, &c. &c. 
 
 North [standing up). Friends — countrymen — and Romans 
 — lend me your ears. You say, James, that that's a gran' 
 jug ; well then, out with the ladle, and push aboiit the jorum. 
 No speech — no speech — for my heart is big. This may be 
 out last meeting in the Blue Parlour. Our next meeting in 
 
 AMBEOSE'S HOTEL, PICAEDY PLACE I^ 
 
 (North suddenly sits doiun ; Tickler and the Shepherd in a 
 moment are at his side.) 
 
 Tickler. My beloved Chiistopher, here is my smeUing- 
 bottle. — [Puts the vinegarette to his aquiline nose.) 
 
 i At this time Ambrose was about to shift his sign from Gabriel's Road, at 
 the back of Princes Street, to a large tenement in Picardy Place, facing the 
 head of Leith Walk. It will be seen, in the next Abodes, that the party again 
 met in the old " Blue Parlour " in Gabxiel's Road.
 
 86 AFFECTING PREDICAMENT. 
 
 Shepherd. My beloved Christopher, here is my smelling- 
 bottle. — [Puts the stately oblong Glenlivet crystal to his lips.) 
 
 North [opening his eyes). What flowers are those? Eoses 
 — mignonette, bathed in aromatic dew ! 
 
 Shepherd. Yes ; in romantic dew — moTintain dew, my re- 
 spected sir, that could give scent to a sybo.^ 
 
 Tickler. James, let us support him into the open air. 
 North. Somewhat too much of this. It is beautiful moon- 
 light. Let us take an arm-in-arm stroll round the ramparts 
 of the Calton Hill. 
 
 \_Enter Mr Ambrose, vfiuch affected^ with North's dread- 
 nought ; North whispers in his ear^ Subridens oUi ; 
 Mr Ambrose looTcs cheerful, et exeunt omnes. 
 
 •• Syho — a leek.
 
 Y. 
 
 (PEBKUAEY 1826.) 
 
 Blue Parlour. — Shepherd and Tickler. 
 
 Shepherd. I had nae heart for't, Mr Tickler, I had nae heart 
 for't. Yon's a grand hotel in Picardy, — and there can be nae 
 nianner o' doubt that Mr Ambrose '11 succeed in it. Yon big 
 letters facing doun Leith Walk will be sure to catch the een 
 o' a' the passengers by London smacks and steam-boats, to 
 say naething o' the mair stationary land population. Besides, 
 the character o' the man himself, sae douce, civil, and 
 judicious. But skill part from my right hand when I forget 
 Gabriel's Koad.^ Draw in your chair, sir. 
 
 Tickler. I wish the world, James, would stand still for some 
 dozen years — till I am at rest. It seems as if the very earth 
 itself were undergoing a vital change. Nothing is unalterable 
 except the heaven above my head, — and even it, James, is 
 hardly, methinks at times, the same as in former days or 
 nights. There is not much difference in the clouds, James, 
 bat the blue sky, I must confess, is not quite so very very 
 blue as it was sixty years since ; and the sun, although still 
 a glorious luminary, has lost a leetle — -just a leetle of his 
 lustre. But it is the streets, squares, courts, closes, — ^lands, 
 houses, shops, that are all changed — gone — swept oif — razed 
 — buried. 
 
 " And that is sure a reason fair 
 To fill my glass again." 
 
 Shepherd. Ony reason's fair enough for that. Here's to 
 you, sir, — the Hollands in this house is aye maist excellent. 
 Mr Ambrose [entering hesitatingly). Gentlemen, as I 
 
 1 See ante, p. 85, note.
 
 88 FAREWELL TO THE OLD, AND 
 
 understood you to say that Mr Nortli is not to honour tliis 
 Tavern with liis presence this evening, perhaps my son had 
 better put off his recitation. 
 
 Tickler. Anan ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Tickler is not in the secret, Ambrose. Why, 
 Mr Tickler, Master Ambrose has composed a poem, which he 
 had intended to recite to us in Picardy Place. It is a welcome 
 to the Hotel. Now, as I have declared my determination 
 never to desert Gabriel's Eoad till this house is no longer in 
 Ambrose's possession, it is a pity not to hear the youth's 
 verses ; so, if you please, though a little out of place, let us 
 have them before next jug. 
 
 Tickler. Assuredly — assuredly. Show Master Ambrose in. 
 
 [Enter Master Ambrose.) 
 
 Shepherd. Hoo are ye, my fine little fellow ? Come forward 
 into tlie middle o' the room. Stretch out your right arm so — 
 square your shouthers — ^haud up your head — take care o' your 
 pronounciation-^ei perge., puer. 
 
 (Master Ambrose recites.) 
 
 Though the place that once knew us will know us no more, 
 
 And splendom-s unwonted arise on our view, — 
 Though no fond remembrance past scenes could restore. 
 Our dearly-loved parlour we still must deplore, 
 
 And remember the Old, while we drink to the New ! 
 
 How oft in that paiiour, so joyous and gay, 
 
 The laurel was wreath' d with the clustering vine ; 
 While the spirit of Maga held absolute sway, 
 And the glorious beams of the bright god of day 
 Seem'd in envious haste the fair scene to outshine ! 
 
 Oh ! changed are the days, it may ti-uly be said, 
 
 Since first we met there in oiu- social glee. 
 For a faction then ruled with a sceptre of lead, 
 Debasing the heart, and perverting the head. 
 
 And enthralling the land of the brave and the free ! 
 
 That sceptre is broken — that faction is gone,— 
 
 In scorn a,nd derision we've seen it expire. 
 While the brightness of Maga has everywhere shone, 
 It has blazed on the altar, and beam'd on the throne, 
 
 And kindled a more than Promethean fii'e !
 
 WELCOME TO THE NEW HOTEL. 89 
 
 Of our honours and glories our children may tell, — 
 
 Be it ours the triumphant career to pursue, 
 Each foe of his King and his country to quell. 
 The darkness of error and fraud to dispel, 
 
 And laugh at the dunces in Yellow and Blue ! 
 
 We have One who will stand as he ever has stood, 
 
 Like a tower that despises the whirlwind's rage, — • 
 By time and by labour alike unsubdued. 
 He will still find the wise, and the fair, and the good, 
 Admiring the Wit, and revering the Sage ! ^ 
 
 And he who supreme in Arcadia reigns. 
 
 With his heart-stirring Doric oiu- meetings will cheer ; 
 The pride of our mountains and emerald plains. 
 The joy of our nymphs, the delight of our swains, 
 Rejoicing each eye, and refreshing each ear ! ^ 
 
 And the Hero of many a glorious field. 
 
 His best and his happiest hours will recall, 
 The sword and the pen alike powerful to wield. 
 With generous spirit disdaining to yield. 
 
 Except to the spii-it that conquers us All ! * 
 
 And he who has ever, in danger and doubt, 
 
 To his glorious cause been so loyal and true, 
 Defying the Cockneys, the Whigs, and the gout. 
 His Id Triumphe ! still boldly will shout. 
 
 And proudly will hear it re-echoed by You ! * 
 
 The year that approaches new triumphs will bring, 
 
 Entwining new wreaths for each bold loyal brow, — 
 And for many a year our new roof-tree will ring 
 With the voice that is raised for our country and King, 
 Inspired by the thoughts that awaken it now ! 
 
 The days that are gone we can never regret. 
 
 While gilded with honour they rise on our view ; 
 
 And when here in our power and our pride we are met. 
 
 Our dearly-loved parlour we ne'er shall forget, 
 
 But remember the Old, while we drink to the New ! 
 
 Tickler. Most precocious ! Pope did not wa-ite anything 
 equal to it at thirteen. It beats the Ode to Solitude all to 
 sticks. Ai-e you at the New Academy, Master Ambrose ? 
 
 1 North. 2 Hogg. 
 
 2 ODoherty — which sobriquet, it should be mentioned, was sometimes 
 applied (as is the case here) to Captain Thomas Hamilton, author of Ct/rd 
 Thornton,, as well as to Dr Maginn. * Tickler.
 
 90 THE HIGH SCHOOL. 
 
 Master Ambrose. No, sir — at the High School. 
 
 Tickler. Eight. You live in the vicinity. Is it not a burning 
 shame, Shepherd, that the many thousand rich and prosperous 
 men who have been educated at the High School, cannot — will 
 not — raise a sum sufficient to build a new Edifice on a better 
 site ? ' 
 
 Shepherd. It disna teU weel. 
 
 Tickler. A High School there must be, as well as an Aca- 
 demy. Both should have fair play, and education will be 
 greatly bettered by the generous rivalry. Never were there 
 better masters in the High School than now — gentlemen and 
 scholars aU. One loses all patience to hear the gabble about 
 Parthenons, forsooth, when about eight or ten thousand pounds 
 is all that is wanted to build, on Hamilton's beautiful plan, a 
 school for the education of the sons of the citizens of modem 
 Athens. Thank you. Master Ambrose. — [Exit High-School 
 Boy.) A fine, modest, intelligent boy ! 
 
 Shepherd. Just uncomanon. The Embro' folk I never coiild 
 thoroughly understand, and yet I hae studied them closely in 
 a' ranks, frae the bench to the bar, I may say, from the poupit 
 to the pozzi.'^ They couldna build their ain College — they 
 wunna build their ain High School ; and yet, to hear them 
 talk o' their city o' palaces, you would think they were all so 
 many Lorenzoes the Magnificent. 
 
 Tickler. The English laugh at us. Look at London — look 
 at Liverpool. Is money wanted for any noble purpose ? In 
 a single day, you have hundreds of thousands. 
 
 Shepherd. Come, come — let us be in better humour. Is the 
 oysters verra gude this season ? I shanna stir frae this chair 
 till I hae devoored five score o' them. That's just my allow- 
 ance on coming in frae the kintra. 
 
 Tickler. James, that is a most superb cloak. Is the clasp 
 pure gold ? You are like an officer of Hussars — like one of 
 the Prince's Own. Spurs too, I protest ! 
 
 Shepherd. Sit closer, Mr Tickler, sit closer, man; light 
 
 1 The new Edinburgh Academy was established in 1825. The High School 
 dates from 1519. After having stood for many years at the foot of Infirmary 
 Street, it was removed to a "better site" on the Calton Hill in 1825, where 
 Hamilton's " beautiful plan" now stands realised. 
 
 2 Certain dungeons sunk in the thick walls of the North Bridge, and dedi- 
 cated to somewhat ignoble purposes, are (or were) called Pozzi. For a curious 
 account of them, see Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. p. 202.
 
 THE SHEPHERDS SECRET. 91 
 
 your cigar, and puff away like a steam-engine — though ye ken 
 I just detest smokin ; — for I hae a secret to communicate — 
 a secret o' some pith and moment, Mr Tickler ; and I want to 
 see your fape in a' the strength o' its maist natural expression, 
 when I am lettin you intil't. — Fill your glass, sir. 
 
 Tickler. Don't tell it to me, James — don't tell it to me ; for 
 the greatest enjoyment I have in this life is to let out a secret 
 — especially if it has been confided to me as a matter of life 
 and death. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll rin a' hazards. I maun out wi't to you ; for 
 I hae aye had the most profoun' respect for your abeeUties, 
 and I hae a pleasmre in geein you the start o' the world for 
 four-and-twenty hours. — I am noo the Yeditor o' Blackwood' s 
 Magazine. 
 
 Tickler. Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! 
 
 Shepherd. Why, you see, sir, they couldna do without me. 
 North's gettin verra auld — and, between you and me, rather 
 doited — crabbed to the contributors, and — come hither wi' 
 your lug — no verra ceevil to Ebony himsel; — so out comes letter 
 upon letter to me, in Yan-ow yonder, fu' o' the maist magni- 
 ficent offers — indeed, telling me to fix my ain terms ; and 
 faith, just to get rid o' the endless fash o' letters by the car- 
 rier, I druve into toun here, in the Whusky, through Peebles, 
 on the Saturday o' the hard frost, and that same night was 
 installed into the Yeditorship in the Sanctum Sanctonim. 
 
 Tickler. Well, James, all that Eussian afi"air^ is a joke to 
 this. Nicholas, Constantine, and the old Mother -Empress, 
 may go to the devil and shake themselves, now that you, my 
 dear, dear Shepherd, are raised to the Scottish throne. 
 
 Shepherd. Wha wad hae thocht it, Mr Tickler, — wha wad 
 hae thocht it — ^that day when I first entered the Grassmarket, 
 wi' a' my flock afore me, and Hector youf-youfin round the 
 Gallow-Stane — where, in days of yore, the saints 
 
 Tickler. Sii-e? 
 
 Shepherd. Nane o' your mockin — I'm the Editor; and, to 
 prove't, I'll order in — ^the Balaam-box. 
 
 Tickler. James, as you love me, open not that box. — Pan- 
 dora's was a joke to it. 
 
 ^ The "Russian affair" was the declinature by Constantine of the Russian 
 sceptre, in favour of his younger brother Nicholas, who died on the 2d of March 
 1855.
 
 92 THE BALAAM-BOX. 
 
 Shepherd. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mr Tickler, you're feared that 
 I'll lay luy haun on yane o' your articles. man, but you're 
 a vain auld chiel ; just a bigot to your ain abeelities. But 
 hear me, sir ; you maun compose in a mair classical style, gin 
 you think o' continuing a contributor. I must not let down 
 the character of the work to flatter a few feckless fumblers. 
 Mr Ambrose — Mr Ambrose — the Balaam-box, I teU you — I hae 
 been ringing this half-hour for the Balaam-bos. 
 
 Mr Ambrose. Here is the Safe, sir. I observe the spider is 
 still in the key-hole ; but as Mr North, God bless him, told 
 me not to disturb him, I have given him a few flies daily that 
 I found in an old bottle ; perhaps he will get out of the way 
 when he feels the key. 
 
 Tickler. James, that spider awakens in my mind the most 
 agreeable recollections. 
 
 Shepherd. Dang your speeders. But, Mr Ambrose, where's 
 the Montlily Budget? 
 
 Mr Avibrose. Here, sir. 
 
 Shepherd [emptying the green hag on the table). Here, Mr 
 Tickler. Here's a sight for sair een — materials for a dizzen. 
 Numbers. Arrange them by tens — that's right ; what a show! 
 I'm rich aneuch to pay aS" the national debt. Let us see — 
 " Absenteeism." The speeder maun be disturbed — into the 
 Balaam-box must this article go, Gude preserve us, what a 
 weight ! I wonder what my gude auld father wad hae said, 
 had he lived to see the day, when it became a great public 
 question, whether it was better or waur for a country that she 
 should hae nae inhabitants ! . 
 
 Tickler. Here's an essay on Popular Education. 
 
 Shepherd. Kax't ower.^ Ay, ay, I see how it is — Institutions, 
 Mechanic Institutions. That's no the way, in the ordinary 
 coorse o' nature, that the mind acquires knowledge. As the 
 general wealth and knowledge of the country increases, men, 
 in all conditions, will of themselves become better informed. 
 Then the education of the young will be better attended to — 
 generation after generation that will be the case — till, feenally, 
 education will be general in town and country, and the nation 
 will be more enlightened, powerful, happy, and free. But now, 
 they are putting the cart before the horse ; and the naig will 
 get reesty,^ and kick aff the breeching, 
 
 ^ i2aa:'<— hand it. ^ Reesty — restive.
 
 TICKLER ON THE CREMONA. 93 
 
 Tickler. Here's a poem. 
 
 Shepherd. Fling it into the fire ; — poetry's a drog. Queen 
 Hynde is still in her first edition. 
 
 Tickler. The evil has wrought its own cure. But, on my 
 honoui', the verses are pretty. Another version of our favourite 
 German song. — I'll sing them to the fiddle. 
 
 (Tickler sings to his Cremona.) 
 
 The Rhine ! the Ehine ! — May on thy flowing river 
 
 The sun for ever shine ! 
 And on thy banks may freedom's light fade never ! — 
 
 Be blessings on the Ehine ! 
 The Ehine ! the Ehine ! — My fancy stiU is straying, 
 
 To dream of Wilhelmine, 
 Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing : — 
 
 Be blessings on the Ehine ! 
 The German knight the lance has bravely broken 
 
 By lofty Schreckeustetn ; 
 The German maid the tale of love has spoken 
 
 Beside the flowery Ehine. 
 With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is fired, 
 
 Beside that stream of thine ; 
 The duU Batavian, on thy banks insph-ed, 
 
 Shouts, — Freedom ! and the Ehine ! — 
 And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman ] — - 
 
 Though Europe should combine, — 
 The fiery Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Eoman, 
 
 Found graves beside the Ehine. — 
 Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses 
 
 With Hochheim's sparkling wine, 
 And drink, — while life, and love, and beauty passes, — 
 
 Be blessings on the Ehine ! 
 
 Shepherd. Faith, ye hae a gran' bow-hand, Mr Tickler. 
 Ye wad be a welcome guest in the kitchen o' ony farm-house 
 in a' Scotland, dui-ing the lang winter nichts. The lasses 
 " would loup as they were daft, when ye blew up your 
 chanter." Shame on the spinnet, and the flute, and a' instru- 
 ments, but the fiddle. 
 
 Tickler. Many and oft is the time, James, that in my younger 
 days I have set the shepherd's and farmer's family a-dancing, — 
 on to the sma' hours. They wotdd send out the bit herd laddie 
 to collect the queans, — and they came all flocking in, just a
 
 94 TICKLER SUB- EDITOR. 
 
 little trigger than when at work, — a clean mutch, or a ribbon 
 round their foreheads, — their bosoms made cosh ^ and tidy — 
 
 Shepherd. Wliisht, whisht. Ony mair verses amang the 
 materials ? Let us collec them a' into a heap, and send them 
 to the cyook to singe the fools. What's that your glowering 
 on, Sub? 
 
 TicMer. Sub? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, Sub. I create you Sub-yeditor of the Maga- 
 zine. You maun correc a' the Hebrew, and Cliinese, and 
 German, and Dutch, Greek and Latin, and French and 
 Spanish, and Itawlian. You maun likewise help me wi' the 
 pints, and in kittle words look after the spellin. Noo and 
 then ye may overhawl, and cut down, and transmogrify an 
 article that's ower lang, or ower stupid in pairts, putting 
 some smeddum^ in't, — and soomin a' up wi' a soimdin pero- 
 ration. ISTorth had nae equal at that; and I hae kent him 
 turn out o' his hands a short, pithy, biting article, fi-ae a long, 
 lank, lumbering rigmarole, taken, at a pinch, out the verra 
 Balaam-box. The author wondered at his ain genius and 
 erudition when he read it, and wad gang for a week after 
 up and doAvn the to^vn, asking everybody he met if they had 
 read his leading-article in Ebony. The sumph thocht he had 
 written it himsel ! I can never hope to equal Mr North in that 
 faculty, which in him is a gift o' nature ; but in a' things else, I 
 am his equal, — and in some, dinna ye think sae, his superior ? 
 
 Tickler. I do. There seems to me something pretty in this 
 little song. To do it justice, I must sing it. 
 
 Tune—" The Sailor's Life." 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! often on the mountain's side 
 
 I've sung with all a shepherd's pride, 
 
 And Yarrow, as he roU'd along, 
 
 Bore down the bm-den of the song. 
 
 A shepherd's life's the life for me, 
 He tends his flock so mei-rily, — 
 He sings his song, and tells his tale,^ 
 And is beloved thi-ough all the vale. 
 
 ' Cosh^-neat. 2 jSmeddum^—Bpint. 
 
 3 Tells his tale. Milton, in U Allegro, uses this expression as a synonym for 
 " Counts his flock ;" here, by a singular misapprehension, the words seem to 
 be used literally in the sense of " tells his story 1"
 
 HE SINGS. 95 
 
 2. 
 "WTien Summer gladdens all the scene 
 With golden light and vesture green, 
 Too short appears the cheerful day, 
 While thus he pom-s his artless lay, 
 
 A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c 
 
 3. 
 
 When winter comes with sullen blast. 
 And clouds and mists are gathering fast, 
 He folds his plaid, and on the hill 
 His blithesome song is with him still — 
 
 A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c. 
 
 4. 
 And when at eve, with guileless mirth, 
 He cheers his humble, happy hearth. 
 The storm without may whistle round. 
 But still within the song is found — 
 
 A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c. 
 
 5. 
 
 Oh ! envy not the palace proud, 
 With all its gaudy, glittering crowd ; 
 For who would ever be a king. 
 When on the hill-side he could sing, 
 
 A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c. 
 
 Shepherd. Tut, tut ! — it's wersli^ — wersli as a potauto without 
 saut. The writer o' that sang never wore a plaid. What for 
 will clever chaps, wi' a classical education, aye be writia awa 
 at sangs about us shepherds? Havers P — Let Bums, and me, 
 and Allan Cunningham, talk o' kintra matters, under our ain 
 charge. We'll put mair real life and love into ae line — aibUns 
 into a word — than a' the classical callants that ever were at 
 College. 
 
 Tickler. Well, well — here's a poem that may as well go 
 into the j&re-heap at once, without farther inspection. 
 
 Shepherd. For God's sake, hand your hand, Mr Tickler ! — 
 dinna bum that, as you houp to be saved ! It's my ain haun- 
 writin — I ken't at a' this distance — I'll swear til't in a court 
 o' justice ! Burn that, and you're my Sub nae langer. 
 
 Tickler. My dear Editor, I will sing it. 
 
 1 Wersh — insipid. ^ Havers — jargon.
 
 96 SHEPHERD SINGS, 
 
 Shepherd. Na, you slianna sing't — I'll sing't mysel, though 
 I'm as hoarse as a craw. Breathin that easterly harr is as 
 bad as snooking down into your hawse sae many yards o' 
 woollen. Howsomever, I'll try. And mind, nane o' your 
 accompaniments \\i' me, either o' fiddle or vice. A second's 
 a thing that I just perfectly abhor, — it seems to me — ^though 
 I hae as gude an ear as Miss Stephens^ hersel — and better, 
 too — to be twa different tunes sang at ae time — a maist 
 intolerable practice. Mercy me ! — It's the twa Epithahums 
 that I wrote for the young Duke o' Buccleuch's birthday, 
 held at Selkirk the 25th of November 1825.^ 
 
 Air — " Killiecranhie." 
 
 1. 
 
 Eejoice, ye wan and wilder'd glens, 
 
 Ye dowie dells o' Yarrow, 
 This is the day that Heaven ordains 
 
 To banish a' your sorrow ; 
 Ilk forest shaw, an' lofty law, 
 
 Frae grief and gloom arouse ye, 
 What gars ye snood youi* brows wi' snaw, 
 
 An' look sae grim and grousy ? 
 
 2. 
 What though the winter storm and flood 
 
 Set a' your cliffs a-quaking, 
 An' frost an' snaw leave nought ava 
 
 On your green glens o' braken ? 
 Yet soon the spring, wi' bud an' flower, 
 
 An' birds an' maidens singing, 
 The bonny rainbow an' the shower, 
 
 Shall set your braes a-riuging. 
 
 3. 
 
 We saw our sun set in the cloud, 
 
 For gloaming far too early. 
 An' daikness fa' wi' eiry shroud, 
 
 While hearts beat sad and sairly ; 
 But after lang an' lanesome night, 
 
 Our morn has risen niair clearly ; 
 An' O to wan an' waefu' wight. 
 
 Sic blithesome morn is cheery, 
 
 ^ Afterwards the Countess of Essex. 
 
 2 Hogg's munificent landlord, the present Duke of Buccleach, bom in 1806-
 
 HE REPROVETH TICKLER. 97 
 
 4. 
 This is the day that wakes our spring, 
 
 Our rainbow's arch returning ; 
 This is the dawning sent by Heaven 
 
 To banish care and mourning. 
 O, young Buccleuch, our kinsman true, 
 
 Our shield, and fii-m defender ; 
 To thee this day our love we pay, 
 
 Our blessings kindly render ! 
 
 5. 
 
 0, young Buccleuch ! 0, kind Buccleuch ! 
 
 What thousand hearts yearn o'er thee ; 
 What thousand hopes await thy smile. 
 
 And prostrate lie before thee : 
 Be thou thy Border's pride and boast, 
 
 Like sires renown'd in story ; 
 And thou shalt never want an host 
 
 For coimtry, King, and glory ! 
 
 Tickler. Beautiful, James, quite beautiful ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Tickler, I think, considering all things, the 
 situation I now occupy, my rank in society — and the respect 
 which I have at all times been proud to show you and Mrs 
 Tickler, that you might call me Mr Hogg, or Mr Yeditor ? 
 Why always James — simple James ? 
 
 Tickler, A familiar phrase, full of affection. I insist on 
 being called Timothy. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, weel, be it so now and then. But as a 
 general rule, let it be Mr Tickler, — Mr Hogg, or, which I 
 would prefer, Mr Editor. Depend upon it, sir, that there is 
 great advantage to social intercourse in the preservation of 
 those mere conversational forms by which "table-talk" is pro- 
 tected from degenerating into a coarse or careless familiarity. 
 
 Tickler. Suppose you occasionally call me " Southside," 
 and that I call you " Mount Benger " — 
 
 Shepherd. A true Scottish fashion that of calling gentlemen 
 by the names of their estates. Did you ever see the young 
 Duke ? You nod. Never ! — He's a real scion of the old tree. 
 What power that laddie has ower human happiness ! — He has 
 a kingdom, and never had a king more loyal subjects. All 
 his thousands o' farmers are proud o' him, and his executors ; 
 and that vena pride gies them a higher character. The clan 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 98 SONG ON " THE DUKE. 
 
 must not disgrace the Chief. The "Duke" is a household 
 word all over the Border ; — the bairns hear it eveiy day ; — 
 and it links us thegither in a sort o' brotherhood.^ Curse the 
 Radicals, who would be for destroying the old aristocracy 
 of the land ! — 
 
 WAT O' B U C C L E U C II. 
 Air—" ThuroVs Defeat." 
 
 Some sing with devotion 
 
 Of feats on the ocean, 
 And natiu-e's broad beauties in earth and in skies ; 
 
 Some rant of their glasses. 
 
 And some of the lasses. 
 And these are twa things we maun never despise. 
 
 But down with the praises 
 
 Of lilies and daisies. 
 Of posies and roses the like never grew : 
 
 That flimsy inditing 
 
 That poets delight in. 
 They've coined for a havering half-witted crew. 
 
 Chorics. 
 
 But join in my chonis, 
 
 Ye blades o' the Forest, 
 We'll lilt of our muirs and our mountains of blue ; 
 
 And hollow for ever, 
 
 Till a' the town shiver, 
 The name of our master, young Wat o' Buccleuch. 
 
 Of Douglas and Stuart, 
 
 We'd mony a true heart, 
 Wha stood for auld Scotland in dangers enew ; 
 
 And Scotts wha kept order 
 
 So lang on the Border, 
 Then wha heardna teU o' the Wats o' Buccleuch ? 
 
 Now all these old heroes, 
 
 Of helms and monteros, 
 O wha wad believe that the thing coidd be true ; 
 
 Tn lineage unblighted. 
 
 And blood are united, 
 In our noble Master, young Wat o' Buccleuch. 
 Then join in my chorus, &c. 
 
 1 Nobly has the Duke of Buccleuch sustained the character here ascribed to 
 him ; and amply has he fulfilled the promise of his youth.
 
 SHEPHERD GETS EXCITED, 99 
 
 In old days of wassail, 
 
 Of chief and of vassal, 
 O these were the ages of chivalry true, 
 
 Of reif and of rattle. 
 
 Of broil and of battle, 
 When first our auld forefathers follow'd Buccleuch. 
 
 They got for their merit, 
 
 What we still inherit. 
 Those green tow' ring hills and low valleys of dew, 
 
 Nor feared on theh' maUinsrs 
 
 For hornings or failings. 
 The broad-sword and shield paid the rents of Buccleuck 
 Then join in my chorus, &c. 
 
 From that day to this one. 
 
 We've lived but to bless them, 
 To love and to trust them as guardians true ; 
 
 May Heaven protect then. 
 
 And guide and direct then. 
 This stem of the gen'rous old house of Buccleuch ! 
 
 The Wats were the callans. 
 
 That steadied the balance, 
 When strife between kinsmen and Borderers grew : 
 
 Then here's to our scion, 
 
 The son of the lion, 
 The Lord of the Forest, the Chief of Buccleuch. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then join in my chorus. 
 
 Ye lads of the Forest, 
 We'll lilt of our muirs and our mountains of blue. 
 
 And hollow for ever, 
 
 Till a' the tow'rs shiver, 
 The name of oui- Master, young Wat of Buccleuch. 
 
 There's a sang for you, Timothy. My blude's up. I bless 
 Heaven I am a Borderer. Here's the Duke's health — here's 
 the King's health — here's North's health — here's your 
 health — here's my aia health — here's Ebony's health — here's 
 Ambrose's health — the healths o' a' the contributors and a' 
 the subscribers. That vs^as a wully vv^aught ! I haena left a 
 dribble in the jug. I wuss it mayna flee to my head — ^it's a 
 half-mutchkin jug.
 
 100 EDITORIAL RESPONSIBILITIES. 
 
 Tickler. Your eyes, James, are sinning with more tlian their 
 usual brilliancy. But here it goes. [Drinks his jug.) 
 
 Shepherd. After all, what blessing is in this world like a 
 rational, well-founded, steadfast hiendship between twa people 
 that hae seen some little o' human life — felt some little o' its 
 troubles — kept fast hald o' a gude character, and are doing a' 
 they can for the benefit o' their fellow-creatures ? The Maga- 
 zine, Mr Tickler, is a mighty engine, and it behoves me to 
 think well what I am about when I set it a-working. The 
 CauthoHc Question is the cause o' great perplexity to my 
 mind, when I tak a comprehensive and pliilosophic view o' 
 the history and constitution o' human nature. 
 
 Tickler. I never heard you, Mr Hogg, on the Cathohc 
 Question. I trust your opinions are the same with those of 
 Ml' North. 
 
 Shepherd. Whatever my opinions are, Mr Tickler, they are 
 my own, and they are the fruit of long, laborious, deep, and 
 conscientious meditation. I cannot beheve, with Drs Southey 
 and Phillpotts, and other distinguished men, that the spirit 
 of Catholicism is imchangeable. Nothing human is unchange- 
 able. I do not, therefore, despair of seeing — no, I must not 
 say that, but of my posterity seeing — the Cathohc rehgion so 
 purified and rationahsed by an unconscious Protestantism, 
 that our Cathohc brethren may be admitted without danger 
 to the full enjoyment of all the rights and privileges of 
 British subjects. That time will come, sir ; but not in our 
 day — no, not in our day. A century at the very least, perhaps 
 two, must elapse before we can grant the boon of Cathohc 
 Emancipation, 
 
 Tickler. Just my sentiments. 
 
 Shepherd. No, sh, they are my own ; and farther I say, that 
 to emancipate the Cathohcs in order to destroy their religion, 
 as is proposed many hundred times in the rival Journal, (blue 
 and yellow), is pure idiotry. I shall, therefore, not suffer 
 Catholic Emancipation. 
 
 Tickler. What think you of Constable's Miscellany f^ You 
 wish me to speak. The idea is an excellent one, entirely his 
 own, and the speculation cannot fail of success. Thousands 
 
 ^ The first work in which the publication of ' ' cheap literature " was projected 
 and carried out on a considerable scale.
 
 constable's miscellany. TENNANT. 101 
 
 of families that cannot afford to buy books, as tbey are sold 
 in their original shape, will purchase these pretty little cheap 
 periodicals, and many a fireside will be enlightened. The 
 selection of pubHshed works is judicious, and so in general 
 is that of subjects to be treated of by Mr Constable's own 
 authors ; one most laughable exception there indeed is — His- 
 tory of Scotland, in three volumes, by William Ritchie, Esq. 
 
 Shepherd. What the deevil ! — Eitchie o' the Scotsman ? 
 
 Tickler. Wliy, it is rumoured, even Wigham the Quaker,^ 
 when he heard of it, cried out, ^^ Eisus teneatis amici?" Our 
 excellent friend Constable committed a sad blunder in this ; 
 but he was speedily ashamed of it, and has scored out the 
 most insignificant of all names from his list. 
 
 Shepherd. Scored out his name? — And will Eitchie^ write 
 three volumes of the History of Scotland after that ? — I never 
 heard of such an insult. Yet Mr Constable was in the right ; 
 — for only think for a moment of printing 15,000 copies of 
 three volumes of a History of Scotland by William Eitchie ! 
 But Mr Constable may just drap the volumes a'thegether ; 
 for there will aye be a kind o' a disagreeable suspicion that 
 Eitchie wrote them, — and that would be enough to damn the 
 History, were it frae the pen of Dionysius Harlicamensis. 
 
 Tickler. Dionysius Harlicamensis ! 
 
 Shepherd. The same. I ken a' about him frae Tennant o' 
 Dollar, author of Anster Fair} 
 
 Tickler. Here's Termant's health, and that of John Baliol, 
 his new tragedy. 
 
 Shepherd. With all my heart ; but I wish people would give 
 over writing tragedies. If they won't, then let them choose 
 tragical subjects ; let them, as Aristotle says in his Poetics, 
 purge our souls by pity and terror, and not set us asleep. 
 The Bridal of Lammermuir is the best, the only tragedy since 
 Shakespeare — 
 
 Tickler. Try the anchovies. I forget if you skate, Hogg ? 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, like a flounder. I was at Duddingston 
 Loch on the great day. Twa bands of music kept cheering 
 
 1 An oracle among the suburban Radicals. 
 
 2 One of the editors of the Scotsman newspaper. Nothing worse, I believe, 
 is known of him than that he was a keen Whig. 
 
 3 Afterwards Professor of Oriental Languages in the University of St 
 Andrews. He died in 1848.
 
 102 SKATESTG. 
 
 the shade of King Ai-thtir on his seat, and gave a martial 
 character to the festivities. It was then, for the first time, 
 that I mounted my cloak and spurs. I had a yoimg leddie, 
 you may weel guess that, on ilka arm ; and it was pleasant to 
 feel the dear timorous creturs clinging and pressing on a 
 body's sides, every time their taes caught a bit crunkle on the 
 ice, or an imbedded chucky-stane. I thocht that between the 
 twa they wad never hae gien ower till they had pu'd me 
 doun on the breid o' my back. The muffs were just amazing, 
 and the furbelows past a' enumeration. It was quite Polar. 
 Then a' the ten thousand people (there couldna be fewer) were 
 in perpetual motion. Faith, the thermometer made them do 
 that, for it was some fifty below zero. I've been at mony a 
 bonspeil, but I never saw such a congregation on the ice 
 afore. Once or twice it cracked, and the sound was fearsome, 
 — a lang, sullen growl, as of some monster starting out o' 
 sleep, and raging for prey. But the bits o' bairns just leuch, 
 and never gied ower sliding ; and the leddies, at least my twa, 
 just gied a kind o' sab, and drew in their breath, as if they 
 had ben gaun in naked to the dookin on a cauld day ; and 
 the mirth and merriment were rifer than ever. Faith, I did 
 make a dinner at the Club-house. 
 
 Tickler. Was the skating tolerable ? 
 
 Shepherd. No ; intolerable. Puir conceited whalps ! Gin 
 you except Mr Tory^ o' Princes Street, wha's a handsome 
 fallow, and as good a skater as ever spread-eagled, the lave 
 a' deserved drowning. There was Henry Cowbum,^ like a 
 dominie, or a sticket minister, puttin himself into a number o' 
 attitudes, every ane clumsier and mair ackward than the ither, 
 and nae doubt flatterin himself that he was the object o' uni- 
 versal admiration. The haill loch was laughing at him. The 
 cretur can skate nane. Jemmy Simpson^ is a feckless bodie 
 on the ice, and canna keep his knees straught. I couldna 
 look at him without wondering what induced the cretur to 
 
 ^ Mr Tory, although a tailor, had thews and sinews superior to his pro- 
 fession. 
 
 ^ Afterwards Lord Cockbum, one of the Judges of the Court of Session, and 
 author of the Life of Lord Jeffrey. 
 
 ^ James Simpson, Advocate, a Whig, author of A Visit to the Field of 
 Waterloo, which ran through many editions, and was republished with addi- 
 tions in 1852. He died in 1854, having done much by his philanthropical 
 exertions to promote the welfare of his fellow-citizens.
 
 THE SHEPHERD ON SKATES. 103 
 
 write about Waterioo. The Skatin Club is indeed on its last 
 legs. 
 
 Tickler. Did you skate, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. That I did, Timothy — ^but ken you hoo? You 
 will have seen how a' the newspapers roosed the skatin' o' an 
 offisher, that they said lived in the Castle. Fools ! — ^it was 
 me — naebody but me. Ane o' my twa leddies had a wig in 
 her muff, geyan sair curled on the frontlet, and I pat it on the 
 hair o' my head. I then drew in my mouth, puckered my 
 cheeks, made my een look fierce, hung my head on my left 
 shouther, put my hat to the one side, and so, arms a-kimbo, 
 off I went in a figure of 8, garring the crowd part Hke clouds, 
 and circumnavigating the frozen ocean in the space of about 
 two minutes. " The curlers quat their roaring play," and 
 every tent cast forth its inmates, with a bap in the ae haun 
 and a gill in the ither, to behold the Offisher frae the Castle. 
 The only fear I had was o' my long spurs ; — but they never 
 got fanMed ; and I finished with doing the 47th Proposition 
 of EucHd, -with mathematical precision. Jemmy Simpson, 
 half-an-hour before, had fallen, over the Pons asinorum. 
 
 Tickler. Mr Editor, I fear that if in your articles you fol- 
 low the spfrit that guides your conversation, you wiU be as 
 personal as Mr North himself. No intrusion on private 
 character. 
 
 Shepherd. Private character ! If Mr James Simpson, or Mr 
 Henry Cockbum, or myself, exhibit our figxires or attitudes 
 before ten thousand people, and cause all the horses in the 
 adjacent pastures to half-die of laughter, may I not mention 
 the disaster ? Were not their feats celebrated in all the news- 
 papers ? There it was said that they were the most elegant 
 and graceful of volant men. What if I say in the next 
 number of the Magazine, that they had the appearance of 
 the most pitiful prigs that ever exposed themselves as public 
 performers ? Besides, they are by far too old for such non- 
 sense. They are both upwards of fifty, and seem much older. 
 At that time of life they should give thefr skates to their boys. 
 
 Tickler. My dear Editor, you are forgetting the articles. 
 The devil wiU be here for copy 
 
 Mr Ambrose [entering). Did you ring, Mr North? Beg your 
 pardon, did you ring, Mr Hogg ? 
 
 Shepherd. No, Ambrose. But here, — take that poetry, and
 
 104 AMBROSE RECITETH. 
 
 tell the cook to singe yon. The turkey, you know. Let us 
 have supper precisely at twelve. 
 
 Mr Ambrose [receiving the poetry from Tickler). Might I be 
 allowed, gentlemen, to preserve a few fragments ? English 
 gentlemen are always speaking of the Magazine ; and there 
 are two very genteel gentlemen, indeed, and excellent cus- 
 tomers of mine, Mr Hogg, — one of them from Newcastle, 
 and the other all the way from Leeds, — one in the soft, 
 and the other in the hard Hne, — who would esteem a frag- 
 ment of manuscript from the Balaam-box an inestimable trea- 
 sure. 
 
 Shepherd. Certainly, Ambrose, certainly. Keep that little 
 whitey-brown article ; but mind now you give aU the rest to 
 the kyuck. 
 
 Mr Ambrose [inspecting it). yes, the whitey-brown article 
 will do admirably. 
 
 Shepherd. You think so, do you, Ambrose? What is it 
 about ? Pray, read it up. 
 
 Mr Ambrose recites. 
 
 Tune — " To all you Ladies now at Land." 
 
 For once in sentimental vein 
 
 My doleful song must flow, 
 For melancholy is the strain, — 
 
 It is a song of woe ! 
 Ah I he who holds the monthly pen 
 Is most accurst of mortal men ! 
 
 With a fa, la, la, &c. 
 
 From month to month 'tis still his doom 
 
 To drag the hopeless chain, 
 For fair or foul, in mirth or gloom, 
 
 He shares the curse of Cain ; 
 It is a woeful thing to see 
 A sight like this among the free ! 
 
 With a fa, la, la, &c. 
 
 The devil comes at break of day, 
 
 The hapless wretch to dun, — 
 Oh ! then the devil is to pay, 
 
 His work is not besrun ! 
 With heavy heart and aching head 
 He sends a hearty curse instead. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, &c.
 
 THE SHEPHEKD ON WILSON. 105 
 
 But Christopher is not the man 
 
 His failings to excuse, 
 He must bestir as best he can, 
 
 And spur his jaded muse ; 
 Oh ! cheerless day and dreary night 
 The endless article to write ! 
 
 With a fa, la, la, &c. 
 
 But ah ! when Here he blithely sits, 
 
 How altered is his lot I 
 He clears his brow, unbends his wits, — 
 
 His cares are all forgot ; 
 He sings his song, his bumper fiUs, 
 An d laughs at life and all its ills. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, &c. 
 
 Shepherd. Dog on it, if I don't believe you are the author 
 of the Whitey -brown yourself, Mr Ambrose. 
 
 Ambrose. No, IMr Editor. I could not take that liberty. 
 In Mr North's time, I did, indeed, occasionally contribute an 
 article. The foreign gentleman is ringing his bell ; and, as he 
 is very low-spirited since the death of Alexander,^ I must at- 
 tend him. Pardon me, gentlemen, wlnsky or Hollands ? 
 
 Shepherd. Baith, What's the name of the Eussian gentleman? 
 
 Ambrose. I believe, sir, it is Nebuchadnezzar. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, ay, that is a Eussian name ; for they are 
 descended, I hear, from the Babylonians. {Exit Mr Ambrose. ) 
 — Mr Tickler, here's a most capital article, entitled "Biids."^ 
 I ken his pen the instant I see the scart o't. Naebody can 
 touch afif these light, airy, buoyant, heartsome articles like 
 him. Then there's aye sic a fine dash o' nature in them — 
 sic nice touches o' description — and, every now and then, a 
 bit curious and peculiar word — -just ae word and nae mair, 
 that lets you into the spirit of the whole design, and makes 
 you love both the writer and the written. — Square down the 
 edges with the paper-folder, and label it " Leading Aiiicle." 
 
 Tickler. I wish he was here. 
 
 Shepherd. He's better where he is — for he's a triflin creatur 
 when he gets a bit drink ; and then the tongue o' him never 
 lies. — Birds — Birds ! — I see he treats only o' singing birds ; 
 —he maun gie us afterhend, Birds o' Prey. That's a grand 
 
 1 Alexander, the Emperor of Kussia, died in November 1825. 
 3 This article, written by Professor Wilson, appeared in BlackwoocVs Maga- 
 zine, vol. xix. p. 105.
 
 106 BIRDS OF PREY. 
 
 subject for liim. Save us ! what he would inak o' the King 
 o' the Vultures ! Of course he would breed him on Imaus. 
 His flight is far, and he fears not famine. He has a hideous 
 head of liis own — fiendlike eyes — nostrils that woo the murky 
 air — and beak fit to dig into brain and heart. Don't forget 
 Prometheus and his liver. Then dream of being sick in a 
 desert place, and of seeing the Vulture-King alight within ten 
 yards of you — folduig up his wings very composedly — and 
 then coming with his horrid bald scalp close to your ear, and 
 beginning to pick rather gently at your face, as if afraid to 
 find you alive. You groan — and he hobbles away, with an 
 angry shriek, to watch you die. You see him whetting his 
 beak upon a stone, and gaping wide with hxmger and thirst. 
 Horror pierces both your eyelashes before the bird begins to 
 scoop ; and you have already aU the talons of both his iron 
 feet in your throat. Your heart's-blood freezes ; but notwith- 
 standing that, by-and-by he will suck it up ; and after he has 
 gorged himself till he cannot fly, but falls asleep after dinner, 
 a prodigious flock of inferior fierce fowl come flying from 
 every part of heaven, and gobble up the fragments. 
 
 Tickler. A poem — a poem — a poem ! — quite a poem ! 
 
 Shepherd. My certes, Mr Tickler, here's a copy of verses 
 that Ambrose has dropped, that are quite pat to the subject. 
 Hearken — here's the way John Kemble used to read. Stop — 
 I'll stand up, and use his action too, and mak my face as like 
 his as I can contrive. There's a difference o' features, but 
 very muckle o' the same expression. 
 
 O to be free, like the eagle of heaven, 
 
 That soars over valley and mountain all day, 
 Then flies to the rock which the thunder hath riven, 
 And nurses her young with the fresh-bleeding prey ! 
 
 No arrow can fly 
 
 To her eyrie on high, 
 No net of the fowler her wings can ensnare : 
 
 The merle and thrush 
 
 May live in the bush, 
 But the eagle's domain is as wide as the air ! 
 
 O to be fleet, like the stag of the mountain, 
 
 That starts when the twilight has gilded the mom ; 
 
 He feeds in the forest, and drinks from the fountain, 
 And hears from the thicket the sound of the horn ;
 
 THE SHEPHEKD AS JOHN KEMBLE. 107 
 
 Then forward he bounds, 
 
 While horses and hounds 
 Follow fast with theii- loud-sounding yell and halloo ; 
 
 The goats and the sheep 
 
 Their pasture may keep, 
 But the stag bounds afar when the hunters pursue. 
 
 O to be strong like the oaks of the forest. 
 
 That wave their green tops while the breezes blow high, 
 And never are fell'd till they're wounded the sorest — 
 
 Then they throw down their saplings, when falling to die ! 
 
 The shrubs and the flowers, 
 
 In gardens and bowers, 
 May sicken, when mildew has tainted the field ; 
 
 But the oaks ever stand, 
 
 As the pride of our land, 
 And to none but the arm of the lightning will yield. 
 
 Then, free in the world as the far-soaring eagle. 
 
 And swift as the stag, when at morning awoke, 
 Let us laugh at the chase of the hoimd and the beagle, — 
 Be sturdy and strong as the wide-spreading oak. 
 
 And we'll quaff wine and ale 
 
 From goblet and pail, 
 And we'll drink to the health of our comrades so dear ; 
 
 And, like merry, merry men, 
 
 "We'll fill up agaia ; 
 And thus live without sorrow, and die without fear. 
 
 Tickler. I used sometimes to tMnk that North gave us too 
 little poetry in the Magazine. I hope you will improve that 
 department, notwithstanding your order of incremation. People 
 like poetry in periodicals, even although they abuse it. Here's 
 a little attempt of my own, Mr Editor — if I thought it could 
 pass muster. 
 
 Shepherd. Up with it. But don't, like Wordsworth, "mur- 
 mur near the living brooks a music sweeter than their o-wn." 
 That is to say, no mouthing and singing like a Methodist 
 minister. The Lake-poetry may requife it — for it is a' sound, 
 and nae sense ; but yours is just the reverse o' that — Spout 
 away, Southside. 
 
 Tickler. You know Campbell's fine song of the "Exile 
 of Erin ? " — I had it in my mind, perhaps, duiing compo- 
 sition.
 
 108 POEM BY TICKLER. 
 
 Tune—" Erin Go Braghr 
 
 There stood on the shore of far distant Van Diemen 
 
 An ill-fated victim of handcuffs and chains, 
 And sadly he thought on the country of freemen, 
 
 Where the housebreaker thrives, and the pickpocket reigns ; 
 For the clog at his foot met his eye's observation, 
 Recalling the scenes of his late avocation, 
 Wliere once, ere the time of his sad transportation. 
 
 He sang bold defiance to hard-hearted law ! 
 
 Oh ! hard is my fate, said the much-injured felon ; 
 
 How I envy the life of the gay Kangaroo ! 
 I envy the pouch that her little ones dwell in, 
 
 I envy those haunts where no bloodhounds pursue ! 
 Oh ! never again shall I nightly or daily 
 Cut throats so genteelly, pick pockets so gaily, 
 And cheerfully laugh at the ruthless Old Bailey, 
 
 And sing bold defiance to hard-hearted law ! 
 
 Oh ! much-loved St Giles, even here in my sorrow, 
 
 How often I dream of thy alleys and lanes ! 
 But sadness, alas ! must return with the morrow, 
 
 A morning of toil, or of fetters and chains ! 
 Oh ! pitiless fate, wilt thou never restore me 
 To the scenes of my youth, and the friends that deplore m.e, 
 Those glorious scenes, where my fathers before me 
 
 Sang fearless defiance to hard-hearted law ! 
 
 Where are my picklocks, my much-loved possession ? 
 
 Miaions of Bow Street, you doubtless could tell ! 
 Where are the friends of my darling profession ? 
 
 Thurtell and Probert, I hear your death-knell ! 
 Oh ! little we thought, when in harmony blended. 
 Of hearts thus dissever'd and friendships suspended— 
 That the brave and the noble should ever have ended 
 
 In being the victims of hard-hearted law ! 
 
 Yet even in my grief I would still give a trifle, 
 
 Could I only obtain but a glass of The Blue, 
 With the soul-soothing draught all my sorrows I'd stifle, 
 
 Brethren in England, I'd drink it to you ! 
 Firm be each hand, and each bosom undaunted, — 
 Distant the day when you're told you are " wanted," — 
 Joyous the song which by Flashman is chanted — 
 
 The song of defiance to hard-hearted law !
 
 SHEPHERD IN TREPIDATION. 109 
 
 Shepherd. I have heard waur things than that ; it's very 
 amusing, — nay it's capital — and its tui'n may come roun' in 
 the Magazine in a year or twa. 
 
 Tickler. Allow me to express my gratitude. Have you 
 seen, Mr Editor, Chambers's Traditions of Edinburgh f — a most 
 amusing series of numbers, fuU of the best kind of antiqua- 
 rianism. It has had a great sale, and it well deserves it. 
 Chambers is a modest and ingenious man.^ 
 
 Shepherd. That he is: I hae kent him for many years. But 
 is it not all about auld houses ? 
 
 Tickler. Not at all. There is much droU infonnation about 
 life and manners, and characters now gone by to return no 
 more. I understand that Sir Walter Scott and Charles 
 Sharpe^ have both communicated anecdotes of the olden time, 
 and that would stamp value upon a book of far inferior 
 excellence. May I review it for an early number ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ou ay. But what noise is that ? Do you hear 
 ony noise in the lobby, Mr Tickler ? Dot, Dot, Dot ! Dinna 
 you hear't ? It's awfu' ! This way. Lord ! it's Mr North, 
 it's Mr North, and I am a dead man. I am gaim to be de- 
 teckit in personating the Yeditor. I'U be hanged for forgery. 
 Wae's me — Wae's me ! Could I get into that press ? or into 
 ane o' the garde-du-vins o' the sideboard ? Or maun I loup 
 at ance ower the window, and be dash'd to a thousand 
 pieces ? 
 
 Tickler. Compose yourself, James ; compose yourself. But 
 what bam is this you have been playing off upon me ? I 
 thought North had resigned, and that you were, bond fide, 
 editor ? And I too ! Am not I your Sub ? "What is this. 
 Mount Benger ? ^ 
 
 Shepherd. A sudden thocht strikes me. I'U put on the wig, and 
 be the offisher frae the Castle. Paint my ee-brees wi' burned 
 cork — fast, man, fast, the gouty auld deevil's at the door. 
 
 1 Since this was written, Mr Robert Chambers, by his writings and publica- 
 tions, has contributed greatly to the dissemination of a cheap and edify-ing 
 litei-ature. 
 
 2 Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe was a clever caricaturist, and replete with 
 small gossip. He edited Kirkton's Secret and True History of the Church of 
 Scotland from the Restoration to the Year 1678, and published in 1817 a small 
 volume entitled Metrical Legends and other Poems, &c. For a sketch of him, 
 see Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. viii. p. 110, 2d edition. 
 
 ^ Hogg's territorial title from the name of his farm.
 
 110 SHEPHERD AS MAJOR MOGGRIDGE. 
 
 Tickler. That will do. On with your cloak. It may be 
 said of you, as of the Palmer in Marmion, 
 
 Ah me ! the mother that you bare, 
 If she had been in presence there, 
 In cork'd eyebrows and wig so fair, 
 She had not known her child. 
 
 [Enter North.) 
 
 North. Mr Tickler ! Beg pardon, sir, — a stranger. 
 
 Tickler. Allow me to introduce to you Major Moggridge, of 
 the Prince's Own. 
 
 North. How do you do. Major — I am happy to see you. I 
 have the honour of ranking some of my best friends among 
 the military — and who has not heard of the character of your 
 regiment ? 
 
 The Major [very short-sighted). Na — how do you do, Mr 
 North ? 'Pon honour, fresh as a two-year-old. Is it, indeed, 
 the redoubtable Kit that I see before me ? You must become 
 a member of the United Service Club. We can't do without 
 }'ou. You served, I think, in the American War. Did you 
 know Fayette or Washington, or Lee, or Arnold ? What sort 
 of a looking fellow was Washington ? 
 
 North. Why, Major — Washington was much such a good- 
 looking fellow as yourseK — making allowance for difference 
 in dress — for he was a plain man in his apparel. But he had 
 the same heroic expression of countenance — the same com- 
 manding eye and bold broad forehead. 
 
 The Major. He didna mak as muckle use, surely, o' the 
 Scottish deealec as me ? 
 
 North. What is the meaning of this ? I have heard that 
 voice before, — where am I ? Excuse me, sir, but — ^but — why. 
 Tickler, has Hogg a cousin, or a nephew, or a son in the 
 Hussars ? Major Moggridge, you have a strong resemblance 
 to one of our most celebrated men, the Ettrick Shepherd. 
 Are you in any way connected with the Hoggs ? 
 
 Shepherd [throwing off his disguise). ye Gawpus ! Ye 
 great Gawpus I It's me, man — it's me ! Tuts, man — dinna 
 lose your temper — dinna you think I would mak a capital 
 playactor ?
 
 SHEPHERD UNMASKED. Ill 
 
 North. Wliy, James, men at my time of life are averse to 
 sucb. waggeries. 
 
 Shepherd. Averse to vraggeries ! You averse to waggeries ? 
 Then let us a' begin saying our prayers, for the end o' the 
 world is at hand. Now, that's just the way baith wi' you and 
 Mr Tickler. As lang as you get a' your ain way, and think 
 you hae the laugh against the Shepherd, a's richt — and you 
 keckle, and you craw, and you fling the straw frae ahint the 
 heels o' you, just like game-cocks when about to gie battle. 
 Vow, but you're crouse :^ but sae sune as I turn the tables on 
 you, ^egg you, as they would say in Glasgow — turn you into 
 twa asses, and make you wonder if your lugs are touching the 
 ceiling — but immediately you begin whimpering about your 
 age and inflrmities — immediately you baith draw up your 
 mouths as if you had been eatin sourocks, let down your jaws 
 like so many undertakers, and propose being philosophical ! 
 Isna that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? 
 
 North. I fear, James, you're not perfectly sober. 
 
 Shepherd. If I am fou, sir, it's nae been at your expense. 
 But, howsomever, here I am ready to dispute wi' you on ony 
 subject, sacred or profane. I'll cowp^ you baith, ane after the 
 ither. What sail it be? History, Philosophy, Theology, 
 Poetry, Political Economy, Oratory, Criticism, Jurisprudence, 
 Agriculture, Commerce, Manufactures, Establishments in 
 Church and State, Cookery, Chemistry, Mathematics — or My 
 Magazine ? 
 
 North. Your Magazine ? 
 
 Shepherd {bursting into a guffaw). Mr North ! Mr 
 North ! what a fule I hae made o' Tickler. I made him 
 beUeve that I was the Yeditor o' Blackwood's Magazine ! 
 The coof credited it ; and gin you only heard hoo he abused 
 you ! He ca'd you the Archbishop of Toledo.^ 
 
 Tickler. You lie, Hogg ! 
 
 Shepherd. There's manners for you, Mr North. Puir, pas- 
 sionate cretur, I pity him, when I think o' the apology he 
 maun mak to me in a' the newspapers. 
 
 North. No, no, my good Shepherd — ^be pacified, if he goes 
 down here on his knees. 
 
 1 Crouse— hnsk and confident. ^ Cowp— overthrow. 
 
 3 Is this not a mistake for the " Archbishop of Granada," in Gil Blast
 
 112 A RECONCILIATION. 
 
 Shepherd. Stop a wee while, till I consider. Na, na ; he 
 
 maunna gang doun on his knees — I couldna thole to see that. 
 
 Then, I was wrang in saying he abused you. So let us baith 
 
 say we were wrang, preceesely at the same moment. Gie the 
 
 signal, Mr North. 
 
 Tickler. ) t i i 
 
 CY, , 7^1 ask pardon. 
 bnepherd. ) ^ 
 
 North. Let us embrace. {Tria juncta in uno.) 
 
 Shepherd. Hurra! hxirra! hurra! — Noo for the Powldowdies.^ 
 
 ^ Powldowdies — oysters.
 
 VI. 
 
 (APRIL 1826.) 
 Blue Parlour. — North, Shepherd, Tickler, Mullion.^ 
 
 Shepherd. You may keep wagging that tongue o' yours, 
 Mr Tickler, till midsummer, but I'll no stir a foot frae my 
 position, that the London University, if weel schemed and 
 weel conduckit, will be a blessing to the nation. It's no for 
 me, nor the like o' me, to utter ae single syllable against 
 edication. Take the good and the bad thegether, but let a' 
 ranks hae edication. 
 
 Tickler. All ranks cannot have education. 
 
 Mullion. I agree with Mr Tickler, 
 
 " A little learning is a dangerous thing. 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring." 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, man, MuUion ! but you're a great gowk! 
 What the mair dangerous are ye wi' your little learning ? 
 There's no a mair harmless creature than yoursel, man, amang 
 a' the contributors. The Pierian spring ! What ken ye about 
 the Pierian spring ? Ye never douked your lugs ^ intil't, I'm 
 sure. Yet, gin it were onything like a jug o' whisky, faith, 
 ye wad hae drank deep aneuch — and then, dangerous or no 
 dangerous, ye might hae been lugged awa to the Poleesh- 
 oflfice, wi' a watchman aneath ilka oxter, kickin and spurrin 
 a' the way, like a pig in a stiing. Hand your tongue, 
 Mullion, about diinkin deep, and the Pierian spring. 
 
 North. James, you are very fierce this evening. Mullion 
 scarcely deserved such treatment. 
 
 Shepherd. Fairce ? I'm nae mair fairce than the lave o' ye. 
 
 ^ "Mullion" seems to have been a purely imaginary character, designed to 
 represent very generally the population of Glasgow and its vicinity. 
 2 Douhed your lugs — plunged your ears. 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 EDUCATION. 
 
 A' contributors are in a manner fairce — but I canna tbole to 
 hear nonsense the nicht. Ye may just as weel tell me that 
 a Uttle siller's a dangerous thing. Sae, doubtless it is, in a 
 puir hard-working chiel's pouch, in a change -house, on a 
 Saturday nicht — but no sae dangerous either as mair o't. A 
 guinea's mair dangerous than a shilling, gin you reason in 
 that gate. It's just perfec sophistry a'thegether. In like 
 manner, you micht say a little Hcht's a dangerous thing, and 
 therefore shut up the only bit wunnock^ in a poor man's house, 
 because the room was ower sma' for a Venetian ! Havers ! 
 havers ! God's blessings are aye God's blessings, though 
 they come in sma's and driblets. That's my creed, Mr North 
 — and it's Mr Canning's too, I'm glad to see, and that o' 
 a' the lave o' the enlichtened men in civilised Europe. 
 
 Mullion. Why, as to Mr Canning — I cannot say that to his 
 opinion on that subject I attach much 
 
 Shepherd. Hand your tongue, ye triflin cretur — ye maun 
 hae been drinkin at some o' your caird-clubs afore you cam 
 to Awmrose's the nicht. You're unpleasant aneuch when ye 
 sleep, and snore, and draw your breath through a wat crinkly 
 cough, wi' the head o' ye nid noddin, first ower your back and 
 syne ower your breast, then on the tae shouther, and then on 
 the tither, — but ony thing's mair preferable than yerk, yerkin 
 at everything said by a wiser man than yoursel — by me, or 
 Mr Canning, or Mr North, when he chooses to illuminate. 
 
 Mullion. What will Mx Canning say now about Parlia- 
 mentary Reform, after that oration of his about Tm'got and 
 Galileo ? 
 
 Shepherd. Turkey and Galilee! What care I about such 
 outlandish realms ? Keep to the point at issue, sir, — the edica- 
 tion o' the people ; and if Mr Canning does not vote wi' me for 
 the edication o' the people, confoun' me gin he'll be Secretary o' 
 State for the Hame Department anither Session o' Parhament. 
 
 Mullion. The Foreign Department, if you please, Mr Hogg. 
 
 Shepherd. 0, man, that's just like you. Takin baud o' a 
 word, as if ony rational man would draw a conclusion frae a 
 misnomer o' a word. There's nae distinction atween Foreign 
 and Hame Departments. Gin Mr Canning didna ken the 
 state o' our ain kintra, how the deevil, man, could he conduck 
 the haill range o' international poHcy ? 
 
 1 Wunnock — window.
 
 EDUCATION, 115 
 
 Tickler. I confess, Mr Hogg, tlia1>- 
 
 Shepherd. Nane o' your confessions, Mr Tickler, to me. I'm 
 no a Eoman priest. Howsomever — beg pardon for interrupt- 
 ing you. What's your wull ? 
 
 Tickler. I confess that I like to see each order in the State 
 keeping in its own place — following its own pursuits — practis- 
 ing its own virtues. 
 
 Shepherd. Noo, noo, Mr Tickler, ye ken the unfeigned 
 respec I hae for a' your opinions and doctrines. But ye 
 maunna come down upon the Shepherd wi' your generaleezin. 
 As for orders in the State, how mony thousan' o' them are 
 there — and wha can tell what is best, to a tittle, for ilka ane 
 o' them a' in a iree kintra ? I've read in beuks that there are 
 but three orders in the State — the higher, the middle, and the 
 lower orders. Siccan nonsense ! 
 
 Mullion. The best authorities 
 
 Shepherd. I'll no speak anither word the nicht, if that cretur 
 Mulhon keeps interruptin folk wi' that nyalfing* voice o' him 
 in that gate. I say there are at least three thousand orders 
 in the State — ploughmen, shepherds, ministers, squires, lords, 
 ladies, auld women, virgins, weavers, smiths, professors, tailors, 
 sodgers, howdies, bankers, pedlars, tinklers, poets, editors, 
 contributors, manufacturers, annuitants, grocers, drapers, book- 
 sellers, innkeepers, advocates, writers to the W.S., giieves, 
 bagmen, and ten hundred thousand million forbye — and wull 
 you, Mr Tickler, presume to teU me the proper modicmn o' 
 edication for a' these Pagan and Christian folk ? 
 
 Tickler. Why, James, you put the subject in a somewhat 
 new point of view. Gro on. ]\Ir Mullion, if you please, let us 
 hear James. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae little or naething to say upon the subject, 
 Mr North — only that it is not in the power o' ony man to say 
 what quantum o' knowledge ony other man, be his station in 
 life what it may, ought to possess, in order to adorn that sta- 
 tion, and discharge its duties. Besides, different degrees o' 
 knowledge must belong to different men even in the same 
 station ; and I am sure it's no you, sir, that would hand clever 
 chiels ignorant, that they might be on a level wi' the stupid 
 anes o' their ain class. Kaise as high as you can the clever 
 chiels, and the stupid anes will gain a step by their elevation. 
 
 ^ Nyaffiiig — small yelping.
 
 116 DEBATING SOCIETIES IN ETTRICK. 
 
 Tickler. Why, James, no man knows the character of our 
 rural population better than you do, and I may be a little pre- 
 judiced, say bigoted if you please, on the subject of educa- 
 tion — so let us hear your sentiments at greater length. 
 
 Shepherd. I never like to talk lang on ony subject ; but the 
 truth is, Mr Tickler, that kintra folk in Scotland hae a', or 
 maistly a', gude education already, and I wush to see gude 
 made better. What wull you think, whan I tell you that in 
 Ettrick there are three debatin societies ? 
 
 Tickler. What the deuce do you debate about ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm no a member o' ony o' them, for I'm past that 
 time o' life. They're a' young chiels ; and they debate about 
 doctrinal points o' religion and morals, and subjects interest- 
 ing to men as members and heads o' families. I believe that 
 nae harm comes o' sic societies. They are a' Calvinistic, and 
 no sceptical — but on the contrar, they baud to the Scriptxires, 
 and are a' Bereans^ in practice. 
 
 Tickler. They don't doubt of the authenticity, then — Tom 
 Paine is not their Corypheeus ? 
 
 Shepherd. Tom Paine ! Na, na. They are gude kirk-goers, 
 and keep a sharp ee on the minister in the poupit. That's ae 
 grand distinction, I suspec, atween kintra readers and thinkers, 
 and town anes. Your artisans and mechanics in towns, I fear, 
 read wi' a different intent, and are no happy except when 
 doubtin and makin holes in the wab o' their faith — and it's 
 that that gars me anticipate less good frae their improve- 
 ment. 
 
 North. When religion and worldly knowledge go hand in 
 hand, then indeed will education benefit all classes ; but in 
 towns, James, they are divorced — ay, religion is left out of 
 sight — our philanthropists tell us that it must be trusted to 
 every man's own conscience. 
 
 Shepherd. And therefore it is forgotten, neglected, droops, 
 and dies. But it's no sae in the kintra ; an unbeliever there 
 would be despised and hated, and nobody would trust him — 
 nay, he would be hooted down vsd' hisses and lauchter, and 
 out-argued by ony auld woman that would yoke till him, till 
 the coof would be tongue-tied like a dumbie. 
 
 North. James, I love to hear your voice. An Esquimaux 
 would feel himself getting civilised imder it — for there's 
 sense in the very sound. A man's character speaks in his 
 
 1 A small sect of Scottish dissenters.
 
 VOICES — NOKTHS VOICE. 117 
 
 voice, even more than in his words. These he may utter by 
 rote — but his " voice is the man for a' that" — and betrays or 
 divulges his peculiar nature. 
 
 Shepherd. I've often thocht and felt that, though I dinna 
 recollect ever coming out yn'i. What a weight o' wisdom in 
 some auld men's voices ! maist as muckle's in their een, or 
 the shake o' their hoary heads ! Years speak in the laigh, 
 quate, solemn sound — you hear experience in a verra whusper 
 — and what a lesson in a sich ! ^ Ay, Mr North, aften and aften 
 hae I felt a' that, when sittin in a corner o' the room on the 
 same chair wi' a bit lassie, when I hae chanced to hear the 
 gudeman near the ingle speakin lown to the wife or weans, 
 in advice or admonition. ! but the human voice is a myste- 
 rious instrument. 
 
 North. Do you like my voice, James ? I hope you do. 
 
 Shepherd. I wad hae kent it, Mr North, on the Tower o' 
 Babel, on the day o' the great hubbub. I think Socrates 
 maun hae had just sic a voice — ye canna weel ca't sweet, for 
 it's ower intellectual for that — ye caima ca't saft, for even in 
 its laigh notes there's a sort o' birr, a sort o' dirl that betokens 
 power — ^ye canna ca't hairsh, for angry as ye may be at times, 
 it's aye in tune, frae the fineness o' your ear for music — ye 
 canna ca't sherp, for it's aye sae nat'ral — and flett it cud 
 never be, gin you were even gien ower by the doctors. It's 
 maist the only voice I ever heard, that you can say is at ance 
 persuawsive and commanding — you micht fear't, but you 
 maun love't — and there's no a voice in all his Majesty's 
 dominions better framed by nature to hold communion with 
 friend or foe. But arena ye geyan sair cauldit the nicht? 
 for you're hoarse and husky — yet that only gars you jirt out 
 the words wi' additional smeddum, that gies an editorial 
 authority to your verra monosyllables, and prophesies a gran' 
 Niunber o' the Magazine for April.^ 
 
 North. My son James, you know the weak points of the 
 old man. 
 
 Shepherd. Filial piety, father — filial piety. but some 
 voices are just perfectly detestable. There's your wee bit 
 sma', thin, peepin, cheepin, chirpin, -s\ainnel-strae bit o' a 
 vicey, that'll never be at peace — mouth sma', teeth sma', 
 tongue sma', head sma', brain sma', the cretur himsel sma', 
 
 ^ Sick — a sigh. 
 
 2 This is a good description of Professor Wilson's voice.
 
 118 VOICES. 
 
 sma' — yetlieich as Tintock' in his aiu estimation, and hauding 
 up the weel-shaved clain o' him in a maist bardy'^ and 
 impertinent manner across the table in Mr Blackwood's 
 chop. 
 
 North. That contributor, James, is dead. 
 
 Shepherd. Dead, say ye ? The Lord be thanked ! Then 
 there's the skraigh. 'The chiel wi' the skraigh makes a 
 soun', whenever he bursts out a-spealdn, like a great big 
 midden pootry fool purshued by a ggem-cock. The pootry 
 keeps quate wi' his came,^ and wattles in a hole till ggemy 
 gies him a spur or twa on the hurdles, and then he skraighs 
 out fire and murder, and doon the loan as fast's he can fugy, 
 whiles rinnin, and whiles fleein, and whiles atween the twa, 
 but a' the time skraighin till ye may hear him, on a lown* 
 day, at every farm-house in the parish. 
 
 North. That contributor, James, is now in Italy. 
 
 Shepherd. Ski-aighin^ in Florence, and Pisa, and Eome, 
 and Nappies. But there's a hantle mair o' them besides him 
 in particular. What the deevil sud hinner onybody frae 
 modulating their vice, and no terrifyin Christian people wi' 
 sic fearfu' out-breakin o' inhuman soun's, waur than the 
 nutmeg-graters in Brobdinag ? — Shall I go on wi' the gamut 
 o' grievances? 
 
 North. Perge, puer. 
 
 Shepherd. What think ye o' the penny trumpet? — The 
 penny-trumpeter, ye ken, sir, is aye a Wliiglet o' laigh 
 degree — far doon the steps and stairs o' the pairty — just 
 stannin wi' his bare soles on the rug. But the cretur's just 
 perfectly happy — happier than either you or me, Mr North — 
 wi' his musical instrument held to the mouth o' him, wi' an 
 air o' as meikle grandeur as if he were a trumpeter in the 
 Life Guards, and had blawn at Waterloo. The cheeks o' him 
 are puffed up, like twa red apples a wee blistered on the fire, 
 and the watery een o' him are glowering in his head Hke the 
 last twa oysters left on the board — and then he gives vent to 
 the thochts within him tlxrough the penny trumpet ! A dry, 
 cracket, fushionless,^ withered, wooden, timmer, tantarara o' ae 
 single note, that the puir, silly bit Whiglet takes for a tune ! 
 
 North. I know him, James — I know him. He is Wellington's 
 
 ^ A hill in Lanarkshire. 2 Bardy — positive. 
 
 3 Came — comb. * Lown — calm. 
 
 5 Skraighin' — screeching. ^ Fushionless — without vigoiir.
 
 VOICES. 119 
 
 great enemy in the Edinburgh Review, and about two years ago 
 cut up Canning. But give us some more of the squad. 
 
 Shepherd. What think ye, sir, o' the lisp and the burr 
 foregatherin in ane and the same mouth ? You wonder gin 
 he's an even-down idiot the man you're speaking wi' — ^the 
 lisp's sae baimly ; but you soon begin to suspec a whilly- 
 wha,^ for the burr has a pawky^ expression that's no canny; 
 so finnin yourself no very comfortable between knave and 
 fool, you tak the road, and aff to the Auld Town to denner. 
 
 North. James, the toothache, wi' his venomed stang, has 
 been tormenting me all this evening. Excuse my saying 
 but little ; but I am quite in the mood for listening, and I 
 never heard you much better. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm glad o't. Some foll^ when they speak remind 
 me o' a caUant learning to play upon the floot. Their tone 
 is geyan musical, but wants vareeity, and though sweetish, 
 is wersh, like the tone o' the floot. Then what puffin and 
 spittin o' wind and water ! Mercy on us ! ye canna hear the 
 tune for the splutter, unless you gang into anither room. 
 What's that, sir, you're pittin into your mouth? 
 
 North. The depilatory of Spain, James, a sovereign remedy 
 for the toothache. 
 
 Shepherd. Take a mouthfu' o' speerit, and keep whurlin't 
 aboot in your mooth — dinna spit it out, but ower wi't — then 
 anither, and anither, and anither — and nae mair toothache in 
 your stumps than in a fresh stab^ in my garden-paling. 
 
 North. James, is my cheek swelled ? 
 
 Shepherd. Let's tak the cawnel, and hae a right vizy. 
 Swalled ! The tae side o' your face, man, is like a haggis, 
 and a' the colours o' the rainbow. We maun apply leeches. 
 I daursay Mrs Awmrose has a dizzen in bottles in the house 
 — ^but if no, I'll rin mysel to the laboratory. 
 
 North. The paroxysm is past — proceed. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel — then there's the pig-sty style o' con- 
 versation — (though my name is Hogg, ITL no blinl?: it) — 
 grimt, bubble, and squeak. The pig-sty-style-o'-conversa- 
 tion talker begins like a soo, vpi' his snoot nuzzlin in the 
 dirty straw — yo-a. kenna weel what he's searchin after. By 
 degrees he grows into a grant, but no a verra muckle or 
 lang ane — a kind o' intermittent grunt, sic like as the soo 
 itsel maks as it pits its snout outower the door-way o' its 
 
 1 Whilly-wha — shuffler. ^ Pau-ky — cunning. ^ ^Ya6 — stake.
 
 120 VOICES — FACES. 
 
 sty, when it sees the wind or a wanderer gaun past the 
 premises. As the chiel waxes warm in argument, then he's 
 like the soo in full grunt, rampaging round and round the 
 sty, like a verra lion o' the forest. Face him, and he gangs 
 sae mad wi' anger that the grunt in perfec wudness breaks 
 asunder into squeaks and squeals, as if he were treading 
 down the wee piggies aneath his cloots.^ The leeterary gen- 
 tlemen sitting roun' the table in the middle chop^ rise in a 
 fricht, and, laying down the newspapers, mak for the front 
 door. — Is that contributor dead too, sir? Oh! say that he's 
 dead too I 
 
 North. No, James, I cannot say so. The monster is alive, 
 and was in the shop this blessed day. 
 
 Shepherd. After a', sir, I dinna ken gin he's waur to thole 
 than the great big mad Heelan bagpipe. You ken the 
 Captain — and you've heard him speakin. Weel, then, just 
 suppose a Heelan bagpipe gane mad, and broken out o' the 
 mad-house, pursued by a dizzen keepers, every one wi' a 
 strait waistcoat in his haun, and the Distracted Drone loupin 
 intil No. 17 Princes Street, and never stoppin till he rowled 
 awa through baith chops, richt into the Sanctum Sanctorum — 
 a' the while yelling, and slirieking, and groaning a gathering 
 o' a' the clans o' the Bulls o' Bashan. 
 
 North. Oh ! James ! James ! Captain M'Turk is still alive. 
 Apoplexy has no more power over his life than that fall he 
 got last winter out of a fourth-flat window. Here he was in 
 the shop this day with liis broad purpled Gaehc face ; and 
 the moment he began to speak, although all the double doors 
 between him and us were shut, we thought it was the com- 
 petition of pipers. "We could endure him in Glenmore — but 
 oh ! James ! think of the Captain in an adjacent room only 
 twenty feet by fifteen ! Several large spiders plumped down 
 in terror from the roof, with broken suspension-gear, on the 
 Leading Article — and the mouse I have tamed, so that he 
 will nibble a crumb out of our Troy-defending right hand, 
 leapt off the green table in trepidation, as if scared by a 
 visionary grimalkin. But are you as difficult to please, 
 James, with faces as with voices ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ten times waur. There's no ae man's face amang 
 a hunder that I can thole. It's no features, though they're 
 J ClooU— hoofs. * C/tojo— shop.
 
 THE CONCEITED THE CUNNING. 121 
 
 bad aneucli in general, but the expression that makes me 
 skunner.^ There are four kinds o' expression mair especially 
 odious — con9ate, cunning, malice, and hypocrisy — and you 
 would wonder how prevalent they are in a Christian country. 
 First, Con9ate. The cretur's face smirks, and smiles, and 
 salutes you, and seems doing justice to your geniiis. You 
 are put afi" your guard, and think him agreeable. But a' at 
 ance the expression glowers on you, and you see it's con9ate. 
 The cauldrifed cretur has never read a word o' the Queen's 
 Wake in his days, and is pawtroneezin the Shepherd. He 
 nods when you speak, and cries Ha ! ha ! ha ! as if you 
 wanted the encouragement o' him, and the like o' him — and 
 asks you, aibUns, to twa-three potawtoes and a poached egg 
 smoored in speenage at sooper, to meet half-a-dozen auld 
 women, a writer o' sharawds, and some misses wi' albums. 
 That's the con9ated face. 
 
 North, Ex-editors of defunct magazines and journals — 
 briefless advocates, with some small sinecui-e office — authors 
 of pamphlets about canals, railroads, and gas-lights, and 
 phrenologers. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, and mony mair beside. Second, Cunning. 
 You canna get a steady look o' his een, and only the whites 
 o' them are visible. He's aye wink, win kin, and t\u-ning awa 
 his face, and pu'ing his hat ower his broos. About five 
 minutes after you hae answered a question, he refers to yotir 
 answer, as if he had taen it doon in short haun, although at 
 the time he never seemed to heed or hear't — and puts con- 
 structions upon wee bit senseless words, that served to eke 
 out a sentence into grammar — and draws conclusions as to 
 your political, and religious, and moral opinions, frae sic 
 downright havers as a man generally speaks in a forenoon in 
 the chop. As for his ain opinions — na, na — he'll no let them 
 out ; and after askin you a hundred ill-marmered questions, 
 he pretends to be dull o' hearin when you speer the simplest 
 ane at him, or else changes the discourse, or bamboozles you 
 wi' a vocabulary o' mere words, or comes out wi' the biggest 
 brazen-faced lee that ever crawled across a table. A' the 
 while — oh, man ! the face o' him looks cunnin, cunnin — and 
 I could just spit in't, when I tliink sic treatment possible frae 
 man to man. That's the cunnin face. 
 
 1 Skunner — shudder with disgust.
 
 122 THE MALICIOUS THE HYPOCRITICAL, 
 
 North. Malice? 
 
 Shepherd. The corners o' the mouth drawn doon, sae that 
 the mouth is a curve or a crescent. When he lauchs, there's 
 nae noise, and a kind o' toss o' his head. The brow just 
 aboon his een's -wrinkled — no furrowed, for only the nobler 
 passions plough — but swarmin wi' beggarly wi'inkles — a 
 restless, sneerin, and red ee, a wee bludeshot, geyan piercin, 
 but noo and than wi' a feared look, and never happy. The 
 nose o' liim raither hyuckit,^ and aften a drap at the neb o't ; 
 for he's nae that weel, and subject to headaches. He shakes 
 hauns wi' you as if you had the plague ; and as for his ain 
 haun, it's cauld and clammy as a bunch o' cawndle-dowps. 
 The hail countenance is sickly and cadaverous ; and if I'm 
 no mistaen, his breath has a bad smell ; for malice has aye 
 a weak digestion, and the puir yellow deevil's aften sick, sick. 
 
 North. Hypocrisy, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. A smooth, smug, oily physiognomy, wi' lang, 
 lank, black hair. The cheeks never muve, nae mair than gin 
 they were brods ; and there is a preceese sedateness about 
 the moiith, that wadna be sae very ugly if you didna ken it 
 was a' put on for some end, and contrairy to the laws o' 
 nature. It maun be contrairy to the laws o' nature to baud 
 fast the lips o' your mouth like them o' a vice in a smiddy : 
 for the mouth is formed to be aye openin and shuttin again, 
 and there's a thoosand opportunities for baith in the coorse 
 o' a day — eatin, drinkin, talkin, laucliin, smilin, yawnin, 
 gapin, starin wi' your mouth open at a straiige-lookin chiel, 
 or ony ither phenomenon, waitin for onybody gaun to speak, 
 catchin flees, gimin, breathin, and sleepin, waukin, or haf- 
 flins and atween the twa, hearkening to a sermon; in short, 
 I scarcely ken when your mouth sudna be either wide or a 
 wee open, savin and exceptin when you gang into the dookin 
 and try the divin. 
 
 North. Hark, hark, James — you have overrun the scent — 
 the hypocrite has stole away. Tally-ho, tally-ho — yonder he 
 goes, all in black, round the corner o' the kirk. 
 
 Shepherd. His een are aften a Hcht grey, like that o' a 
 
 twa - days - pooked grozet^ — and afraid they may be seen 
 
 through. Look at him ; lo, he half closes them, as if he were 
 
 aye jjraying, or gaun to pray, and then lifts them up, wi' a 
 
 i Hyuckit — hooked. 2 Qrozet — goosobeny.
 
 AND SENSUAL COMBINED. 123 
 
 slaw shake or wliawmel o' the head — lifts them up audaciously 
 to Heaven. 
 
 North. Excuse exterior, James — he is probably a pure- 
 minded, pure-living man. 
 
 Shepherd. He pure leevin — the clarty cretur ! Just soomin 
 in the sensuality o' ane and a' o' the appeteets ! man ! gin 
 ye but saw him eatin ! The fat o' hens comes oozing thi'ough 
 his cheeks — and the cheek-banes, or the jaw-banes, I never 
 could mak out which, make a regula,r joint-like clunlc every 
 mouthfu' he devoors. He helps himself at ither folk's tables, 
 vfi' a lang airm, to the sappiest dishes — and never ca's on the 
 lass for bread. He's nae bread-eater, nor potawtoes either — 
 naithin but flesh will satisfy the carnal chiel within him — 
 and afore he's half done denner, what wi' cleanin his hauns 
 on't, and what wi' dichtin^ his creeshy gab, the towel athort 
 his thees is a' crumpled up Hke a night-cap frae an auld gentle- 
 man's pow that wears pouther and pomatum. 
 
 North. James, James — remember where you are — no 
 coarseness. 
 
 Shepherd. Then to see him sittin a' the time beside the 
 verra bonniest bit lassie in a' the pau-ty ! leanin his great, 
 broad, yellow, sweaty cheeks, within an inch of her innocent 
 carnations ! Sweet simple girl — she thinks him the hoHest 
 o' men, and is bhnd and deaf to his brutaHties. save the 
 lintwhite frae the houlat's nest ! But the puir bonny boardin- 
 school lassie has siller — a hantle o' siller — thousands o' 
 poun's, aibhns five or sax — and in twa-three years ye see her 
 wa lkin by her lane, wi' a girlish face, but white and sorrow- 
 ful, leadin a toddhn bairn in her hand, and anither visible 
 aneath her breast, nae husband near her, to gie her his arm in 
 that condition — nae decent servant lass to help her wi' the 
 wean — but quite her lane, no very weel dressed, and careless, 
 careless, speakin to nane she meets, and saunterin wi' a sair 
 heart down the unfrequented lanes, and awa into a field to 
 sit down on the ditch-side weepin, while her wee boy is 
 chasing the biitterflies among the flowers. 
 
 North. Look at Tickler and Midlion yonder — playing at 
 backgammon ! 
 
 Shepherd. Safe us — sae they are ! Weel, do ye ken, I never 
 ance heard the rattlin o' the dice the haill time we were 
 
 ^ Dichtin — ^wiping.
 
 124 TICKLER IS BEATEN AT BACKGAMMON. 
 
 speakin. You was sae enterteenin, Mr North — sae eloquent 
 — sae pliilosophical. 
 
 Midlion. That's twa ggems, Mr Tickler. Hurra, hurra, 
 hurra I 
 
 Shepherd. Od, man, MuUion, to hear ye hurrain that gate, 
 ane wad thmk ye had never won onything a' your lifetime 
 afore. When you hae been coortin, did ye never hear a saft 
 laigh voice saying, " Ou ay? " And did you get up, and wave 
 your haun that way roun' your head, and cry. Hurra, hurra, 
 hurra, like a Don Cossack ? 
 
 Mullion. Do not cut me up any more to-night, James — ^let 
 us be good friends. I beg pardon for snoring yestreen — for- 
 give me, or I must go — for your satire is temble. 
 
 Shepherd. You're a capital clever chiel, Mullion. I was 
 just tryin to see what effec severity o' manner and sarcasm 
 wud hae upon you, and I'm content wi' the result o' the ex- 
 periment. You see, Mr North, there's Miillion, and there's 
 millions o' Mullions in the warld, whenever he sees me fricht- 
 ened for him, or modest like, which is my natural disposition, he 
 rins in upon me like a terrier gaun to pu' a badger. That's 
 a' I get by actin on the defensive. Sometimes, therefore, as 
 just noo, I change my tactics, and at him open-mouthed, 
 tooth and nail, down wi' him, and worry him, as if I were a 
 grew^ and him a bit leveret. That keeps him quate for the 
 rest o' the nicht, and then the Shepherd can tak his swing 
 without let or intemiption. 
 
 Tickler, I have not lost a game at backgammon these five 
 years ! 
 
 Shepherd. What a lee ! The tailor o' Yarrow Ford dang 
 ye a' to bits, baith at gammon and the dambrod, that day I 
 grupped the sawmont wi' the wee midge-flee. You were per- 
 fectly black in the face vn! anger at the bodie — ^but he had 
 real scientific genius in him by the gift o' nature the tailor o' 
 Yarrow Ford, and could rin up three columns o' feegures at a 
 time, no wi' his finger on the sclate, but just in his mind's ee, 
 like George Bidder, or the American laddie Colbum. 
 
 North. Gaming is not a vice, then, in the country, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. There's little or nae sic thing as gamblin in the 
 kintra, sir. You'll fin' a pack o' cairds in mony o' the houses, 
 but no in them a', for some gude fathers o' families tliink 
 
 ^ Grew — greyhound.
 
 CARDS. 125 
 
 them the deevil's beuks ; and sure aneuch, when ower muckle 
 read, they begin to smell o' sulphur and Satan. 
 
 North. Why, James, how can old people, a little dim-eyed 
 or so, while an occasional evening away better than at an 
 innocent and cheerful game at cards ? 
 
 Shepherd. Hand your haun a wee, Mr North. I'm no say- 
 ing onything to the reverse. But I was sayin that there are 
 heads o' families that abhor cairds, and would half-kill their 
 sons and daughters were they to bring a pack into the house- 
 Neither you nor me wull blame them for sic savin prejudice. 
 The austere Calvinistic spirit canna thole to think that the 
 knave o' spades should be lying within twa-three inches o' 
 the Bible. The auld stern man wud as soon forgie the intro- 
 duction into the house o' base ballads o' sinfu' love — and 
 wishes that the precincts be pure o' his ain fire-side. Though 
 I take a ggem o' whust now and then mysel, yet I boo to the 
 principle, and I venerate the adherence till't in the high- 
 souled patriarchs of the Covenant. 
 
 North. Perhaps such strict morality is scarcely practicable 
 in our present condition. 
 
 Shepherd. What, do you mainteen that cairds are absolutely 
 necessary in a puir man's house ? Tuts ! As for auld dim- 
 eyed people, few o' them, except they be blin' a'thegither, 
 that canna read big prent wi' powerfu' specs, and they can 
 aye get, at the warst, some bit wee idle Oe^ to read out aloud to 
 its grannies, without expense o' oil or cawnel, by the heart- 
 some ingle-Hght. You'll generally fin' that axild folk that 
 plays cairds have been raither freevolous, and no muckle 
 addickit to thocht — unless they're greedy, and play for the 
 pool, which is fearsome in auld age ; for what need they care 
 for twa-three brass penny-pieces for ony ither purpose than 
 to buy nails for their coffin ? 
 
 North. You push the argument rather far, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Na, sir. Avarice is a failing o' auld age sure 
 aneuch — and shouldna be fed by the Lang Ten. I'm aye 
 somewhat sad when I see folk o' eighty haudin up the 
 trumps to their rheumy een, and shakin their heads, whether 
 they wull or no, ower a gude and a bad haun alike. Then, 
 safe on us ! only think o' them cheatin — revokin — and mark- 
 ing mair than they ought wi' the counters ! 
 
 ■^ Oe — grandson.
 
 126 CARD-PLAYING IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 North. The picture is strongly coloured ; but could you not 
 paint another less revolting — nay, absolutely pleasant — nor 
 violate the truth of nature ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm no quite sure ; perhaps I micht. In anither 
 condition o' life — in towns, and among folk o' a higher rank — 
 I dinna deny that I hae seen auld leddies playing cards very 
 composedly, and without appearin to be doin onything 
 that's wrang. Before you judge richtly o' ony ae thing in 
 domestic life, you maun understan' the haill constitution o' the 
 economy. Noo, auld leddies in towns dress somewhat richly 
 and superbly, wi' ribbons, and laces, and jewels even, and 
 caps munted wi' flowers and feathers ; and I'm no blamin 
 them — and then they dine out, and gang to routes, and gie 
 dinners and routes in return, back to hunders o' their friends 
 and acquaintance. Noo, wi' sic a style and fasliion o' life as 
 that, caird-playing seems to be somewhat accordant, if taken 
 in moderation, and as a qiiiet pastime, and no made a trade o', 
 or profession, for sake o' filthy lucre. I grant it harmless ; 
 and gin it maks the auld leddies happy, what richt hae I to 
 mint^ ony objections ? God bless them, man ; far be it frae 
 me to curtail the resoiu-ces o' auld age. Let them play on, 
 and all I wish is, they may never lose either their temper, 
 their money, nor their natural rest. 
 
 North. And I say God bless you, James, for your senti- 
 ments do honour to humanity. 
 
 Shepherd. As for young folks — ^lads and lasses, like — when 
 the gudeman and his wife are gane to bed, what's the harm in 
 a ggem at cairds ? It's a chearfu', noisy sicht o' comfort and 
 confusion. Sic luckin into ane anither's hauns ! Sic fause 
 shufHin ! Sic unfair dealin ! Sic winkin to tell your pairtner 
 that ye hae the king or the ace I And when that wunna do, 
 sic kickin o' shins and treadin on taes aneath the table — 
 aften the wrang anes ! Then down wi' your haun o' cairds in 
 a clash on the brod, because you've ane ower few, and the 
 coof maun lose liis deal ! Then what gigglin amang the lasses ! 
 What amicable, nay, love-quarrels, between pairtners ! Jokin, 
 and jeestin, and tauntin, and toozlin — the cawnel blawn out, 
 and the soun' o' a thousan' kisses ! That's caird-playing in 
 the kintra, Mr North ; and whare's the man amang ye that 
 wull daur to say that it's no a pleasant pastime o' a winter^s 
 
 1 To mint — to start.
 
 SHEPHERD DENOUNCES GAMBLING. 127 
 
 nicht, when the snaw is cumin doon the Inni, or the speat's 
 roarin amang the mirk mountains ? 
 
 North. WiUde himself, James, is no more than your equah 
 
 Shepherd. man, Mr North, sir, my heart is wae — my soul's 
 sick — and my spirit's wrathfu', to think o' thae places in great 
 cities which they ca' — Hells ! 
 
 North. Thank Heaven, my dear James, that I never was a 
 gambler — nor, except once, to see the thing, ever in a HeU. 
 But it was a stupid and passionless night — a place of mean 
 misery, altogether unworthy of its name. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm glad you never went back, and that the devil 
 was in the dumps ; for they say that some nichts in thae 
 HeUs, when Satan and Sin sit thegither on ae chair, he wi' 
 his arm roun' the neck o' that Destruction his daughter, a hor- 
 rible temptation invades men's hearts and souls, drivin and 
 draggin them on to the doom o' everlasting death. 
 
 North. Strong language, James — many good and great 
 men have shook the elbow. 
 
 Shepherd. Come, come now, Mr North, and dinna allow 
 paradox to darken or obscure the bright licht o' your gTeat 
 natural and acquired Tmderstandin. " Good and great" are 
 lofty epithets to bestow on ony man that is bom o' a woman 
 — and if ony such there have been who delivered themselves 
 up to sin, and shame, and sorrow, at the ggeming-table, let 
 their biographers justify them — it will gie me pleasure to see 
 them do't — but such examples shall never confound my judg- 
 ment o' right or wrang. " Shake the elbow indeed!" What 
 mair does a parricide do but " shake his elbow" when he cuts 
 his father's throat? The gamester shakes his elbow, and 
 down go the glorious oak-trees planted two hundred years ago, 
 by some ancestor who loved the fresh smell o' the woods, — 
 away go — if entail does no forbid — thousands o' bonny braid 
 acres, ance a' ae princely estate, but now shivered down into 
 beggarly parshels, while the Auld house seems broken-hearted, 
 and hangs down its head, when the infatuated laird dies or 
 shoots himself. Oh, man ! isna it a sad thocht to think that 
 my leddy, aye sae gracious to the puir, should hae to lay 
 down her caniage in her auld age, and disappear frae the Ha' 
 into some far-afi" town or village, perhaps no in Scotland ava ; 
 while he, that should hae been the heir, is apprenticed to a 
 writer to the signet, and becomes a money-scrivener i' his
 
 128 HIS DREAM OF "A HELL." 
 
 Boul, and aiblins a Whig routin at a public meetin about 
 Queens, and Slavery, and Borough Keform, and CauthoHo 
 Emancipation, and 
 
 North. No politics, James, if you love me. No politics, 
 my dear Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. I ance dreamed I was in ane o' thae Hells. Wud 
 you like to hear my dream ? 
 
 North. See, MuUion and Tickler are at the dice again ! — 
 Yes, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, man ! but they look ugly the noo, baith o' 
 them. Only see Mullion's een — how gleg and glowrin in 
 perfec greed and glory — for he's evidently gotten the better 
 just noo — and the haill being o' the cretur is made up o' 
 avarice, and vanity, and a' friendship for Tickler dead in his 
 heart. Sin' a game o' backgammon for half-a-crown can pro- 
 duce a' that upon sic a real worthy chiel as the Secretary — 
 think o' what they ca' hawzard for thousands o' gold guineas, 
 and bars o' solid bullion ! 
 
 North. But the dream, James, the dream ! 
 
 Shepherd. I faund mysel suddenly, without wamin and 
 without wonder (for wha wonders at changes even in the laws 
 o' nature hersel in dreams ?) in a lamp-lighted ha', furnished 
 like a palace, and fu' o' weel-dressed company, the feck o' 
 them sittin round a great green central table, wi' a' the pera- 
 phemalia o' destruction, and a' the instruments o' that dreadfu' 
 trade. 
 
 North. You did not, I hope, James, recognise any of our 
 friends there ? 
 
 Shepherd. No, sir, I did not — yet although a' the faces were 
 new to me, I didna feel as if they were new ; but I joined 
 amang them without askin questions wha they were, and 
 was in a manner whirled about in the same vortex. 
 
 North. James, you surely did not play ? 
 
 Shepherd. Nae questions. Some o' the company I took a 
 likin to — fine, young, tall, elegant chiels — some o' them wi' 
 black stocks, like officers out o' regimentals — and, oh ! sir, 
 wad you believe it, twa-three that I was sure were o' the 
 clergy — and ane or twa mere baims, that couldna be aboon 
 saxteen, — a' these, and itliers beside, I felt my heart warm 
 towards, and melt too wi' a sensation maist sickenin o' Idnd- 
 ness and pity; for although they tried to be merry and care-
 
 DREAM CONTINUED. 129 
 
 less atween the chances o' the game, their een and their fea- 
 tures betrayed the agitation o' their souls ; and I couldna but 
 wonder why the puir deluded creatures pat themsels volun- 
 tarily into sic rackin misery. 
 
 North. These were the pigeons of your vision, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Mixed amang these were many middle-aged men, 
 wi' naetliing verra kenspeckle^ about them, but a steady dour 
 look no to be penetrated, and a callous cruelty in their een, 
 sic as I ance observed amang a knot o' Englishers at an exe- 
 cution in Embro', who aye kept wliisperin to ane anither, 
 when the Forger was stannin on the scatfold, and then lookin 
 at h im, and then rather lauchin — though he had been ane o' 
 their ain gang afore condemnation. 
 
 North. Greeks, James, Greeks. 
 
 Shepherd. Then, oh, sir! oh, sir! only think on't; white 
 silvery-haired heads belanging to men atween seventy and 
 eighty years o' age, or perhaps ayont fourscore, were inter- 
 posed amang the sitters round that terrible table. Some o' 
 these auld men had as reverend countenances as ony elder o' 
 the Kirk — high and intellectual noses and foreheads — some 
 wi' gold-mounted specs — and they held the cairds in their 
 hauns just as if they had been Bibles, wi' grave and solemn 
 — ay, even pious expression. And ever and anon great shoals 
 o' siller were becomin theirs, which they scarcely pretended 
 to look at — but still they continued and continued playin, like 
 images. 
 
 North. No dream that, James. You must have been in a 
 HeU. 
 
 Shepherd. Whisht. But a' the scene began to break up 
 into irregularity ; for the soul in sleep is like a ship in an 
 arm o' the sea amang mountains. The wund comes a hundred 
 opposite airts, and gin she hasna let drap her anchor (equi- 
 valent to the soul lying dreamless), she has sair wark to get 
 back to the open sea. 
 
 North. The police-officers, I presume, broke your dream. 
 
 Shepherd. No, Mr North, it was finally my ain distracted 
 spirit that kicked and spurred itsel awake — but you shall 
 hear. The goblins a' began to rage without ony apparent 
 cause, and the haill pairty to toss about Hke trees in a storm, 
 frae the bairns to the auld men. And a' at ance there was 
 
 ^ KeiLspeckle — noticeable. 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 DKEAM CONCLUDED. 
 
 tho flash, and the crack o' a pistol, and a bonny fair-hair'd 
 boy fell aff his chair a' in a low, for the discharge had set him 
 on fire — and bluidy, bluidy was his pale face, as his ain brither 
 lifted his shattered head frae the floor. 
 
 North. My God, James, did you not awake then? 
 
 Shepherd. Awake ! I didna ken I was sleepin. I wush I 
 had, for it was a dismal hour. Nane o' the auld grey-headed 
 men moved a muscle — but they buttoned up their pouches — 
 and tuk their great-coats aff pegs on the wa', and without 
 speakin disappeared. Sae did the lave, only vn' fear and 
 fright — and nane but me and the twa brithers was left, — 
 brithers I saw they were, for like were they as twa flowers, 
 the ane o' which has had its stalk broken, and its head 
 withered, while the ither, although unhurt, seems to droop 
 and mourn, and to hae lost maist o' its beauty. 
 
 North. There is tiiith — sad truth in dreams. 
 
 Shepherd. I heard him ravin about his father and liis 
 mother, and the name o' the place the auld folk lived in — and 
 ane he ca'd Caroline ! — ^his dead brither's sweetheart ! We 
 were on our knees beside the corpse, and he tore open the 
 waistcoat and shirt, and put lais hand to his brither's breast, 
 in mad desperation o' hope to feel the heart beatin. But the 
 last sob was sobbed — and then he looked up in my face, and 
 glowered at me like ane demented, and asked me wha I was, 
 and if it was me that had killed William. A' the time our 
 knees were dabbled in the bliiid — and a thousan' ghaistly 
 lichts, and shapes, and faces, wavered afore my een, and I 
 was sick as death. 
 
 Tickler. What the deuce are you two talking about there ; 
 and what's the matter with the Shepherd, his face is as white 
 as a sheet? 
 
 Shepherd. I cried out to the puir fellow that I was the 
 Ettrick Shepherd, and wud tak him to Eltrive, awa frae a' the 
 horrors o' Hell and Satan. And then I thocht, " Oh, dear ! — 
 oh, dear ! — what wud I gie if this were but a bluidy di'eam !" 
 — And thank God, a dream it was, for I brake through the 
 trammels o' sleep wi' a groan, and a sbriek, and a shiver, and 
 a shudder, and a yell, — and a happy man was I to see the 
 sweet calm moon in the midnight lift, and to hear the mur- 
 mur o' the Yarrow glidin awa through the silent beauty o' 
 reposin Nature.
 
 EDINBURGH LADIES. 131 
 
 North. James, you have affected me — but let us think no 
 more about it. — Have you heard Master Aspull/ James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, as sure's ony thing, Mr North, yon's a 
 maist extraordinar prodigy. He's music personified. His 
 entire soid is in his ear, and yon wee bit inspired hauns o' his 
 mysteriously execute the bidding o' the genius within, and at 
 aince delight and astonish. 
 
 North. Why don't young ladies perform on the piano better 
 than they usually do, thuik ye, James ? Do you generally 
 admire their singing ? 
 
 Shepherd. Me admhe the singing o' the Edinburgh leddies? 
 They hae neither taste nor feehng — all taucht singers, after 
 some parteclar moddle for ilk parteclar tune, which they stick 
 to like grim death, vdthout e'er askin questions, Hke a parcel 
 o' mockin-birds. Nae bursts o' native feehng, inspired at 
 the moment by some turn in the strain — nae sudden pawthos 
 to bring the tear into your ee — nae lively liltin awa like a 
 rising laverock, when the hymn should brighten in the sun- 
 shine o' the soul's expanding joy — nae plaintive pause, maist 
 hke a faint, and then a dying away o' the Hfe o' soun' into a 
 happy and a holy death — but everlastingly the same see-saw — 
 the same stap at the foot o' the hill, and the same scamper up — 
 the same helter-skelter across the flat, and the same cautious 
 ridin down the stony dechvities. In short, their singing's 
 perfectly tiresome, and gin it werena that I ken them ither- 
 ■wise, I should believe that they had nane o' them ony souls ! 
 
 Tickler. Of all the staring troopers on the street I ever 
 beheld in any metropohs, the Edinburgh ladies (old, young, 
 and middle-aged) are the most barefaced and shameless. Is 
 there anything remarkable in my appearance ? 
 
 Shepherd. Naething ava, except your hicht and handsome- 
 ness, yom- fine ruddy cheeks and silvery locks — a star seen 
 through a snow- cloud. 
 
 Tickler. All their eyes, black, blue, grey, and green, from 
 the smaU blear to the great goggle, are thrust into my face. 
 Some ladies look as they thi-eatened to bite me, — othera are 
 only hindered, by the power of a good early education, from 
 faUing on my neck and kissing me, — some, with open mouths, 
 are lost in astonishment, and forgetting all the world but me, 
 capsize the dandies, — others go mincing by with suppressed 
 ^ ]Master Aspull, a musical phenomenon of that period.
 
 132 SHOOTING THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 titter or leering laugli — ^but not one of them all (and I mention 
 the fact not in spite, but the deepest humihty) passes by 
 without making me the sole object of her ken. I wish to 
 have the cause of all this explained — what have I said? — what 
 have I done ? — or am I, in good truth, the most extraordinary- 
 looking man that has yet appeared in the world, and doomed 
 to universal wonder all the days of my life ? 
 
 Shepherd. Baith pairties are to blame. You see, Mr Tickler, 
 you haud your head, as I observed, ower heigh — nane better 
 entitled to do sae, — and I've seen you mysel, wi' a lang hat- 
 crape hanging down your back, when you wasna in murnins, — 
 that surtout is very yelegant, but no common on a man o' 
 sixty, — you never walk slower than sax miles an hour, and 
 that stick or cane o' yours is kenspeckle in a crowd, and 
 would gie a clour ^ on a man's head aneuch to produce a 
 plu-enological faculty. A' thae things pitten thegither, and 
 ithers besides, justifies the leddies, to a certain extent, o' their 
 glowerin f but still they're muckle to blame, for naetliing can 
 justify impudence and immodesty, and a man canna help 
 ha'in curious thochts about a woman whom he never saw 
 atween the een afore, when she comes glowerin up to his 
 very nose, Avi' her handkerchief in her hand, just like a hizzie 
 gaun to hang up a clout on a peg; and you hae to jump 
 backwards to save yourselves frae rinnin foul o' ane anither, 
 like twa cutters o' Leith smacks in the Roads. 
 
 North. I am so seldom on the streets, that I am no judge 
 of the charges you bring against my fair towns-women. I 
 love them with such a fatherly affection, that they may stare 
 at me without offence ; for I shall put it aU down to the credit 
 of my crutches. 
 
 Mullion. I should like to have been t'other day at the 
 shooting of the elephant.^ 
 
 1 Clour — a lump raised by a blow. ^ Glowerin(j — staring. 
 
 3 His death is thus recorded in the monthly obituary : — " At his lodgings 
 over Exeter Change, in his twenty-fourth year, Chuny!" Chuny's case gave 
 rise to much discussion in the public prints, both before and after his decease. 
 Ho was naturally of a warm temperament, and this, aggravated by his long 
 confinement, had rendered him very irritable and dangerous. Cooling medi- 
 cine, to the extent of a hundredweight of Epsom salts as an ordinary dose, had 
 been administered in vain. Change of air, and new objects of interest, might 
 perhaps have effected a cure, or at least have alleviated the more urgent 
 symptoms; but an insurmountable diflSculty presented itself. Chuny had 
 been got " upstairs" when his proportions were comparatively slender; but
 
 WOLVES TIGERS. 133 
 
 Tickler. Well, I should not. The murder read hideously. 
 His death was necessary — but it was bungHngly inflicted. 
 
 North. I could not but be amused with my friend Brookes' 
 letter in the newspapers, assuring the public that he had not 
 eat soup made of part of the putrid elephant. A surgeon 
 may do anything of that sort with impunity — and Brookes is 
 a first-rate surgeon. 
 
 Tickler. I had no idea he was so sensitive. Elephant-feet 
 are excellent. — Experto crede Roberto. 
 
 Shepherd. Tidbits ! How are they dressed, Mr Tickler ? 
 Like sheep's-head and trotters, I presume. A capital dish for 
 a Sabbath dinner, elephant-head and trotters. How mony 
 could dine aff't ? 
 
 Tickler. What a prime Mart,^ James ? 
 
 Shepherd. What black puddins ! — and oh I what tripe ! 
 Only think o' the leddy's hood and monyplies ! — Then the 
 marrow-banes ! A' fu', it seems, o' a sort o' fluid, doubtless 
 Strang, and sappy, and esculent, and to be eaten wi' bread 
 and a spoon. I'm gettin hungry — I've a great likin for wild 
 beasts. Oh man ! gin we had but wolves in Scotland ! 
 
 Tickler. Why, they would make you shepherds attend a 
 little better to your own business. How could you visit 
 Edinburgh and Ambrose, if there were wolves in the Forest ? 
 
 Shepherd. I wadna ginidge a score o' lambs in the year — 
 for the wolves would only raise the price o' butcher's meat — 
 they would do nae harm to the kintra. What grand sport, 
 houndin the wolves in singles, or pairs, or flocks, up yonder 
 about Loch Skene ! 
 
 Tickler. "^Tiat think you of a few tigers, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. The royal Bengal Teegger is no indigenous in 
 Scotland, as the wolves was in ancient times ; and that's ae 
 reason against wushin to hae him amang us. Let the Alien 
 
 his bulk had increased so enormously during his imprisonment, that he covdd 
 not have been got down again without taking down several houses. Fears 
 were entertained that, in one of his obstreperous moods, he would demolish 
 his own cage, and then proceed to liberate the lions and tigers in the adjoining 
 apartments. The Strand became more formidable than an Indian jungle, and 
 the only alternative was to put Chuny to death in the most summary way 
 possible. A platoon of musketeers was drawn up against him in battle array. 
 I am not aware that artillery was employed on the occasion ; but it required 
 one hundred and fifty bullets to despatch him. His dissection was itself a 
 nine days' wonder. 
 1 Mart — an ox killed at Martinmas, and salted for winter provision.
 
 134 NORTH TIGER-SHOOTING. 
 
 Act be held in operation against him, and may ho never be 
 naturaleezed ! 
 
 Tickler. What, would you be afraid of a tiger, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Would I be afraid o' a teegger, Timothy? No 
 half as afeard as you wad be yoursel. Faith, I wadna grudge 
 geein a jug o' toddy to see ane play spang upon you frae a 
 distance o' twenty yards, and wi' a single pat o' his paw on 
 that pow o' yours, that ye hand so heigh, fracture your skull, 
 dislocate your neck, crack your spine, and gar ye play tapsal- 
 teerie* ower a precipice into a jungle where the teegger had 
 his bloody den. 
 
 Tickler. Vv^'ould you give no assistance — lend no helping 
 hand, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ou ay, me and some mair wad come to the place, 
 in a week or twa, when we were sure the teegger had changed 
 his feedin grun', and wad collec the banes for Christian 
 burial. But wad you be afraid o' teeggers, Timothy? 
 
 North. I once did a very foolish thing in the East Indies to 
 a tiger. I was out shooting snipes, when the biggest and 
 brightest royal tiger I have ever faced before or since, rose up 
 with a roar like thunder, eying me with fiery eyes, and tusks 
 half a foot long, and a tail terrific to dwell upon, either in 
 memory or imagination. 
 
 Shepherd. I didna ken there had been snipes in the East 
 Indies ? 
 
 North. Yes, and sepoys likewise. The tiger seemed, after 
 the first blush of the business, to be somewhat disconcerted 
 at the unexpected presence of the future Editor of Blackwood's 
 Magazine ; and, in a much more temperate growl, requested a 
 parley. I hit him right in the left eye, with number 7, and 
 the distance being little more than five paces, it acted like 
 ball, and must have touched the brain — for never surely did 
 royal tiger demean himself with less dignity or discretion. 
 He threw about twenty somersets, one after the other, without 
 intermission, just as you have seen a tumbler upon a spring- 
 board. I thought I should have died with laughing. Mean- 
 while I reloaded my barrel — and a wild peacock starting from 
 cover, I could not resist the temptation, but gave away a 
 chance against the tiger, by firing both barrels successfully 
 against the Bird of Juno. 
 
 ^ Tapsalteerie — ^heels-over-head.
 
 CRUELTY TO ANIMALS. 135 
 
 Shepherd. I've heard you tell tliat story a thousan' times, 
 Mr North ; but ye'll pardon me for sayin noo, what I only 
 look'd before, that it's a downright lee, without ae word o' 
 truth in't, no even o' exaggeration. You never killed a 
 teegger wi' snipe-shot. 
 
 North. Never, James — ^but I rendered liim an idiot or a 
 madman for the rest of his life. But what do you think, 
 James, about legislating for brute animals ? 
 
 Shepherd. That's out o' the range o' my abeelities. I ken 
 naething about legislation. But I do ken something about 
 humanity — and cruelty to the dumb creation is practical blas- 
 phemy, and will not go unpunished. Perhaps, now that you 
 ax me, it's better to teach it down, and fleech^ it down, and 
 preach it down, than fine it down, or imprison it down — and 
 ae Chalmers^ is worth a thousan' Martins. 
 
 Tickler. Habits of cruelty terminate almost of necessity in 
 atrocious crimes. The carter who brutally flogs his horse 
 will beat his wife. 
 
 Shepherd. What can ye say to a very puir blackguard, not 
 worth ten shillings, who has coft^ the leevin skeleton o' a 
 horse for half-a-crown, that he may get a week's wear and 
 tear out o't? He maun thump it, or it winna gang. The 
 chiel may be sellin saut or bread, or some ither lawful 
 eatables, and tryin to mainteen a family. It's a sair sicht to 
 behold the raw and bloody skeleton, — but what can ye do ? 
 Is your conscience perfectly secure, when you tak the ragged 
 deevil afore a magistrate, and fine him out o' his starvin wife's 
 and weans' support? Mind that I'm no arguin — I'm only 
 askin a question — nor do I want ony answer. But when you 
 see a weel-fed hulkin fallow, savage, for nae reason at a', 
 against the beast intrusted to him, knock him doun wi' a 
 stick or a stane afi" the causeway — and if you fractur his 
 skull, and he binna married, you've performed a good action, 
 and by takin the law into your ain hand, done the state some 
 service. 
 
 North. Much evil is done the cause of humanity by indis- 
 criminate and illogical abuse of pursuits or recreations totally 
 
 ^ Fleech — beseech. 
 
 2 On the 5th of March 1826, a sermon on cruelty to animals was preached in 
 Edinburgh by Dr Chalmers. For Martin, see ante, p. 31, note 2. 
 2 Coft — bought. Germ, gelcavft.
 
 136 FISHING. 
 
 dissimilar. I doubt if any person can be really humane in 
 heart, unless really sound in head. You hear people talk of 
 angling as cruel. 
 
 Shepherd. Fools — fools — waur than fools. It's a maist inno- 
 cent, poetical, moral, and religious amusement. Gin I saw 
 a fisher gruppin creelfu' after creelfu' o' trouts, and then 
 flingin them a' awa among the heather and the brackens on 
 his way hame, I micht begin to suspec that the idiot was by 
 natm'e rather a savage. But, as for me, I send presents to 
 my freen's, and devour dizzens on dizzens every week in the 
 family — maistly dune in the pan, wi' plenty o' fresh-butter 
 and roun' meal — sae that prevents the possibility o' cruelty 
 in my fishin, and in the fishin o' a' reasonable creatures. 
 
 North. It seems fox-hunting, too, is cruel. 
 
 Shepherd. To wham? Is't cruel to dowgs, to feed fifty or 
 sixty o' them on crackers and ither sorts o' food, in a kennel 
 like a Christian house, wi' a clear burn flowin through't, and to 
 gie them twice a- week, or aftner, during the season, a brattlin 
 rin o' thretty miles after a fox ? Is that cruelty to dowgs ? 
 
 North. But the fox, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by-and-by. Is't cruel to 
 horses, to buy a hundred o' them for ae Hunt, rarely for less 
 than a hundred pounds each, and aften for five hundred, to 
 feed them on five or sax feeds o' corn per diem — and to gie 
 them skins as sleek as satin — and to gar them nicher^ wi' 
 fu'ness o' bluid, sae that every vein in their bodies starts 
 like sinnies'^ — and to gallop them like deevils in a hurricane, 
 up hill and doun brae, and loup or soom canals and rivers, 
 and flee ower hedges, and dikes, and palings, like birds, and 
 drive crashin thi'ough woods like elephants or rhinoceroses — 
 a' the while every coorser flingin fire-flaughts^ frae his een, 
 and whitening the sweat o' speed wi' the foam o' fury, — I say, 
 ca' you that cruelty to horses, when the Hunt charge with 
 all their chivalry, and plain, mountain, or forest, are shook by 
 the quadrupedal thunder ? 
 
 North. But the fox, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by-and-by. Is't cruel to 
 men to inspirit wi' a rampagin happiness fivescore o' the 
 flower o' England or Scotland's youth, a' wi' caps and red 
 coats, and whups in their hauns — a troop o' lauchin, tearin, 
 
 ^ Nicker — neigh. 2 Sinnies — sinews. 3 Flaughts —^Bk.Q^
 
 FOX-HUNTING. 137 
 
 tallyhoin, " wild and wayward humourists," as tlie Doctor 
 ca'd them the tither Sunday ? 
 
 North. I like the expression, James. 
 
 Shepherd. So do I — or I would not have quoted it. But 
 it's just as applicable to a set o' outrageous ministers, eatin 
 and drinkin, and gnffawin, at a Presbytery denner. 
 
 North. But the fox, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. We'll come to the fox by-and-by. Is't cruel to 
 the lambs, and leverets, and geese, and turkeys, and dyucks, 
 and Patricks, and wee birds, and ither animal eatables, to kill 
 the fox that devoors them, and keeps them in perpetual het 
 water ? 
 
 North. But the fox, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Deevil take baith you and the fox — I said that 
 we would come to the fox by-and-by. Weel, then, wha kens 
 that the fox isna away snorin happy afore the houn's? I 
 hae nae doubt he is, for a fox is no sae complete a coward as 
 to think huntin cruel, and his haill nature is then on the alert, 
 which in itsel is happiness. Huntin him prevents him fa'in 
 into languor and ennui, and growin ower fat on how-towdies.^ 
 He's no killed every time he's hunted. 
 
 North. Why, James, you might write for the Annals of 
 Sporting. 
 
 Shepherd. So I do sometimes — and mair o' ye than me, I 
 jalouse ; but I was gaun to ask ye, if ye could imagine the 
 delicht o' a fox gettin into an imdiggable earth, just when 
 the leadin houn' was at his hainches ? Ae sic moment is 
 aneuch to repay half-an-hour's draggle through the dirt, and 
 he can lick himsel clean at his leism-e, far ben in the cranny 
 o' the rock, and come out a' tosh and tidy by the first dawn 
 o' licht, to snuif the mornin air, and visit the distant farm- 
 house before Partlet has left her perch, or Count Crow lifted 
 his head from beneath liis oxter^ on his shed- seraglio. 
 
 North. Was ye ever in at a death ? — Is not that cruel ? 
 
 Shepherd. Do you mean in at the death o' ae fox, or the 
 death o' a hundred thousand men and sixty thousand horses ? 
 The takin o' a Brush, or a Borodino ? 
 
 North. My dear James, thanlc ye for your argument. As 
 one Chalmers is worth a thousand Martins, so is one Hogg 
 worth a thousand Chalmerses. 
 
 1 How-iowdies — barn-door fowls. ^ Qxter — properly arm-pit : here 'wing.'
 
 138 MINISTERS AS ANGLERS. 
 
 Shepherd. Ane may weel lose patience, to tlunk o' foles 
 being sorry for the death o' a fox. When the jowlers tear 
 him to pieces, he shows fecht, and gangs aff in a snarl. Hoc 
 could he dee mair easier ? — and for a' the gude he has ever 
 dune, or was likely to do, he surely had leeved lang aneuch. 
 
 Tickler. No man who can ride, and afford to keep a hunter or 
 two, ever abused fox-hunting. The English clergy are partial 
 to it, and sometimes partake of the pastime. Our Scottish 
 ministers are too poor, and consequently content themselves 
 with shooting or angling — especially the latter. 
 
 Shepherd. And the unfairest o' a' fishers that ever flogged 
 water ! Rather than that you should fish a fine pool, when 
 they are afraid you'll gang by them, gin they taigle^ at it 
 themsels, ministers '11 no scruple to fling in turf torn frae the 
 bank, to mak the water ower drumlie for the flee ! Isna that 
 mean and greedy ? But ministers aye fish for the pat, and 
 the gutsy weans. 
 
 Tickler. I know one minister, James, over in the kingdom 
 of Fife, who would give the devil himself fair play at a match 
 of angling ; and that, considering his cloth and calling, 
 glorifies his character as a sportsman.** 
 
 Shepherd. I ken wha you mean. Gin a' ministers were like 
 him, Satan wad never daur to show his face in Scotland, fi"ae 
 ae end o' the week to the ither. For he canna stand integrity 
 and the bauld face o't, but rins aff wi' his tail atween his legs, 
 and never keeks ower his shouther till he has got back to 
 the mouth o' liis kennel, and gets the imps to rub him wi' 
 sulphur; for the Deevil or Dog o' Hawdes has aye the 
 distemper. 
 
 Tickler. The idiots, too, tell you that pugilism is the worst 
 of all cruelty. Tom Crib's^ health, if you please. Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. I haena the least objection. I'm no a fechtin 
 man, and ken naething about pugilism. But twa stout young 
 fallows daudin ane anither about for an hour wi' their neives, 
 is no at a' like a dizzen deevils o' bill-dowgs in succession, 
 tearin the nose, and lips, and tongue o' a bill. The man that 
 says that the boxing's the warst o' the twa, is just a damned 
 
 ^ Taigle — linger. 
 
 2 The Rev. Thomas Gillespie, minister of Cults ; afterwards Professor of 
 Humanity fLatin) in the University of St Andi-ews. He died in 1844. 
 
 3 The ex-champiou of the prize-ring.
 
 ANIMAL HAPPINESS. 139 
 
 idiwnit — and should be taen afore a magistrate, and fined 
 roundly, or sent to the treadmill, for an unprincipled, irreli- 
 gious, and maist unnatural ieear. 
 
 Tickler. What, James, do the Forest lads ever take a tum-up 
 at a fair or wedding ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ower aften — peace is best. But I ne'er heard 
 fechtin ca'd cruel about the Border. They do gie ither 
 desperate paiks — baith iip and doun — for they're no nice that 
 way ; but gin there be ony cruelty in the business o' a black 
 ee and a bluidy nose, our folk are sae stupid that they hae 
 never yet fand it out. It's a' cant and effeminacy. 
 
 North. There is a good deal of ignorance in it. Many 
 people have from their youth up been unaccustomed to all 
 athletic exercises — and to them a box on the ear is a very 
 awful concern. But they will lie back, three in a post-chaise, 
 with heavy luggage, and miry up-hill roads, and snore through 
 a fifteen mile- stage of a stormy winter night, without once 
 thinking of the spavined, and wiad-galled, and foundered pair 
 of dying hacks, that have dragged them to a fat supper, and 
 a warming-pan' d bed. 
 
 Shepherd. Farmers' horses are a very happy class of people 
 — hard-workit to be sure, and at times sair galloped, when 
 master or man has had a drap ower much ; but weel fed and 
 fodder'd, and treated like brithers. Cows, too, are very happy 
 — and saw ye ever the like o' calves wi' their tails up, and 
 covin^ wi' their buddin foreheads, and fun kin wi' their liind- 
 legs, till they're breathless on the knowe ? ■ The rm-al brute 
 population are happy. We farmers and shepherds mak them 
 sae — or rather we help — for nature pours happiness into the 
 hearts o' a' creturs, and they a' enjoy life till the inevitable 
 but unapprehended day. 
 
 North. How much pleasanter, James, this our little partie 
 quarre, than yesterday's lumbering dinner-throng. There 
 could not have been fewer than twenty ? 
 
 Shepherd. I agree ^vi' yoii, sir. It's just the maist difficult 
 thing in a' this world to ken hoo to keep up a conversation in 
 a mixed pairty. Out o' ony dizzen there's aye three or four 
 sure to poishon the evening. Ae cretur begins upon paintin, 
 perhaps — no the Director-general,^ for I like to hear him — and 
 keeps deavin' ye wi' his buttery touches, and the Exhibitions 
 
 1 Covin — butting. ^ ggg „^^g^ p_ 28, note. ^ Oeavin — deafening.
 
 140 PROSERS. 
 
 frae tlie time o' the cheese and speerits, a' the way on, with- 
 out interruption, to that o' the porter and red heri'ings. No 
 anither topic the haill nicht but paintin. A' the lave o' us 
 clean lose the power o' utterance, and sit fillin up tumbler 
 after tumbler maist disconsolately, the toddy having lost a' 
 taste, and a' power o' fuddlin, except mere stupefication o' 
 the head. 
 
 Tickler. Or some infernal idiot begins upon Political 
 Economy, and to his own refutation, without any demand, 
 gives you a supply of raw material that fills the whole room 
 with the smell of hides, blubber, and barilla. You might 
 think him one of the " Twa Stirks," that, in absence of the 
 Stot,^ mislead the Scotsman. The dolt diivels lois way between 
 truism and paradox, feeble and fumbling, and with the intel- 
 lect of a sticket man-milliner. 
 
 North. With the exception of about half-a-dozen, one or 
 two of whom are of doubtful claims, all these gentry are 
 the most vulgar and most vapid of praters and scribblers. 
 Incapable of comprehending any ordinary and everyday 
 subject, and knowing that they would expose themselves to 
 detection and ridicule the moment they presumptuously 
 opened mouth in company on such topics as gentlemen of 
 education usually converse about, they think to shroud their 
 imbecihty and ignorance in — Science, the science of Political 
 Economy ! 
 
 Tickler. the hideous jabber of the foolish knaves ! But 
 be you strong of stomach, and, as the Shepherd would say, 
 dinna scunner — keep down your rising gorge — scrutinise the 
 paltiy prate of the pretenders — and you find them ignorant 
 even of the common rules of arithmetic. They would fain 
 fling flour in your eyes — or knock you down with a bar of 
 bullion — but strip their tongues of this jargon, translate the 
 gabble into English, and the would-be Malthus, or Ricardo, 
 or Tooke, or Mushet, or Buchanan, stares round the company 
 vrith his vacant and nonplussed eyes, and then vainly tries to 
 
 ^ In the exasperation of politics the name of " the Stot" had been applied, 
 by the writers in Blackwood! s Magazine, to Mr J. R. M'Culloch, at that time 
 the editor of The Scotsman, and since then the author of The Principles of 
 Political Economy, and other highly esteemed works. In after life Professor 
 Wilson and Mr M'Culloch were thoroughly reconciled. The Professor lived 
 to appreciate and acknowledge the many excellent qualities of the Economist, 
 to whose talents and literary merits he had never at any time been insensible, 
 I do not know precisely who the " Twa Stirks " were.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 141 
 
 recover the balance of power by an undue absorption of the 
 circulating medium. 
 
 North. In short, you laugh the man of Science into a siilky 
 drunkard, and he and his Principles and Elements of Political 
 Economy he snoring together below the mahogany, till, 
 getting offensive, mine host calls in the chairman from the 
 corner, and bundling him into the vehicle, the room is venti- 
 lated, — export being in this case infinitely more advantageous 
 than impoi-t, and society benelited by getting suddenly off 
 hand so much native produce and raw material — to say 
 nothing of Dugald and the carrying trade. 
 
 Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha ! — I canna help laucliin, it soun's sae 
 comical. I ken naething about Political Economy — but I hae 
 observed ae thing in the kintra, and especially at the Farmers' 
 Club at Selkirk, that the greatest gawpuses^ are aye speakin 
 about it, that can speak about naething else — and perhaps it 
 would be fully as weel for them gin they were to read Hogg 
 upon Sheep,^ and Dr Findlater. They're a' hard drinkers, too, 
 the maist o' them — ^bad managers — and break. 
 
 North. James, only think of an infuriated dunce in the 
 Scotsman declaring that Sir Walter Scott is not entitled to 
 offer his opinion to the public on the Currency !^ 
 
 Shepherd. Deil tak the idiwut — what for no ? 
 
 North. The subject is above and beyond his powers ! The 
 obscm'e and insolent lout claims the subject as his own ; — he, 
 forsooth, has read all the authors, " from Smith to Ricardo," 
 and calls upon the world to hold its mouth wide open, that 
 he may administer a dose of doctrine. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoo does the fule ken what Sir Walter has read 
 or no read ? And oh ! sir ! can ony cretur in the Scotsman 
 be really sae weak or wicket as to think himsel capable o' 
 understandin ony ae* thing whatsomever that's ay out the 
 grasp o' the Author o' Waverley's haun ? 
 
 Tickler. About a thousand editors of pelting journals, and 
 
 ^ Gawpus — fooL 
 
 3 The Shepherd! s Guide: being a Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Sheep, 
 and the best Means of preventing them. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1807. 
 
 3 Soon after the great monetaiy crisis in 1825, Sir Walter Scott published 
 three letters on the Currency, under the signature of Malachi Malagrowther. 
 These letters were of essential service to Scotland, by causing Government to 
 abandon their scheme of abolishing the Scotch £1 bank-notes, which they 
 were on the point of carrying into effect. 
 
 ■* Ouy ae — any one.
 
 142 HIS LETTERS ON THE CURRENCr. 
 
 three times that number of understrappers " upon the estab- 
 lisliment," think themselves able to coiTect the errors of 
 Adam Smith. " We cannot help being sui-prised that Adam 
 Smith," &c. ; and then the dmace, shutting his eyes, and 
 clenching his fists, without the slightest provocation, runs 
 liis numskull bang against the illustrious sage. 
 
 North. Adam never so much as inclines from the centre of 
 gravity — while the periodical meal-monger, leaving only 
 some wlxite on the sleeve of the old gentleman's coat, which 
 is easily brushed off by the hand, reels off into the ditch, as if 
 he had been repelled £i-om the wall of a house, and is extri- 
 cated by some good-natured fiiend, who holds him up, dirty 
 and dripping, to the derision of all beholders. 
 
 Shepherd. It's perfectly true, that a' the newspaper chiels 
 speak out bauldly upon the principles and yelements o' the 
 science — and though I'm wuUin to alloc that there's some 
 verra clever fallows amang them, yet oh ! man, its mair than 
 laughable, for it's loathsome, to hear them ca'in that ower 
 kittle for Sir Walter that's sae easy to themselves, wha wi'ite, 
 in my opinion, a sair splutterin style, as to language, — and, 
 as to thocht, they gang roun' and roun', and across and re- 
 across, back'ards and forrits, out o' ae yett^ and in at anither, 
 now loupin ower the hedges, and now bringin dotm the 
 stane-wa's, — sometimes playin plouter into a wat place up 
 to the oxters, and sometimes stimiblin amang stanes, — now 
 rinnin fast fast, like a jowler on the scent, and then sittin 
 doun on a knowe, and yowlin like a collie at the moon, — in 
 short, hke a fou fallow that has lost his way in a darkish 
 nicht, and after sax hoiu-s' sair and unavailing travel, is 
 discovered snoring sound asleep on the road-side by decent 
 folk riding in to the market. 
 
 North. I shall probably have two pretty stiflish articles 
 about public men and things in this Number ; and therefore 
 fear that I must delay the Currency Question for another 
 month. I shall then, in my usual way, settle it for ever. 
 
 Tickler. Malachi ]\Ialagrowther is in the wrong, and the 
 Courier scribe has done him. 
 
 North. Malachi Malagrowther is in the right, and the 
 Courier prig has done himself. I have a twenty-page article 
 in my head ; and it will spring forth, full-grown, and armed 
 like Minerva, from the brain of Jove. 
 
 ^ Yett — gate.
 
 PAINTINGS. 143 
 
 Shepherd. Ma faith ! you and Malachi '11 skelp their doups 
 for them, and gar them skirL 
 
 North. Lord, James ! but the Chancellor of the Exchequer 
 is a heavy joker ! If liis taxes were as heavy as his wit, the 
 country would indeed be sorely burthened. There is a grace 
 and brilliancy about all Canning says, and he never makes a 
 pass without a palpable hit. Eobinson^ should stick to his 
 own figui-es — arithmetical ones, I mean — yet there was 
 "Hear, hear!" And the Chancellor cackled, flapped his 
 vrings, and crowed after the fashion of an unwieldy barn-door 
 fowl, who sees that a game-cock, who would kiU him at a 
 single blow, is at a safe distance in another croft, attending 
 to his oyna. pursuits. 
 
 Tickler. I disagree entirely. 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your tongue, Mr Tickler. I'm quite con- 
 vinced by Mr North's twenty-page article, that's to loup out 
 like Minerva. Besides, eh! man, a' the Englishers, like 
 gowks, canna see that Malachi has a way o' expressin himsel 
 peculiar to the Malagrowthers ; and they set about answer- 
 ing him vA' grave faces the leng-th o' my arm. 
 
 North. Very siUy, indeed, James — but there's a braw time 
 comin. Tickler, have you been at the Exhibition ? 
 
 Tickler. John Watson Gordon is great. His " Dr Hunter" ^ 
 is equal to anything of Kaebum's.^ 
 
 North. I doubt that. 
 
 Tickler. WeU, then — next to Eaebum, John stands among 
 our Scottish modem portrait-painters. 
 
 Shepherd. What for does every person cry out, " Ower 
 mony portraits, ower mony portraits?" Can onything be 
 mair pleasant than just a' at ance, when your fi-eend is a 
 thousand miles aif, or perhaps dead, to see the very cretur 
 himsel on canvass, lookin at you wi' a smile or a fi-own ? 
 Tickler. If people would not be so excessively ugly, 
 
 1 Afterwards Viscount Goderich, and at a later period, Earl of Ripon. ' At 
 this time he was Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 2 Dr John Hunter, professor of Humanity in the University of St Andrews. 
 This eminent scholar and philologist, who pubUshed editions of several of the 
 Roman Classics remarkable for the accuracy of their text, died in 1S37, aged 91. 
 The picture referred to in the text now ornaments the hall of the United 
 College, St Andrews. 
 
 3 Some of Sir Henry Raebum's portraits have been seldom equalled, and 
 never sui-passed by those of any British artist. Bom in 1756, he died in 1823.
 
 144 THE shepherd's LANDSCAPES. 
 
 James ! Portraits are in general very unpardonable. Mr 
 Colvin Smith forces tipon you strong and striking likenesses, 
 and I augur well of the young man when lie shall have 
 learned to draw and colour ; but why represent all his 
 gentlemen as half-seas over, and all his ladies as little better 
 than they should be ? ^ 
 
 North. Vile taste and feeling indeed ! His pictures are 
 clever and coarse ; and woe betide the wight who passes 
 through his hands, for he instantly loses all appearance of a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, I just think his pictures capital. It's a' 
 nonsense you're talkin about leddies and gentlemen. Painters 
 are ower fond o' flattery ; and if his portraits are vulgar, as 
 you ca't, how can Mr Smith help that, gin he wishes to be 
 true to liis original? 
 
 North. Simpson, in landscape, is deHghtfol tliis year. He 
 has an exquisite sense of the beautiful in scenery — and is a 
 master of the principles of his art. 
 
 Tickler. Come, come, let us have no drivelling about pic- 
 tures. There's the Shepherd himself, a much better painter 
 than the best of the whole set. 
 
 North. Did you never use pencil or brush, James ? I do not 
 remember anything of yours, " by an Amateur," in any of our 
 Exhibitions. 
 
 Shepherd. I've skarted^ some odds and ends wi' the keeli- 
 vine on brown paper — and Mr Scroope^ telt Sir Walter they 
 showed a gran' natural genius. I fin' maist diffeeculty in the 
 foreshortnin and perspective. Tilings wunna retire and come 
 fonit as I wusli — and the back-grun' will be the fore-grun' 
 whether I will or no. Sometimes, however, I dash the dis- 
 tance aff wi' a lucky stroke, and then I can get in the sheep 
 or cattle in front ; and the sketch, when you dinna stan' ower 
 near, has a' tlie effect o' nature. 
 
 North. Do you work after Salvator Rosa, or Claude Lorraine, 
 James ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm just as original in paintin as in poetry, and 
 
 ^ Mr Colvin Smith, tlien commencing his professional career, has since 
 attained to very high eminence as a portrait-painter. 
 
 2 Skarted — scratched. 
 
 •* Tliis accomplished gentleman and keen sportsman was the author of a 
 finely illustrated work on deer-stalking.
 
 THE shepherd's LA2^DSCAPES. 145 
 
 follow nae master ! I'm partial to close scenes — a bit neuk, 
 wi' a big mossy stane, aiblins a birk tree, a bumie maist dried 
 up, a' but ae deep pool, into which slides a thread o' water 
 doun a rock — a shepherd readin, — nae ither leevin thing — 
 for the flock are ayont the knowes — and up amang the green 
 hills ; — ay, anither leevin thing, and just ane, his collie, rowed 
 up half-asleep, wi' a pair o' lugs that still seem listenin, and 
 his closin een towards his maister. That's a simple matter, 
 sir, but, properly disposed, it makes a bonny pictur. 
 
 North. I should have thought it easier to " dash off " a wide 
 open countiy with the keeli\dne. 
 
 Shepherd. So it is. I've dune a moor — gin you saw'tyou would 
 doubt the earth being roun', there's sic an extent o' flat — and 
 then, though there's nae mountain-taps, you feel you're on 
 tableland. I contrive that by means o' the cluds. You never 
 beheld stronger bent — some o' the stalks thick as your arm — 
 and places wi' naetliing but stanes. Here and there earth- 
 chasms, cut by the far-off folk for their peats — and on the fore- 
 groixnd something like water, black and sidlen, as if it quaked. 
 Nae birds, but some whaups' — ane fleein, and ane walkin by 
 itsel, and ane just showin its lang neck amang some rushes. 
 You think, at first, it may be the head o' a serpent — but 
 there's nane amang our mosses, only asks, which is a sort o' 
 lizards, or wee alligators, green, and glidin awa without 
 noise or rustle intil the heather. Time — evening, or rather 
 late on in the afternoon, when Nature shows a solemn — maist 
 an awfu' stillness — and solitude, as I hae aften thocht, is 
 deeper than at midnight. 
 
 North. James, 1 will give you twenty guineas for that 
 keehvine sketch. 
 
 Shepherd. Ye'se hae't for naething, sir, and welcome — 
 if you'll only fasten't against the wa' wi' a prin,^ aboon 
 the brace-piece o' your Leebrary-room. Let it be in the 
 middle, and you sail hae Twa Brigs to hing at either 
 side on't. The ane, a' the time I was drawin't, I could 
 hardly persuade mysel wasna a rainbow. You see it's flung 
 across a torrent geyan far up a hill-side, and I was sittin 
 sketchin't a gude piece doun below, on a cairn. The spray 
 o' the torrent had wat a' the mosses, and flowers, and weeds, 
 and sichke, on the arch, and the sun smote it wi' sudden 
 
 1 Wkaups — curlews, ^ Prin — pin. 
 
 vol.. I. K
 
 146 THEY SIT DOWN TO SUPPER. 
 
 glory, till in an instant it burst into a variegated low, and I 
 could has taen my Bible-oath it was the rainbow. Oh I man, 
 that I had had a pallet o' colours ! I'm sure I could hae 
 mixed them up prismatically aneuch, — yet wi' the verra mere, 
 naked, unassisted keelivine (that day fortunately it was a 
 red ane), I caught the character o' the apparition, and keepin 
 my een for about a minute on the paper, shadin aff and aff, 
 you ken, as fine as I could ; — when I luckit up again, naething 
 but a bare stane-and-lime Brig, wi' an auld man sittin on a 
 powney, wi' his knees up to his chin, for he happened to be a 
 cadger, and he had his creels. I felt as if it had been a' 
 glamour, Sae muckle for ane o' the Twa Brigs. 
 
 Tickler. Now, James, if you please, we shall adjourn to 
 supper. It is now exactly ten o'clock, and I smeU. the turkey. 
 From seven o'clock to this blessed moment your tongue has 
 never ceased wagging. I must now have my tiirn. 
 
 Shepherd. Tak your turn, and welcome. As for me, I never 
 speak nane during supper. But you may e'en give us a 
 soliloquy. 
 
 North. Ten o'clock ! Now, James, eye the folding-doors — 
 for Ambrose is true to a second. Lo, and behold ! 
 [The doors are thrown open.) 
 
 Shepherd. Stop, MuUion, stop. Wliat! wiU ye daur to 
 walk before Mr North? — Tak my arm, sii-. 
 
 North. My dear James, you are indeed my right-hand man. 
 You are as firm as a rock. Thou art indeed the " Gentle 
 Shepherd " 
 
 Shepherd. Gentle is that gentle does — and I hope, on the 
 whole, nane o' my freen's hae ony reason to be ashamed o' me, 
 though I hae my faiUns. 
 
 North. I know not what they are, James. There — there 
 
 — on the right hand — ay, say the grace, James. Thank 
 
 ye, James — we have been joking away, but now it behoves 
 us to sit down to serious eating, while Timothy regales our 
 ears with a monologue.
 
 YII. 
 
 (JUNE 1826.) 
 Blue Parlour. 
 
 North, Tickler, Shepherd, Clerk of the Balaam-box, 
 Mr Ambrose, Devil, Porters, and Incremators. 
 
 Shepherd, Safe us ! I was never at an Incremation afore ! 
 
 North. Mr Ambrose, bring in Balaam,^ and place him on 
 tbe table. 
 
 Mr Ambrose. May I crave the assistance of the Incremators, 
 sir ? — for he is heavier this year than I ever remember him, 
 since that succeeding the Chaldee. 
 
 Shepherd. Is yon him ower-by in the window neuk ? I'se 
 tak haud o' ane o' the end-handles mysel. Come, you wee 
 lazy deevil there, what for are you skartin your lug at that 
 gate ? get up and be usefu'. — Noo, Mr Ambrose, let us put a' 
 our strength till't, and try to hoise him up, oiu- twa lanes, 
 ontil the table. 
 
 Tickler. My dear Shepherd, you'U burst a blood-vessel. Let 
 me assist. 
 
 North. And me too ! 
 
 Shepherd. Dinna loot^ wi' that lang back o' yours, Mr 
 Tickler. Pity me — I hear't crackin. There, it muves ! It 
 muves ! — What for are you trampin on my taes, Awmrose ? — 
 Dinna gim that way in my face, Mr Beelzebub. Faith it gars 
 us a' fowre stoiter.^ 
 
 (Shepherd, Tickler, Beelzebub, and Ambrose, succeed 
 in placing the Balaam-box on the table.) 
 
 North. Thank ye, gentlemen. Here is a glass of Madeira 
 to each of you. 
 
 ^ See ante, p. 7, note 7. ^ Zoof— stoop. 3 Stoiter — stagger.
 
 148 THE BALAAM-BOX. 
 
 Shepherd. North, rax me ower the Stork. There — that's a 
 hantle heartsomer than ony o' your wines, either white or 
 black. It's just maist excellent wliisky, Glenlivet or no 
 Glenlivet. But hech, sir, that's a sad box, that Balaam, and 
 I'll weigh't against its ain bouk,^ lead only excepted, o' ony 
 ither material noo extant, and gie a stane. 
 
 North. Let the Incremators take their stations. 
 
 {They do sOj one at each side of the chimney. The Incre- 
 mators are firemen belonging to the Sun Fire Office.) 
 
 Devil! 
 
 Devil. Here ! 
 
 North. Clerk of the B. B.! 
 
 a B. B. Here ! 
 
 North. Open Balaam. 
 
 C. B. B. Please, sir, to remember the catastrophe of last 
 year. We must take the necessary precautions. 
 
 North. Certainly. — Mr Hogg, on opening Balaam, last year, 
 we had neglected to put weight on the lid, and the moment 
 the clerk had turned the key, it flew up with prodigious vio- 
 lence, and the jammed-down articles, as if discharged from a 
 culverin, wafted destruction around — ^breaking that beautiful 
 fifty-guinea mirror, in whose calm and lucid depths we had 
 so often seen ourselves reflected to the very life — all but 
 speech. 
 
 Shepherd. I could greet to think on't. A' dung* to shivers 
 — scarcely ae bit big aneuch to shave by. But the same 
 shinna^ befa' the year — for I'se sit doun upon the lid like a 
 guardian angel, and the lid '11 hae a powerfu' spring indeed, 
 gin it whamles me ower after sic a denner. 
 
 {The Shepherd mounts the table with youthful alacrity, and 
 sits down on the Balaam-box.) 
 
 North. Use both your hands, sir. 
 
 C. B. B. Beg your pardon — Mr North — ^there the key turns 
 — Sit fast, Mr Hogg. 
 
 Shepherd. Never mind me — I'm sittin as fast's a rock. — 
 [The lid, like a catapulta, dislodges the Shepherd, who 
 alights on his feet a few yards from the table.) 
 
 Tickler. My dear Shepherd, why, you are a rejected con- 
 tributor ! 
 
 ^ Bouk — bulk. 2 J)ung — knocked. '^ Shinna — shall not.
 
 THE INCREMATORS. 149 
 
 Shepherd. Mercy on us, only see how the articles are bouncin 
 about the Parlour I Put your foot, Tickler, on that ane, and 
 baud it doon, for it's made o' parchment, and has breaken my 
 shins. Look at yon ane, the wee wizened' yellow creatur, 
 how it's loupin atower^ the sopha, and then rinnin alang the 
 floor Kke a moose, as if it were fain to escape aneath the 
 door! — What's the maitter, Mr North? Dear me, what's the 
 maitter ? 
 
 North. The matter, James? Why, that cursed communi- 
 cation on the Catholic Question has, I verily believe, fractured 
 my skull. Had it hit me a little nearer the temple, I should 
 have been a dead Editor. 
 
 Shepherd. Wae's me ! Wae's me ! A fracture o' Mr North's 
 skull. It maun indeed hae been a hard article that did that 
 — but wha can we get to reduce it ? 
 
 Tickler. Well — who could have thought they had such 
 spunk in them? Perfect Eobin Goodfellows all — hop, step, 
 and jump was the order of the day — and a cleaner somerset 
 never did I see than that performed a minute ago by yonder 
 lubberly -looking article now lying on his side on the rug in 
 the jaws of the Tiger, who in the attempt to swallow him is 
 evidently worsted. 
 
 Shepherd. I haena had siccan a whamle' sin I was flung 
 out o' a gig the summer afore last — but to be sure, in this 
 case, there were nae reins to entangle about ane's legs, and 
 nae wheels to gang shavin close by your lugs, wi' your head 
 lying in a rut. — But let's rub your brows wi' vinegar, sir ! 
 
 North. I warded off the force of the blow, James, with my 
 crutch, else it might have been fatal. 
 
 Shepherd. Only to think o't, Mr North! But let's see 
 what the article is? Burnin wuU be ower gude for't. It 
 shinna be burned, no it — Oh my prophetic soul ! a Cockney 
 Stink Pot ! 
 
 North. Mr Ambrose, send in the scavenger. — Sorters, collect 
 and arrange. 
 
 (C B. B., Sorters., and Devil., in full employment.) 
 
 Shepherd. Thae Incremawtors hae a gran' effec ! They 
 canna be less than sax feet four, and then what whuskers ! 
 I scarcely ken whether black whuskers or red whuskers be 
 
 1 Wizened — withered. 2 Atower — over. ^ Whamle — ^upset
 
 150 BEELZEBUB RECITES. 
 
 the maist fearsome ! What tangs in their hauns ! and what 
 pokers ! Lucifer and Beelzebub ! 
 
 North. At home, James, and at their own fii-esides, they 
 are the most peaceable of men. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna believe't, Mr North, I canna believe't ; 
 they can hae nae human feeling — neither sighs nor tears. 
 
 North. They are men, James, and do their duty. — He with 
 the red whiskers was married this forenoon to a pretty deli- 
 cate little girl of eighteen, quite a fairy of a thing — seemingly 
 made of animated wax — so soft that, Kke the winged butterfly, 
 you would fear to touch her, lest you might spoil the burnished 
 beauty. 
 
 Shepherd. Married — on Mm wi' the red whuskers ! 
 
 North. Come now, James, no affected simplicity, no Arca- 
 dian innocence ! 
 
 Shepherd. You micht hae gien him the play the day, I think, 
 sir ; you micht hae gien him the play. The Incremawtor ! 
 
 Devil. The sorters have made up a skuttlefu' o' poetry — 
 Sir, shall I deliver up to Lucifer or Beelzebub ! 
 
 North. All poetry to Beelzebub. 
 
 Shepherd. A! poetiy to Beelzebub ! ! wae's me, wae's 
 me — Well-a-day, well-a-day ! Has it indeed come to this ! 
 A' poetry to Beelzebub ! I can scarce believe my lugs 
 
 North. Stop, Beelzebub — read aloud that bit of paper you 
 have in your fist. 
 
 Beelzebub. Yes, sir. 
 
 Shepherd. Lord safe us, what a voice ! They're my ain 
 verses too. Whisht — whisht. 
 
 (Beelzebub recites.) 
 
 THE GKEAT MUCKLE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE. 
 
 Air—" Sodger Laddie." 
 
 I. 
 
 D'ye ken the big village of Balmaquhapple, 
 The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple ? 
 'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple, 
 And what's to become of poor Balmaquhapple 1 
 Fling a' oflf your bonnets, and kneel for your life, folks, 
 And pray to Saint Andrew, the god o' the Fife folks ; 
 Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation, 
 And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion :
 
 THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUH APPLE. 151 
 
 II. 
 " O blessed Saint Andrew, if e'er ye could pity folk, 
 Men folk or women folk, country or city folk. 
 Come for this ance wi' the auld thief to grapple, 
 And save the poor village of Balmaquhapple ! 
 Frae drinking, and leeing, and flyting, and swearing, 
 And sins that ye wad be affronted at hearing. 
 And cheating, and stealing, O grant them redemption, 
 All save and except the few after to mention. 
 
 III. 
 There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye. 
 Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, and sae gi-eedy, 
 "Wha prays every hour, as the wayfarer passes, 
 But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses : 
 He's cheated a thousand, and e'en to this day yet 
 Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it ; 
 Then gie him his way, he's sae sly and sa civil. 
 Perhaps in the end he may cheat Mr Devil. 
 
 rv. 
 There's Cappie the cobbler, and Tammie the tinman, 
 And Dickie the brewer, and Peter the skinman ; 
 And Geordie, our deacon, for want of a better ; 
 And Bess, that delights in the sins that beset her. 
 O, worthy Saint Andrew, we canna compel ye, 
 But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye. 
 If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit, 
 Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit. 
 
 V. 
 
 But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them ! 
 Their bodies at least, and their souls, if they have them ; 
 But it puzzles Jock Linton, and small it avails, 
 If they dwell in their stomachs, their heads, or their tails ; 
 And save, without frown or confession auricular, 
 The clerk's bonny daughters, and Bell in particular ; 
 For ye ken that their beauty's the pride and the stapple 
 Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple." 
 
 North {to Tickler^ aside). Bad — Hogg's. 
 
 Shepherd. What's that you two are speaking about? 
 Speak up. 
 
 North. These fine lines must be preserved, James. Pray, 
 are they allegorical ?
 
 152 HEATHER AJ^D WHINK ON FIRE. 
 
 Shepherd. What a dracht in ttiat lumP It's a verra fiery- 
 furnace ! — hear tiil't hoo it roars, like wund in a cavern ! 
 Sonnets, charauds, elegies, pastorals, lyrics, farces, tragedies, 
 and yepics — in they a' gang into the general bleeze ; then 
 there is naething but sparking ashes, and noo the thin black 
 wavering coom o' annihilation and oblivion! It's a sad 
 sicht, and but for the bairnliness o't, I could weel greet. 
 Puir chiels and lasses, they had ither howps when they sat 
 down to compose, and invoked Apollo and the Muses ! 
 
 North. James, the poor creatures have been all happy in 
 their inspiration. Why weep? Probably, too, they kept 
 copies, and other Balaam-boxes may be groaning with dupli- 
 cates. 'Tis a strange world we live in ! 
 
 Shepherd. Was you ever at the biu"ning o' heather or 
 whins, Mr North. 
 
 North. I have, and have enjoyed the illuminated heavens. 
 
 Tickler. Describe. 
 
 North. In half-an-hour from the first spark, the hill glowed 
 with fire unextinguishable by waterspout. The crackle be- 
 came a growl, as acre after acre joined the flames. Here 
 and there a rock stood in the way, and the burning waves 
 broke against it, till the crowning birch-tree took iire, and 
 its tresses, like a shower of flaming diamonds, were in a 
 minute consumed. Whirr, wliirr, played the frequent gor- 
 cock, gobbling in his fear ; and, swift as shadows, the old 
 hawks flew screaming from their young, all smothered in a 
 nest of ashes. 
 
 Tickler. Good — excellent ! — Go it again. 
 
 North. The great pine-forest on the mountain side, two 
 miles off, frowned in ghastly light, as in a stormy sunset — 
 and you could see the herd of red deer, a whirlwind of antlers, 
 descending, in their terror, into the black glen, whose entrance 
 gleamed once — twice — thrice, as if there had been lightning ; 
 and then, as the wind changed the direction of the flames, all 
 the distance sunk in dark repose. 
 
 Tickler. Vivid colouring, indeed, sir. Paint away. 
 
 North. That was an eagle that shot between and the moon. 
 
 Tickler. What an image ! 
 
 North. Millions of millions of sparks of fire in heaven, but 
 only some six or seven stars. How calm the large lustre of 
 Hesperus ! 
 
 1 Lum, — clumney.
 
 A CALCULATION. 153 
 
 Tickler. James, wliat do you think of that, eh ? 
 
 Shepherd. Didna ye pity the taids and paddocks, and asks 
 and beetles, and slaters and snails and spiders, and worms and 
 ants, and catterpillars and bumbees, and a' the rest o' the 
 insect-world, perishin in the Hamin nicht o' their last judg- 
 ment ? 
 
 North. In another season, James, what life, beauty, and 
 bliss over the verdant wilderness ! There you see and hear the 
 bees busy on the white clover — while the lark comes wavering 
 down from heaven, to sit beside his mate on her nest ! Here 
 and there are still seen the traces of fire, but they are nearly 
 hidden by flowers — and 
 
 Shepherd. For a town-chiel, Mr North, you describe the 
 kintra wi' surprisin truth and spirit ; but there's aye some- 
 thing rather wantin about your happiest pictures, as if you 
 had glowered on everything in a dream or trance. 
 
 North, Like your own Kilmeny, James, I am fain to steal 
 away from tliis everyday world into the Land of glamoury. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoo mony volumms o' poetry, think ye, the In- 
 cremawtor has thnist, just noo, intil the fire ? 
 
 North. I should think about some score, or so, of crown 
 octavo — 350 pages — twenty lines to the page. Calculate 
 that, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Here's my keelivine. 350 
 
 20 
 
 7000 pages — which 
 multiply by 20 
 
 140,000 lines. 
 Maist equal to a "farther portion" o' the "Excursion!" 
 Surely, surely, there maun hae been twa-three^ thousan' gude 
 lines amang sic a multitude ! 
 
 Tickler. Devil the one — all fudge and flummery. More 
 meaning in any one paragraph of Pope than in the whole 
 skuttleful. 
 
 Shepherd. A skuttlefu' o' poetry ! I canna thole either the 
 sicht or the soun'. It's degrawdin to the divine art. Get 
 out o' my reach, ye wee wicked weezen'd devil, or I'U clour 
 your pow^ for you. And as for thae Incremawtors 
 
 ' Twa-three — two or three. ^ Pow — poll, or head.
 
 154 POETEY A DRUG. 
 
 North. Why, James, would you believe it, that Stoic with 
 the black whiskers is himself a poet ; and has even now, 
 with his inexorable poker, in all probability, thrust into 
 nothingness a quire of his own versified MSS. ! 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! wae's me ! that poetry should be siccan a 
 drog ! Is there nae chance, think ye, sir, o' its lookin up ? 
 
 North. None, James. Not till new men effulge. All your 
 old stagers are done up. Scott has done his best in verse — 
 so has Southey — so Moore — so Wordsworth — so Crabbe — so 
 Campbell — so Hogg. 
 
 Tickler. And really, Mr North, after aU, what have they 
 done ? Sir Walter has versified a few old stories, and is at 
 the head of all modern ballad-mongers. What more? Southey 
 has written one wild and wondrous tale, Thaldba ; but all his 
 other attempts are abortive — and the last spark of inspiration 
 within him has been for years extinct. Many of Moore's 
 songs will live — but a man cannot be song-singing all his 
 days; and as for Wordsworth, take him out of the Lake 
 country, and his prattle is tedious. Crabbe, and Campbell, 
 and Hogg 
 
 North. Come, come, don't be silly, Tickler. A man looks 
 like a ninny the moment he begins even to think about 
 versemen. 
 
 TicTcler. There it goes up the chimney — An Ode to the 
 Moon — pursued by The Sleeping Infant — The Horned Owl — 
 The late Elephant — and General BoKvar. 
 
 Shepherd. 0, sirs ! the room's gettin desperate warm. I 
 pity the poor Incremawtors — they maun be unco dry. Beel- 
 zebub, open the window, man, ye ugly deevil, and let in a 
 current o' cool air. Mr North, I canna thole the heat ; and 
 I ask it as a particular favour, no to burn the prose till after 
 supper. At a' events, let the manied Incremawtor gang hame 
 to his bride — and there's five shillings to him to drink my 
 health at his ain ingle. 
 
 {Incremator, Devil, Clerk of the Balaam-box, Porters, and 
 Mr Ambrose retire.) 
 
 North. Who are the wittiest men of our day. Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. Cluistopher North, Timothy Tickler, and James 
 Hogg. 
 
 North. Poo, poo — we all know that — ^but out of doors ? 
 
 Tickler. Canning, Sydney Smith, and Jeffrey.
 
 CANISTNG. BROUGHAM. — SYDNEY SMITH. 155 
 
 North. I fear it is so. Canning's wit is infallible. It is 
 never out of time or place, and is finely proportioned to its 
 object. Has he a good-natured, gentlemanly, well-educated 
 blockbead — say of the landed interest — to make ridiculous, he 
 does it so pleasantly, that the Esquire joins in the general 
 smile. Is it a coarse calculating dunce of the mercantile 
 school, he suddenly hits him such a heavy blow on the organ 
 of number, that the stunned economist is unable to sum up 
 the total of the whole. Would some pert prig of the profes- 
 sion be facetious overmuch, Canning ventures to the very 
 borders of vulgarity, and discomfits him with an old Joe. 
 Doth some mouthing member of mediocrity sport orator, and 
 make use of a dead tongue, then the classical Secretary* runs 
 him through and through with apt quotations, and before the 
 member feels himself wounded, the whole House sees that he 
 is a dead man. 
 
 Tickler. His wit is shown in greatest power in the battles 
 of the giants. When Brougham bellows against him, a BuU 
 of Bashan, the Secretary waits till his horns are lowered for 
 the death-blow, and then stepping aside, he plants with 
 graceful dexterity the fine-tempered weapon in the spine of 
 the mighty Brute. 
 
 Shepherd. Whish ! — Nae personality the nicht. Michty 
 Brute — Do you ca' Hairy Brumm a michty Brute ? He's just 
 a maist agreeable enterteenin fallow, and I recollect sitten up 
 wi' him a' nicht, for three nichts rinnin, about thretty years 
 syne, at Miss Eitchie's bottle, Peebles. man, but he was 
 wutty wutty — and bricht thochts o' a maist extraordinary 
 kind met thegither, frae the opposite poles o' the human 
 understanding. I prophesied at every new half-mutchki n , 
 that Mr Bnimm would be a distinguished character; and there 
 he is, you see. Leader o' the Opposition ! 
 
 Tickler. His Majesty's Opposition ! 
 
 North. Sydney Smith is a wit. 
 
 Shepherd. No him — perpetually playin upon words. I 
 caima thole to hear words played upon till they lose their 
 natural downright meaning and signification. It was only last 
 week that a faUow frae Edinbvirgh came out to the south for 
 orders o' speerits amang the glens (rum, and brandy, and 
 Hollands), and I asked him to dine at Mount Benger. He 
 
 1 A t this time Canning was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
 
 156 CONVERSATION. 
 
 had hardly put his hat on a peg in the transe/ afore he began 
 playin wi' his ain words ; and he had nae sooner sat down, 
 than he began playin wi' mine too, maldn puns o' them, and 
 double-entendres, and bits o' intolerable wutticisms, aneuch 
 to make a body scunner. Faith, I cut him short, by tellin 
 him that nae speerit-dealer in the kingdom should play the 
 fule in my house, and that if he was a wut, he had better 
 saddle his powney and be aff to Selkirk. He grew red red in 
 the face ; but for the rest o' the evening, and we didna gang 
 to bed tiU the sma' hours, he was not only rational, but clever 
 and weel-informed, and I gied him an order for twenty gallons. 
 
 Tickler. Yes — Sydney Smith has a rare genius for the 
 grotesque. He is, with his quips and cranks, a formidable 
 enemy to pomposity and pretension. No man can wear a big 
 wig comfortably in his presence ; the absurdity of such enor- 
 mous frizzle is felt ; and the dignitary would fain exchange 
 all that horse-hair for a few scattered locks of another animal. 
 
 North. He wotdd make a lively interlocutor at a Noctes. 
 Indeed, I intend to ask him, and Mr Jeffrey, and Cobbett, and 
 Joseph Hume, and a few more choice spirits, to join our 
 festive board 
 
 Shepherd. man, that will be capital sport. Sic con- 
 versation ! 
 
 Tickler. my dear James, conversation is at a very low 
 ebb in this world ! 
 
 Shepherd. I've often thought and felt that, at parties where 
 ane micht hae expeckit better things. First o' a' comes the 
 wather — no a bad toppic, but ane that town's folks kens nae- 
 thing about. Wather I My faith, had ye been but in Yarrow 
 last Thui'sday. 
 
 Tickler. What was the matter, James, the last Thm'sday in 
 Yarrow ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'se tell you, and judge for yoursel. At four in 
 the momin, it was that hard frost that the dubs^ were bearin, 
 and the midden^ was as hard as a riclde o' stanes. We could- 
 na plant the potawtoes. But the lift was clear. Between 
 eight and nine, a snaw-storm came down frae the mountains 
 about Loch Skene, noo a whirl, and noo a blash, till the giam' 
 was whitey-blue, wi' a shddery sort o' sleet, and the Yarrow 
 began to roar wi' the melted broo, alang its frost-bound 
 
 1 Traww— a passage within a house. 2 Dubs — puddles. 
 
 3 Midden — dunghill.
 
 A SNOW-STORM IN YARROW, 157 
 
 borders, and aneath its banks, a' hanging wi' icicles, nane o' 
 them thinner than my twa arms. Weel then, about eleven it 
 began to rain, for the wund had shifted — and afore dinner- 
 time, it was an even-doun pour. It fell lown about sax — and 
 the air grew close and sultry to a degree that was fearsome. 
 Wha wud hae expeckit a thunder-storm on the eve o' sic a 
 day ? But the heavens, in the thvmdery airt, were like a dun- 
 geon — and I saw the lightning playing like meteors athwart 
 the blackness, lang before ony growl was in the gloom. 
 Then, a' at ance, like a wauken'd lion, the thunder rose up in 
 his den, and shakin his mane o' brindled clouds, broke out 
 into sic a roar that the very sun shuddered in eclipse — and 
 the grews and coUies that happened to be sittin beside me on 
 a bit knowe, gaed whinin into the house wi' their tails atween 
 their legs, just venturin a hafflin glance to the howling hea- 
 vens noo a' in low, for the fire was strong and fierce in elec- 
 trical matter, and at intervals the illuminated mountains 
 seemed to vomit out conflagration like verra volcanoes. 
 
 Tickler. "Enea Trrepoen-a ! 
 
 Shepherd. Afore sunset, heaven and earth, like lovers after 
 a quarrel, lay embraced in each other's smile ! 
 
 North. Beautiful ! Beautiful ! Beautiful ! 
 
 Tickler. Oh 1 James — James — James ! 
 
 Shepherd. The lambs began their races on the lea, and the 
 thrush o' Eltrive (there is but a single pair in the vale aboon 
 the kirk) awoke his hymn in the hiU-silence. It was mair hke a 
 momin than an evenin twilight, and a' the day's hurly-burly 
 had passed awa into the uncertainty o' a last week's dream ! 
 
 North. Proof positive that, from the lips of a man of 
 genius, even the weather 
 
 Shepherd. I could speak for hoiu-s, days, months, and years, 
 about the wather, without e'er becoming tiresome. man, a 
 cawm ! 
 
 North. On shore, or at sea ? 
 
 Shepherd. Either. I'm wrapped up in my plaid, and lyin 
 a' my length on a bit green platform, fit for the fairies' feet, 
 wi' a craig hangin ower me a thousand feet high, yet bright 
 and balmy a' the way up wi' flowers and briars, and broom 
 and birks, and mosses maist beautifu' to behold wi' half-shut 
 66, and through aneath ane's arm guardin the face fi-ae the 
 cloudless sunshine ! 
 
 North. A rivulet leaping irom the rock
 
 158 A CALM. 
 
 Shepherd. No, Mr North, no loupin ; for it seems as if it 
 were nature's ain Sabbath, and the verra waters were at rest. 
 Look down upon the vale profound, and the stream is without 
 motion I No doubt, if you were walking along the bank, it 
 would be murmuring with your feet. But here — here up 
 among the- hills, we can imagine it asleep, even like the well 
 within reach of my staff ! 
 
 North. Tickler, pray make less noise, if you can, in drink- 
 ing, and also in putting down your tumbler. You break in 
 upon the repose of James's picture. 
 
 Shepherd. Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting, wi' 
 faulded wings, on a gowan, no a yard frae your cheek ; and 
 noo, waukening out o' a simmer dream, floats awa in its 
 wavering beauty, but as if unwilling to leave its place of 
 mid-day sleep, comin back and back, and roun' and roun', on 
 this side and that side, and ettlin^ in its capricious happiness 
 to fasten again on some brighter floweret, till the same breath 
 o' wund that lifts up your hair sae refreshingly catches the 
 airy voyager, and wafts her away into some other nook of her 
 ephemeral paradise. 
 
 Tickler. I did not know that butterflies inhabited the region 
 of snow. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, and mony million moths ; some o' as lovely 
 green as of the leaf of the moss-rose, and ithers bright as the 
 blush with wliich she salutes the dewy dawn ; some yellow 
 as the long steady streaks that lie below the sim at set, and 
 ithers blue as the sky before his orb has westered. Spotted, 
 too, are all the glorious creatures' wings — say rather, starred 
 m' constellations! Yet, sirs, they are but creatures o' 
 a day ! 
 
 North. Go on with the calm, James — the calm 1 
 
 Shepherd. Gin a pile o' grass straughtens itself in silence, 
 you hear it distinctly. I'm thinkin that was the noise o' a 
 beetle gaun to pay a visit to a freen on the ither side o' that 
 mossy stane. The melting dew quakes I Ay, sing awa, 
 my bonny bee, maist industrious o' God's creatures ! Dear 
 me, the heat is ower muckle for him ; and he burrows himsel 
 in amang a tuft o' grass, like a beetle panting! and noo 
 invisible a' but the yellow doup o' him. I too feel drowsy, 
 and will go to sleep amang the mountain solitude. 
 
 North. Not with such a show of clouds 
 
 1 Etllin—'miendinQ, attempting.
 
 CLOUD-CATHEDRAL. — PREACHING. 159 
 
 Shepherd. No ! not with such a show of clouds. A congre- 
 gation of a million might worship in that Cathedral ! What 
 a dome ! And is not that flight of steps magnificent ? My 
 imagination sees a crowd of white-robed spirits ascending to 
 the inner shrine of the temple. Hark — a bell tolls ! Yonder 
 it is, swinging to and fro, half-minute time, in its tower of 
 clouds. The great air-organ 'gins to blow its pealing anthem — 
 and the overcharged spirit falling fi'om its vision, sees nothing 
 but the pageantiy of earth's common vapours — that ere long 
 will melt in showers, or be wafted away in darker masses 
 over the distance of the sea. Of what better stuff, Mr 
 North, are made all our waking dreams? Call not thy 
 Shepherd's strain fantastic ; but look abroad over the work- 
 day world, and tell him where thou seest aught more stead- 
 fast or substantial than that cloud-cathedral, with its flight of 
 vapour- steps, and its mist towers, and its air-organ, now all 
 gone for ever, like the idle words that imaged the transitory 
 and delusive glories. 
 
 Tickler. Bravo, Shepherd, bravo ! You have nobly vindi- 
 cated the weather as a topic of conversation. What think 
 you of the Theatre — Preaching — Pohtics — Magazines and 
 Eeviews, and the threatened Millennium ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na, let me tak my breath. What think ye, Mr 
 Tickler, yoursel, o' preachin? 
 
 Tickler. No man goes to church more regularly than I do ; 
 but the people of Scotland are cruelly used by their ministers. 
 No sermon should exceed half-an-hour at the utmost. That 
 is a full allowance. 
 
 North. The congregation, if assured that the sermon would 
 stop within that period of time, would all prick up their ears, 
 and keep their eyes open dming the whole performance. But 
 when there is no security against an houi", or even an hour 
 and a half, the audience soon cease to deserve that name, and 
 the whole discourse is lost. 
 
 Tickler. Then, most ministers do drawl, or drivel, or cant 
 after a very inexcusable fashion. A moderate degree of 
 animation would carry almost any preacher through half-an- 
 hour agreeably to an audience — yet is it not true, that, gene- 
 rally speaking, eyeUds begin to fall under ten m i nutes, or 
 from that to a quarter of an hour ? Why is it thus ? 
 
 Shepherd. What yawns have I not seen in kirks! The 
 women, at least the young anes, dinna like to open their
 
 160 SLEEPING IN CHUKCH : 
 
 mouths verra wide, for it's no becoming, and they're feared 
 the lads may be glowering at them ; so they just pucker up 
 their bit Hps, draw in their breath, haud doun their heads, 
 and put up their hauns to their chafts,^ to conceal a suppressed 
 gaunt, '^ and then straughtenin themsels up, pretend to be 
 hearkenin to the practical conclusions. 
 
 Tickler. And pray, James, what business have you to be 
 making such observations during divine service ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm speakin o' ither years, Mr Tickler, and 
 human nature's the same noo as in the Ninety-eight. As for 
 the auld wives, they lay their big-bonneted heads on their 
 shouther, and fa' ower into a deep sleep at ance ; yet you'll 
 never hear a single ane among them committin a snore. I've 
 often wondered at that, for maist o' the cummers hae sonorous 
 noses when lyin beside the gudeman, and may be heard 
 through a' the house, as regular as clock- wark. 
 
 Tickler. Yes, James, the power of the mind over itself in 
 sleep is indeed inexplicable. The worthy fat old matron says 
 to herself, as her eyes are closing, " I must not snore in the 
 Idrk ; " and she snores not — at the most, a sort of snuffle. 
 How is this ? 
 
 Shepherd. Noo and then you'll see an ill-faured, pock- 
 marked, black-a-viced hizzie in the front laft, opposite the 
 poupit, wha has naething to houp frae our side o' the house, 
 openin the great muckle ugly mouth o' her, like that o' a 
 bull-trout in Tan-as Moss, as if she were ettlin to swaUow 
 the minister. 
 
 North. James — James — spare the softer sex ! 
 
 Shepherd. But the curiousest thing to observe about the 
 lasses, when they are gettin drowsy during sermon, is their 
 een. First a glazedness comes ower thena^ and the lids fa' 
 doun, and are lifted up at the rate o' about ten in the minute. 
 Then the poor creatures gie their heads a shake, and, unwillin 
 to be overcome, try to find out the verse the minister may be 
 quotin ; but a' in vain, for the himimin stillness o' the kirk 
 subdues them into sleep, and the sound o' the preacher is in 
 their lugs like that o' a waterfa'. 
 
 North. Your words, James, are like poppy and mandragora. 
 
 Shepherd. Then, a'thegither inconscious o' what they're 
 doin, they fix their glimmerin een upon your face, as if they 
 
 1 CAa/fi— jaws. 2 Qaunt — yawn.
 
 HOW INDUCED. 161 
 
 were dyin for love o' you, and keep nid-noddin upon you, 
 for great part o' ane o' the dizzen divisions o' the discourse. 
 You may gie a bit lauch at them wi' the comer o' your ee, 
 or touch their fit wi' yours aneath the table, and they'll never 
 sae much as ken you're in the same seat ; and, finally, the 
 soft rounded chin draps down towards the bonny bosom ; 
 the blue-veined violet eyehds close the twilight whose dewy 
 fall it was sae pleasant to behold ; the rose-bud lips, slightly 
 apart, reveal teeth pure as lily leaves, and the bonny innocent 
 is as sound asleep as her sister at hame in its rockin craddle. 
 
 North. My dear James, there is so much feeling in your 
 description, that, bordering though it be on the facetious, it 
 yet leaves a pleasant impression on my mind of the Sabbath- 
 service in one of our lowly Idrks. 
 
 Shepherd. Far be it frae me or mine, Mr North, to treat wi' 
 levity ony sacred subject. But gin folk wull sleep in the 
 kirk, where's the harm in saying that they do so? My ain 
 opinion is, that the mair dourly you set yoursel to listen to 
 a no verra bricht discoorse, as if you had taken an oath to 
 devour't frae stoop to roop, the mair certain sure you are o' 
 fa'in ower into a deep lang sleep. The veiTa attitude o' 
 leanin back, and stretching out your legs, and fixing your 
 een in ae direction, is a maist dangerous attitude ; and then, 
 gin the minister has ony action, — say, jookin down his head, 
 or see-sawin wi' his hauns, or leanin ower, as if he wanted 
 to speak wi' the precentor, or keepin his een fixed on the 
 roof, as if there were a hole in't lettin in the licht o' heaven, 
 — or turnin first to the ae side and then to the ither, that the 
 congregation may hae an equal share o' his front physiog- 
 nomy as weel's his side face, — or staunin bolt upright in the 
 verra middle o' th^poupit, without ever ance movin ony mair 
 than gin he were a corp set up on end by some cantrip,^ and 
 lettin out the dry, dusty moral apothegms wi' ae continued 
 and monotonous girn, — oh ! Mr North, Mr North, could even 
 an evil conscience keep awake under such soporifics, ony mair 
 than the honestest o' men, were the banns cried for the third 
 time, and he gaun to be married on the Monday morning ? 
 
 North. Yet, after all, James, I believe country congrega- 
 tions are, in general, very attentive. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, ay, sir. If twa are sleepin, ten are wauken; 
 
 ^ Cantrip — magical spell. 
 VOL. I. L
 
 162 POPULAR PREACHERS. 
 
 and I seriously think that mair than ae half o' them that's 
 sleepin enter into the spiiit o' the sermon. You see they a' 
 hear the text, and the introductory remarks, and the heads ; 
 and, fa'in asleep in a serious and solemn mood, they carry the 
 sense alang wi' them ; neither can they be said no to hear an 
 accompanying soun', so that it wadna be just fair to assert 
 that they lose the sermon they dinna listen to ; for thochts, 
 and ideas, and feehngs, keep floatin doun alang the stream o' 
 silent thocht, and when they awaken at the " Amen," their 
 minds, if no greatly instructed, hae been tranquilleezed ; they 
 join loudly in the ensuing psalm, and without remembering 
 mony o' the words, carry hame the feck^ o' the meaning o' 
 the discourse, and a' the peculiarities o' the doctrine. 
 
 North. I never heard a bad sermon in a country church in 
 my hfe. 
 
 Shepherd. Nor me neither. Oh, man, it's great nonsense a' 
 that talk about preachin that gangs on in Embro'. Sim- 
 plicity, sincerity, and earnestness, are a' I ask frae ony 
 preacher. Our duty is plain, and it requires neither great 
 genius nor great erudition to teach and enforce it. To me nae 
 mair disgusting sight than a cretur thinldn o' liimsel, and 
 the great appearance he is maldn afore his brother-worms ! 
 
 Tickler. The popular preacher has written his sermon 
 according to the rules of rhetoric, and for the sake of effect. 
 He chuckles inwardly before he delivers the blow that tells ; 
 and at the close of eveiy climax the inward man exclaims, 
 " Wliat a fine boy am I ! " 
 
 North. He dares some antagonist to the fight who has been 
 dead for a hundred years — digs up such of his bones as are 
 yet unmouldered, and erects them into a skeleton - figure 
 veiled with its cerements. There stands the champion of 
 infidelity ; and there the defender of the Faith ! Twenty to 
 one — Flesh against Bones — and at the first facer, Hmne or 
 Voltaire is grassed, and gives in. 
 
 Tickler. The pride of the presbytery is in high condition, 
 and kicks his prostrate foe till the shi'oud rings again like a 
 bag of bones. 
 
 Shepherd. Then, when the kirk scales,^ what a speerin^ o' 
 questions about the discourse ! " Oh ! wasna the doctor 
 great the day?" "Oh! Mem, wasna he beautifu' about 
 
 1 The feck — the chief part. 
 
 2 The kirk scales — the congregation disperses. ^ Speerin — asking.
 
 COUNTRY CONGREGATIONS. 163 
 
 the myiTh ?" " Will you go, Miss Katie, and hear liim speak 
 in the General Assembly?" "He seemed very much fatigued, 
 and perspired most profusely — ^he is qtiite equal to Chalmers." 
 And so the vulgar slang spreads along the streets, and renders 
 denner itsel loathsome. Is tliis, I ask, the spirit of religious 
 worship on God's holy day ? 
 
 North. No, James — a thousand times worse than the sleep- 
 ing you so beautifully described. 
 
 Shepherd. Hard-working auld men, wi' white heads, that 
 hae walked four or sax miles to the kirk, may weel close their 
 een, for a short space, during ony discourse ever delivered by 
 one of woman bom — so may their wives, whose hauns have 
 never had an idle hour during the stirring week — so may 
 their sons, who have been sowing, or reaping the harvest — 
 and so may their daughters — God bless them ! who have 
 been singing at their domestic toils, frae the earliest glint o' 
 mom to the lustre o' the evening star. But thinkna that I 
 meant to speak the exact truth when I was jokin about their 
 sleepin in the kirk. I kent whom I was talkin to, and that 
 they wouldna mistake the spirit o' my pictur. A country 
 congregation carries into the House of God heart-offerings o' 
 piety, gratefu' to Him and his angels. They go there to sing 
 his praises, and to join in prayer to his throne, and to hear 
 expounded his Holy Word. They go not thither as to a 
 theatre, to see an actor 
 
 North. Nor to compare Mr This with Dr That- 
 
 Tickler. Nor to cock the critic eye at the preacher, and 
 palaver about the sermon, as about an article in the Edinburgh 
 Review 
 
 North. Nor to assume a Sabbath-sanctity, from which their 
 week-day avocations are all abhorrent. 
 
 Shepherd. Nor to turn up the whites of their eyes to 
 Heaven, that have their natural expression only when devour- 
 ing the dust o' the earth. 
 
 Tickler. Nor to dismiss all charity from their hearts towards 
 "the sitters below" another preacher, and to look upon them 
 returning from their own church as so many lost sheep. 
 
 North. Nor to drive away home, in unpaid chariots, the 
 most pious of women, but the sulkiest of wives. 
 
 Tickler. Nor unforgetfal of the cards of yester-night, nor 
 unhopeful of the rubber of to-morrow. 
 
 Shepherd. To eat a cold denner, wi' a sour temper, and a
 
 164 TICKLER AS A PREACHER. 
 
 face that, under the gloom o' an artificial religion that owns 
 no relation wi' the heart, looks as ugly at fourty as that o' a 
 kintra- wife's at tkreescore. 
 
 North. What the deuce is the meaning of all this vitupera- 
 tion? 
 
 Shepherd. Deil tak me gin I ken. But I fin' mysel gettin 
 desperate angry at something or ither, and could abuse maist 
 onybody. Wha was't that introduced the toppic o' kirks ? 
 I'm sure it wasna me. It was you, Mr Tickler. 
 
 Tickler. Me introduce the top of kirks ? 
 
 Shepherd. Yes ; you said " What think you of the theatre 
 — preaching — politics — magazines and reviews, and the 
 threatened millennium ?" I'll swear to the verra words, as if 
 I had taen them down wi' the keelivine. 
 
 North. James, don't you think Tickler would have been an 
 admirable preacher? 
 
 Shepherd. I canna say ; but I could answer for he's being 
 a good precentor.^ 
 
 Tickler. Why not a preacher ? 
 
 Shepherd. You wadna hae been to be depended on. Your 
 discourses, like your ain figure, wad hae wanted proportion ; 
 and as for doctrine, I doubt you wad hae been heterodox. 
 Then, you wad hae been sic a queer-lookin chiel in the poupit ! 
 
 Tickler. Don't you think I would have been an admirable 
 Moderator?^ 
 
 Shepherd. You're just best as you are — a gentleman at large. 
 You're scarcely weel adapted for ony profession — except maybe 
 a fizieian. You wad hae fan'* a pulse wi' a true Esculawpian 
 solemnity ; and that face o' yours, when you look'd glum or 
 gruesome, wad hae irichtened families into fees, and held 
 patients down to sick-beds, season after season. man ! but 
 you wad hae had gran' practice. 
 
 Tickler. I could not have endured the quackery of the thing, 
 
 Ho 
 
 g- 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your tongue. There's equal quackery in 
 a' things alike. Look at a sodger — that is, an offisher — a' 
 waAdn wi' white plumes, glitterin wi' gowd, and ringin wi' 
 iron — gallopin on a grey horse, that caves* the foam frae its 
 
 1 The "precentor" in the Presbyterian service corresponds to the "clerk" 
 in the Episcopalian. 
 
 2 Moderator, or president of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. 
 •^ Fan' — felt. * Caves — tosses.
 
 PICTURE OF FOZIE TAM. 165 
 
 fiery nostrils, wi' a mane o' clouds, and a tail that flows like 
 a cataract; mustacliies about the mouth like a devourin 
 cannibal, and proud fierce een, that seem glowerin for an 
 enemy into the distant horrison — his long swurd swinging in 
 the scabbard wi' a fearsome clatter aneath Bellerophon's belly 
 — and his doup dvmsliin^ down among the spats o' a teeger's 
 skin, or that o' a leopard — till the sound o' the trumpet gangs 
 up to the sky, answered by the rampaugin Arab's "ha, ha" 
 — and a' the stopped street stares on the aid-de-camp o' the 
 stawf, — writers' clerks, bakers, butchers, and printers' deevils, 
 a' wushin they were sodgers, — and leddies firae balconies, 
 where they sit shooin silk purses in the sunshine, start up, and, 
 wi' palpitatin hearts, send looks o' love and languishment after 
 the Flyin Dragon. 
 
 North. Mercy on us, James, you are a perfect Tyrtaeus. 
 
 Shepherd. 0! wad you believ't — but it's tnie — that at 
 school that symbol o' extermination was ca'd Fozie^ Tarn? 
 
 North. Spare us, James — spare us. The pain in our side 
 returns. 
 
 Shepherd. Every callant in the class could gie him his licks ; 
 and I recollec ance a lassie geein him a bloody nose. He 
 dui-stna gang into the dookin^ aboon liis doup, for fear o' 
 drownin, and even then yn! seggs ; * and as for speehn trees, 
 he never ventured aboon the rotten branches o' a Scotch fir. 
 He was feared for ghosts, and wadna sleep in a room by him- 
 sel ; and ance on a Halloween, he swarfed at the apparition 
 o' a lowin turnip.^ But noo he's a warrior, and fought at 
 Waterloo. Yes — Fozie Tarn wears a medal, for he overthrew 
 Napoleon. Ca' ye na that quackery, wi' a vengeance ? 
 
 North. Why, James, you do not mean surely thus to 
 characterise the British soldier? 
 
 Shepherd. No. The British army, drawn up in order o' 
 battle, seems to me an earthly image of the power of the right 
 hand of God. But still what I said was true, and nae ither 
 name had he at school but Fozie Tarn. Oh, sirs ! when I see 
 what creturs like him can do, I could greet that I'm no a sodger. 
 
 Tickler. What the deuce can they do, that you or I, James, 
 cannot do as well, or better ? 
 
 1 Dunshin. There seems to be no English word for this except " bumping ;" 
 yet bow feeble ! 
 
 2 Fozie— koit as a frost-bitten turnip. ^ DooHn—hsAhmg. 
 * Seggs — sedges, ansv/ering the purpose of a cork-jacket, * A turnip Ian thorn.
 
 166 CONCERTS. 
 
 Shepherd. I wonder to hear you asHn. Let you or me 
 gang into a public room at ae door, amang a hunder bonny 
 lassies, and Fozie Tam in full uniform at anitber, and every 
 star in the firmament wiU shine on him alone — no a glint for 
 ane o' us twa — no a smile or a syllable — we can only see the 
 back o' their necks. 
 
 Tickler. And bare enough they probably are, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae great harm in that, Mr Tickler, for a bonny 
 bare neck can do naebody ill, and to me has aye rather the 
 look o' innocence — ^but maun a poet or orator 
 
 Tickler. Be neglected on account of Fozie Tam ? 
 
 Shepherd. And by mony o' the verra same creturs that at a 
 great leeterary sooper the nicht afore were sae aifable and sae 
 flatterin, askin me to receet my ain verses, and sing my ain 
 sangs, — drinkin the health o' the Author o' the Queen's Wake 
 in toddy out o' his ain tumbler — shakin hauns at partin, and 
 in the confusion at the foot o' the stairs, puttin their faces sae 
 near mine, that their sweet warm breath was maist like a 
 faint, doubtfu' kiss, dirhn^ to ane's verra heart — and after a' 
 this, and mair than this, only think o' being clean forgotten, 
 overlooked, or despised, for the sake o' Fozie Tam ! 
 
 Tickler. We may have our revenge. Wait till you find 
 him in plain clothes — on half-pay, James, or sold out — and 
 then, like Eomeo, when the play is over, and the satin 
 breeches off, he walks behind the scenes, no better than a 
 tavern- waiter, or a man- milliner's apprentice. 
 
 Shepherd. There's some comfort in that, undoubtedly. Still, 
 I wish I had been a " soldier in my youth." I wadna care 
 sae muckle about shoemakers ; but let even a tailor enHst, 
 and nae sooner has he got a feather on his head, than he can 
 whussle out the proudest lass in the village. 
 
 North. Somewhat too much of this. None of us, perhaps, 
 have had any great reason to complain — and really, at our time 
 of life 
 
 Tickler. Agreed. — You were at the Professional Concert, 
 James, t'other night, I tliink ? 
 
 Shepherd. Faith no. Catch me at a Professional Concert 
 again, and I'll gie a sooper to the haill orchestra. 
 
 Tickler. These fiddlers carry things with a very high hand 
 indeed ; and the amateurs, as they call themselves, are even 
 
 1 Dirlin — ^thrilling.
 
 EDINBCJKGH FIDDLERS. 167 
 
 more insufferable. There they go off at score, every wrist 
 wrigglin. in some wretched concerto, and the face of every 
 scraper on catgut as intent on the miscreated noise, as if not 
 only his own and liis family's subsistence depended on it, but 
 also their eternal salvation ! 
 
 Shepherd. And they ca' that music ! It may be sae to them, 
 for there's nae sayin what a man's lugs may be brought to by 
 evil education ; but look at the puir audience, and the hardest 
 heart maun pity them, for they're in great pain, and wad fain 
 be out. But that maunna be — they maun sit still there on the 
 verra same bit o' the hard bench — without spealdn or even 
 whisperin — for twa — three — four hours — the room het and 
 close — not a drap o' onything to drink — nae air but the flirt 
 o' a fan — the cursed concertos gettin louder and louder — the 
 fiddlers' faces mair intolerably impudent the stronger they 
 strum 
 
 North. Concerts are curses, certainly. The noise made at 
 them by persons on fiiddles, and other instruments, ought to 
 be put do'wn by the public. Let Yaniewicz, and Finlay Dun, 
 and Murray, play solos of various kinds — divine airs of the 
 great old masters, illustrious or obscure — airs that may lap 
 the soul in Elysium. Let them also, at times, join their 
 eloquent violins, and harmoniously discourse in a celestial 
 colloquy : they are men of taste, feeling, and genius. Let the 
 fine-eared spirits of Italy, and Germany, and Scotland, enthral 
 our • 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your tongue, Mr North, you're gettin ower 
 flowery. What I say's this — that, wi' the exception o' some 
 dizzen, ae half o' whom are mere priggish pretenders, every 
 ither leevin soul at a concert sits in a state o' sulky stupe- 
 faction. And to pay five shillings, or seven, or aiblins half a 
 guinea, for tickets to be admitted, for a long winter's nicht, 
 into purgatory — or without ofience, say at ance, into hell ! 
 
 Tickler. The fiddling junto should be kicked to the devil. Let 
 the public absent herself from such concerts, and then we may 
 have music — but not till then. The performers must be starved 
 out of their insolent self-sufficiency. Nothing else will do. 
 
 North. We deserve it. We must needs be Athenians in all 
 things ; and, in fear of being reckoned unscientific, hundreds 
 of people, not generally esteemed idiots, will crowd to a con- 
 cert, at which they know that, before they have sat half-an-
 
 168 MEASUKES FOE THEIR SUPPRESSION. 
 
 hour, they will most devoutly desire that fiddles had never 
 been found out, and the arm of every fiddler palsied beyond 
 the power of future torments. 
 
 Shepherd. Why dinna^ ye gie them a di-essin in the Maga- 
 zine? 
 
 North. Perhaps, James, they are beneath print 
 
 Shepherd. Na, na ; gie them a skelp or twa — for they're as 
 sensitive as skinned paddocks.'^ 
 
 North. I must have some talk with my friend Sandy 
 Ballantyne^ — with whom, by the by, I have not smoked a 
 cigar for some moons bygone — for he knows I love music, and 
 that I could sit from sunset to sum-ise beneath the power of 
 his matchless vioUn. But says I, my dear Sandy — My dear 
 Sandy, says I 
 
 Shepherd. You may just as weel at ance baud your tongue, 
 as to speak to him, or the like o' him, on the subject. He's 
 far ower gran' a sceeantific player to mind ae word that you 
 say; and him, and George Thamson, and George Hogarth, 
 and the lave o' the yamatoors, will just lauch at ye as an ig- 
 noramus, that kens naething o' acowstics, or the dooble-dooble 
 baiss, or Batehoven, or Mowsart, or that Carle Weber. 
 
 Tickler. I have better hopes, James. The feehng, taste, 
 knowledge of the majority must be consulted. Science must 
 not be sacrificed, for without science what would be a concert ? 
 But whenever five hundred human beings are collected in one 
 room, not for punishment but enjoyment, they are entitled, on 
 the score of their humanity, to some small portion of pleasure ; 
 and none but directors, with black hearts, will consign them 
 all up to unmitigated torments. I am confident, therefore, 
 that Mr Alexander Ballantyne 
 
 Shepherd. He'll cry " whish," if you sae much as whisper, 
 and wull rouse* to the skies thae cursed concert-chiels in the 
 orchestra coming out wi' a crash that crushes in the drums o' 
 your lugs, pierces the verra ceiling, and dumfounders the 
 understanding by a confused noise o' naethingness, frae 
 which a' sense is banished ; and that has nae mair claim to 
 be ca'd music than the routin o' ten thousand kye at Fakirk 
 Tryst. 
 
 North. It is many years, James, since I have been so much 
 
 ^ Dinna — do not. 2 Paddocks — frogs. 
 
 ^ Alexander Ballantyne, the brother of Sir Walter Scott's familiars, James 
 and John Ballantyne. * Rouse — extol.
 
 VOCAL MUSIC. 169 
 
 pleased with any one's singing as with Miss Noel's. ^ She is 
 a sweet, gentle, modest creatiu-e, and her pipe has both power 
 and pathos. 
 
 Shepherd. She's just ane o' the verra best singers I ever 
 heard in a' my life — and the proof o't is, that although an 
 EngHsh lassie, she can sing sweetly a Scottish sang. That tries 
 the heart at ance, you see, Mr North ; and unless the singer 
 be innocent and amiable, and fu' o' natui'al sensibility, such as 
 a faither wad like in his ain dochter, she needna try ane o' our 
 lyrics. Here's Miss Noel's health, and a' that's gude to her ! 
 
 North. Vocal music, James, when good, how divine ! Your 
 own fair young daughter sitting with her arm on your knee, 
 and looking up in her old father's face, while her innocent 
 lips distil sounds that melt into his yearning heart, and her 
 blue eyes fill with happy tears under the pensive charm of 
 her own melody ! 
 
 Shepherd. I canna conceive a purer happiness. man, 
 Mr North, my dear, dear sir, why dinna, why wunna ye 
 marry ? You that are sae familiar in imagination wi' the 
 haill range o' a' pawrents' thochts, and feelings. — Oh! why, 
 why sudna ye marry ? 
 
 North. James — ^look on this crutch — that slit shoe — these 
 chalk-stoned fingers — hear that short cat-cough 
 
 Shepherd. Deil the fears. Mony a young woman wad loup 
 at the offer. Ye hae that in your ee, sir, that takes a 
 woman's heart. And then. Fame, Fame, Fame, that's the 
 idol they worship upon their knees — witness the Duke o' 
 Wellington and mony ithers. 
 
 North. It would kill me quite to be refused. 
 
 Shepherd. Eefused ! There's no a woman, either maid or 
 widow, in a' Scotland, that's reached the years o' under- 
 standin, that wad refuse you. The world wad think her mad. 
 I ken mair than a dizzen, no out o' their teens yet, that's 
 dyin for you. — Isna that true, Mr Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. True ! — Ay, true as Waterton on the Cayman.*^ 
 But North is vain enough abeady of his empiiy over the fair 
 sex — too much so, indeed, I fear, ever to confine himself 
 
 1 One of the Edinburgh theatrical company, afterwards Mrs Bushe. 
 
 ^ Mr Waterton's equestrian exploits on the back of the crocodile, as nar- 
 rated by him in his "Wanderings," are not so incredible when it is con- 
 sidered that the animal had a hook through its jaws, and that half-a-dozen 
 Indians were hauling at the rope attached to it.
 
 170 NOKTH AND HIS CONFESSOR. THE LODGE. 
 
 within the narrow limits of the conjugal state. He's like the 
 air, " a chartered libertine." 
 
 Shepherd. Think shame o' yoursel, Mr Tickler. That never 
 was Mr North's character, even in lusty youth -head. Ma 
 faith, he was ower muckle o' a man. Open bosoms werena 
 the treasures he coveted — in his estimation no worth the 
 riflin. He has had, beyond a' doubt, his ain dear secret, 
 sighin, and sabbin hours, when there were nae starnies in 
 heaven, but when twa lampin een, far mair beautifu' than 
 them, were close upon him, wi' their large liquid lustre, till 
 his gazing soul ovei-ilowed with unendurable bhss. When 
 
 North. Good heavens, James, remember those secrets were 
 confided to you at the Confessional ! 
 
 Shepherd. They are safe as gin they were my ain, Mr North. 
 How's the Ludge^ looking this spring? 
 
 North. In great beauty. The garden-wall you abused so 
 three years ago is now one blush of blossoms. What you 
 called the " wee pookit shrubs," now form a balmy wilder- 
 ness, populous with bees and birds — all the gravel-walks 
 are now overshadowed with the cool dimness of perpetual 
 twilight. Ten yards off you cannot see the house — only its 
 rounded chimneys — and, indeed, on a chosen day of cloudless 
 sunshine, yet unsultry air, you might imagine yourself beneath 
 the skies of Italy, and in the neighbourhood of Eome. 
 
 Tickler. Of Modern Athens, if you please, sir. 
 
 Shepherd. Just o' Auld Eeekie, gin you like. Are the Fife 
 hens layin ? 
 
 North. Yes, James — and Tapitoury is sitting. 
 
 Shepherd. That's richt. Weel, o' a' the how-towdies I ever 
 ate, yon species is the maist truly gigantic. I could hae 
 taen my Bible-oath that they were turkeys. Then I thocht, 
 " surely they maun be capons ; " but when I howked into 
 the inside o' ane o' them, and brought out a spoonfu' o' 
 yellow eggs, frae the size o' a pepper-corn to that o' a boy's 
 bools,^ and up to the bulk o' a ba' o' thread, thinks I to mysel, 
 " sure aneuch they are hens, " and close upon the layin. 
 Maist a pity to kill them ! 
 
 North. James, you shall have a dozen eggs to set, and 
 future ages will wonder at the poultry of the Forest. Did 
 you ever see a capercailzie ? 
 
 Shepherd. Never. They have been extinct in Scotland for 
 
 1 See ante, p. 23, note. ^ Boots— md.rh\os.
 
 POULTRY. — POACHERS. 171 
 
 fifty years. But the truth is, Mr North, that all domesticated 
 fowl would live brawly if turned out into the wilds and woods. 
 They might lose in size, but they would gain in sweetness — 
 a wild sweetness — caught frae leaves and heather-berries, and 
 the products o' desert places, that are blooming like the rose. 
 A tame turkey wad be a wild ane in sax months ; and oh, sir ! 
 it wad be gran' sport to see and hear a great big bubbly-jock^ 
 gettin on the wing in a wood, wi' a loud gobble, gobble, 
 gobble, redder than ordinar in the face, and the ugly feet o' 
 him danglin aneath his heavy hinder-end, till the hail brought 
 him down with a thud and a squelch amang the astonished 
 pointers ! 
 
 North. I have not taken a game certificate this year, James. 
 Indeed 
 
 Shepherd. You're just becomin perfectly useless a'the- 
 gither, Mr North ; and then look at the Magazine — you would 
 seem no to hae taen out a game certificate there either — and 
 there are poachers on the manor. 
 
 North. I never cut up anybody nowadays — for old age, 
 James, like an intimate knowledge of the Fine Ails — '•'■Emollit 
 mores nee sinit esseferos." 
 
 Shepherd. You're far ower good-natured, Mr North; and 
 the corbies,^ thinkin there's nae gun about the house, or, at 
 least, nae pouther and lead, are beginnin to come croakin 
 close in upon the premises wi' their ugly tlirapples,^ the foul 
 carrion ! You should lay brown Bess ower the garden-dike, 
 and send the hail into their brains for them, and then hing 
 the brutes up by the heels frae a stab, wi' their bloody beaks 
 downmost, till a' the tribe keep aloof in their dark neuks fi-ae 
 the smell o' kindred corruption ; or gin you wad only gie me 
 the gun 
 
 North. Poo — poo — James — the vermin murder one another ; 
 and notliing, you know, is more common than to come upon a 
 poor emaciated dying devil in a ditch, surrounded by birds of 
 the same nest, who keep hopping about at some little distance, 
 narrowing and narrowing the circle, as the croak of the carrion 
 gets more hoarse and husky, till they close in upon the famished 
 fowl in his last blindness, making prey of a carcass that is hardly 
 worth tearing in pieces, a fleshless bundle of fetid feathers, 
 here and there bedabbled with tliin blood, changed almost 
 into water by that alchemist — Hunger. 
 1 JBit&6^^/-_;'oc^•— turkey-cock. ^ Corbies — crows. ^ Thrapple — windpipe.
 
 172 COURSING. — THE PAINS OF PRINT. 
 
 Tickler. Were the hares numerous in the Forest last season, 
 James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Just atween the twa, I gripped ahout a hunder 
 and forty wi' the grews. I never recollect them rin stronger 
 — perfec witches and warlocks. What for cam ye never 
 out? 
 
 Tickler. I have given up the sports of the field, too, James 
 —even angling itself. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, I get fonder and fonder o' grewin every 
 season. My heart loups when Poossie starts frae the rushes 
 wi' her lang hornlike lugs and cockit fud, the slut, and 
 before she sees the dowgs, keeps ganging rather leisurely up 
 the knowe — till catcliing a glimpse o' Claverse, doun drap her 
 lugs a' at ance, and laying her belly to the brae, awa she 
 flees, Claverse turning her a thousand times, till, wi' a despe- 
 rate spang, he flings himsel on her open-mouthed — a cater- 
 waulin as o' weans greetin for sook at midnight, and then a's 
 husht, and puir Poossie dead as a herring. 
 
 North. You seem melancholy, Tickler — a penny for your 
 thoughts. 
 
 Tickler. I am depressed under the weight of an unwritten 
 article. That everlasting Magazine of yours embitters my 
 existence. 0, that there were but one month in the year 
 without a Blackwood ! 
 
 Shepherd. Or rather a year in ane's life without it, that a 
 body micht hae leisure to prepare for anither warld. Hoo the 
 Numbers accumulate on the shelve o' ane's leebrary ! I begin 
 to think they breed. Then a dizzen or twa are maistly lyin 
 on the drawers-head — twice as mony mair in the neuks o' 
 rooms, up and down stairs — the servants get baud o' them in 
 the kitchen — and ye canna open the press to tak a dram, but 
 there's the face o' Geordy Buchanan.^ 
 
 Tickler. My dear Shepherd, you are a happy man in the 
 Forest, beyond the clutches and the clack of an Editor. But 
 here am I worried to death by devils, from the tenth to the 
 twentieth of every month. I wish I was dead. 
 
 Shepherd. You dinna wush ony sic thing, Mr Tickler. 
 That appeteet o' yours is worth five thousan' a-year. man ! 
 it would be a sair pity to dee wi' sic an appeteet I Tell me 
 about the Haggis-Feast. 
 
 ^ See ante, p. 27, note 2.
 
 A HAGGIS-FEAST. 173 
 
 Tickler. A dozen of us entered our Haggises for a sweep- 
 stakes — and the match was decided at worthy Mrs Fergus- 
 son's, High Street. My Haggis (they were all made, either 
 by our A\ives or cooks, at our respective places of abode) ran 
 second to Meg Dods's.^ The Director-general's (which was 
 what sporting men would have called a roarer) came in third 
 — none of the others were placed. 
 
 Shepherd. Did ony accident happen amang the Haggises ? 
 I see by yoiir face that ane at least amang the dizzen played 
 the deevil. I recollec ance the awfu'est scene wi' a Haggis, 
 in auld Mr Laidlaw's^ house. It was a great muckle big ane, 
 answeiing to Kobert Bums's description, wi' its hm-dies like 
 twa distant hills, and occupied the centre o' the table, round 
 whilk sat about a score o' lads and lasses. The auld man had 
 shut his een to ask a blessing, when some evil speerit put it 
 into my head to gie the bag a slit wi' my gully .^ Like water 
 on the brealdnib' a dam, out nished, in an instantawneous 
 overflow, the inside o' the great chieftain o' the Pudding race, 
 and the women-folk brak out into sic a shriek, that the master 
 thocht somebody had drapped down dead. Meanwhile, its 
 contents didna stop at the edge o' the table, but gaed ower 
 wi' a sclutter upon the lads' breeks and the lasses' petticoats, 
 bumin the wearers to the bane ; for what's better than a 
 haggis ? 
 
 Tickler. Nothing on this side of the grave. 
 
 Shepherd. "What a skiiiin!* And then a' the collies began 
 yelpin and youfifin, for some o' them had their tauted® hips 
 scalded, and ithers o' them couldna see for the stew that was 
 rinnin down their chafts. Glee'd*^ Shooshy Dagleish fell a' 
 her length in the thickest part o' the inundation, wi' lang 
 Tommy Potts aboon her, and we thocht they would never hae 
 foun' their feet again, for the floor was as shddery as ice — 
 and 
 
 North. Now, James, were you to write that down, and give 
 it to the world in a book, it would be called coarse. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae doubt. Everything nat'ral, and easy, and 
 true, is ca'd coorse — as I think I hae observed afore noo in 
 
 ^ Mrs Johnston, author of many excellent tales and novels, was the compiler 
 of the standard cookery-book known as Meg Dods'. 
 
 2 This Mr Laidlaw was the father of William Laidlaw, Sir Walter Scott's 
 friend and steward. ^ Gully— large pocket-knife. 
 
 * Skirlin—sknoking. * T anted— maXied.. « G/««'cZ— squinting.
 
 174 TOWN LIFE. 
 
 this verra room — and what has been the consequence o' sic 
 puling criticism ? Wishy-washy water-colours, sae faint that 
 you canna tell a tree frae a tether, or a dowg frae a soo, or a 
 fish frae a fule, or a man frae a woman. Why, Mr North, I'd 
 lay my lugs, that gin our conversation here were a' taen dotm 
 in short-hand, and prented in the Magazine, there wadna be 
 wantin puir cheepin fushionless creturs to ca't coorse. 
 
 North. Theocritus has been blamed, James, on the same 
 score. 
 
 Shepherd. The Allan Eamsay o' Sicily, as I hae heard ; 
 and the best pastoral poet o' the ancient warld. Thank God, 
 Mr North, the fresh airs o' heaven blow through your shep- 
 herd's hut, and purify it frae a' pollution. Tilings hae really 
 come to a queer pass when towns' bodies, leevin in shops and 
 cellars, and garrets and common stairs, and lanes and streets 
 that, wi' a' their fine gas lamp-posts, are pestilential wi' filth 
 and foulzie ; and infested wi' lean, mangy dowgs, ruggin out 
 stinkin banes frae the sewers ; and wi' auld wives, like 
 broken-backed witches, that are little mair than bundles o' 
 movin rags, clautin^ among the bakiefu's o' ashes; and wi' 
 squads o' routin or spewin bullies o' chiels, staggerin hame 
 frae tripe-soopers, to the distui'bance o' the flaes in their 
 yellow-tinged-lookin blankets ; and wi' anes, and twas, and 
 threes, o' what's far waur than a' these, great lang-legged, 
 tawdry, and tawpy limmers,^ standin at closes, wi' mouths 
 red wi' paint, and stinkin o' gin like the bungs o' speerit- 
 casks, when the speerit has been years in the wudd ; while 
 far and wide ower the city (I'm speakin o' the Auld Town) 
 you hear a hellish howl o' thieves and prostitutes carousin 
 on red herrings and distillery- whusky, deep down in dungeons 
 aneath the verra stanes o' the street ; and faint far-aff echoes 
 o' fechts wi' watchmen, and cries o' " mirrder, murder — fire, 
 fire" drowned in the fiercer hubbub o' curses, endin in shouts 
 o' deevilish lauchter — I say — What was I gaun to say, sir ? 
 something about the peace and pleasantness o' Mount Benger, 
 was't no ? and o' the harmless life and conversation o' us 
 shepherds amang the braes, and within the murmurs o' the 
 sheep-wasliing Yarrow. 
 
 North. I hope it was so — for that dark picture needs relief. 
 
 Shepherd. And it shaU hae rebef. Wad it no be relief to 
 rise, at Mount Benger, just a wee bit dim, dewy half-hour 
 
 1 Clautin — groping. 2 Tawpy limmers — slovenly jades.
 
 COUNTRY LIFE, 175 
 
 afore the siin ; and when a' the household were yet asleep in 
 the heaven o' mornin dreams, to dauner awa down to the 
 soTin' o' the waterfa', that ye skently see glimmerin in the 
 uncertain twihght ? 
 
 North. And so leap in upon the Naiad before she has 
 braided her tresses, or arranged the cerulean folds of her 
 flowing cymar. 
 
 Shepherd. Wad it no be relief to see green glittering 
 Natiure becoming distincter and distincter, far and wide ower 
 the vale and braes, and hills and mountains, till, ere you 
 can finish the unpremeditated prayer that God's beautiful 
 creation has breathed into your heart — Earth and Heaven 
 are in broad dayhgbt, and, solenm thocht ! anither morning 
 is added to the span of man's moital years ? 
 
 Tickler. " rus ! " 
 
 Shepherd. A! the larks are awa up wi' their sangs to 
 heaven — a' the linties are low down in the broom wi' theirs 
 — sic is the variety o' instinct amang the bonny creturs that 
 live in nests ! And the trouts are loupin in the water, and 
 the lambs are riimin races on the braes, and gin I were there 
 to see, perhaps the wild swan is amang the water-lilies of St 
 Mary's Loch, or say rather the Loch o' the Lowes, for that is 
 a lonelier water, and farther up amang the shadows o' the hills. 
 
 North. A morning landscape, by Claude Lon-aine ! 
 
 Shepherd. Eetmnin back hame, the wife and weans are a' 
 at the door, — and isna my wee Jamie ^ a fine fallow, wi' his 
 hcht-blue cunnin een, and that bashfa' lovin lauch, when he 
 sees his father — and that saft and low forest voice, that gars 
 me, every time I see the blessed face o' him, thank God for his 
 goodness, and my heart overflow wi' what is smrely happiness, 
 if there be sic a thing as happiness on this inexplicable earth ? 
 
 Tickler. Here's your fireside, James — your porch — the roof- 
 tree. North, fill a bumper. [Three times three.) 
 
 North. You once were so good as to flatter me by saying, 
 that I ought to go into Parhament. Now, James, if you wish 
 it, I wdll bring you in. 
 
 Shepherd. I haena the least ambition. Sae far frae envyin 
 the glory o' the orators in that House, I wadna swap ane o' 
 my ain bit wee sangs wi' the langest-wunded speech that has 
 been "hear'd, hear'd," this Session. 
 
 Tickler. James, let us have Meg of Marley. 
 
 ^ Hogg's eldest son.
 
 176 THE shepherd's SONG. 
 
 MEG O' MARLEY.^ 
 1. 
 
 ken ye Meg o' Marley glen, 
 
 The bonny blue-ee'd deary '? 
 She's play'd the deil amang the men, 
 
 An' a' the land's gi-own eiry ; 
 She's stown the Bangor^ frae the clerk, 
 
 An' snool'd * him wi' the shame o't ; 
 The minister's fa' en through the text, 
 
 An' Meg gets a' the blame o't. 
 
 2. 
 The plowman plows without the sock. 
 
 The goadman whistles sparely, 
 The shepherd pines amang his flock, 
 
 An' turns his ee to Marley ; 
 The tailor's fa' en outower the bed. 
 
 The cobbler ca's a parley, 
 The weaver's fa' en out through the web ; 
 
 An' a' for Meg o' Marley. 
 
 3. 
 
 What's to be done ? for our goodman 
 
 Is flyting late and early ; 
 He rises but to curse an' ban, 
 
 An' sits down but to ferly.* 
 But ne'er had love a brighter low, 
 
 O light his torches warly, 
 At the bright ee an' blithesome brow 
 
 Of bonny Meg o' Marley. 
 
 North. A simple matter — but well worth Joseph, Hume's 
 four hours' speech, and forty-seven resolutions. 
 
 [Clock strikes ten — -folding- doors fly open, and the Tria 
 Lumina Scotorum sit down to supper. 
 
 1 Written by Hogg. 
 
 2 " Bangor" is the name of a tune, which Meg is here represented to have 
 itown (stolen) from the clerk in the sense that he fell through it at sight of her 
 beauty, as the minister, in the next two lines, is said to have fallen through the 
 text. This tune is thus alluded to by Bums : — 
 
 " Mak haste au' turn King David ower, 
 An' lilt wi' holy clungor; 
 C double verse conie gie us four, 
 An' skirl up the Bangor." — Tl^e Ordination. 
 
 3 Snooted — cowed. * Toferly — to wonder.
 
 VIII. 
 
 (JULY 1826.) 
 
 Scene, — Buchanan Lodge — Porch. Time, — Afternoon. 
 North, Tickler, Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. What a changed warld, sirs, since that April 
 forenoon we dnive doun to the Lodge in a cotch ? I couldna 
 but pity the pxiir Spring. 
 
 Tickler. Not a piimrose to salute his feet that shivered in 
 the snow-wi'eath. 
 
 North. Not a lark to hymn his advent in the uncertain 
 sunshine. 
 
 Shepherd. No a bit butterflee on its silent waver, meeting 
 the murmur of the straightforward bee. 
 
 Tickler. In vain Spring sought his Flora, in haunts beloved 
 of old, on the banks of the shaded rivulet 
 
 North. Or in nooks among the rocky mountains 
 
 Shepherd. Or oases among the heather 
 
 Tickler. Or parterres of grove-guarded gardens 
 
 North. Or within the shadow of veranda 
 
 Shepherd. Or forest glade, where move the antlers of the 
 unhunted red-deer. — In siccan bonny spats hae I often seen 
 the Spring, like a doubtfii' glimmer o' sunshine, appearing 
 and disappearing frae amang the bii'k-trees, twenty times in 
 the course o' an April day — But, oh! sirs, yon was just a 
 maist detestable forenoon, — and as for the hackney-cotch 
 
 Tickler. The meanest of miseries ! 
 
 Shepherd. It's waur than sleepin in damp sheets. You 
 haena sat twa hunder yards till your breeks are glued to the 
 clammy seat, that fin's' saft and hard aneath you, at ane and 
 
 ^ Fin'i — feels. 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 SHEPHERD ON HACKNEY COACHES. 
 
 tlie same time, in a maist unaccountable manner. The auld, 
 cracked, stained, faded, tarnished, red leather lining stinks 
 like a tan-yard. Gin you want to let down the window, or 
 pu't up, it's a' alike ; you keep rugging at the lang slobbery 
 worsted till it comes aff wi' a tear in your haun, and leaves 
 you at the mercy o' wind and weather, — then what a sharp 
 and continual rattle o' wheels ! far waur than a cart ; intoler- 
 able aneuoh ower the macadam, but. Lord hae mercy on us, 
 when you're on the causeway ! you could swear the wheels 
 are o' diiferent sizes ; up wi' the tae side, doun wi' the tither, 
 sae that nae man can be sufficiently sober to keep his balance. 
 Puch ! puch ! what dung-like straw aneath your soles ; and 
 as for the roof, sae laigh, that you carma keep on your hat, or 
 it'll be dunshed down atower your ee-brees ; then, if there's 
 sax or eight o' you in ae fare^ 
 
 Tickler. Why don't you keep your own carriage, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. So I do — a gig ; but when I happen to forgather 
 wi' sic scrubs as you, that grudge the expense o' a yeckipage 
 o' their ain, I maun submit to a glass-cotch and a' its abomi- 
 nations. 
 
 North. How do you like that punch, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. It's rather ower sair iced, I jalouse, and will be 
 apt to gie ane the toothache ; but it has a gran' taste, and a 
 maist seducin smell — Oh ! man, that's a bonny ladle ! and 
 you hae a nice way o' steerin ! Only half-fu', if you please, 
 sir, for thae wine-glasses are perfec tummlers, and though the 
 drink seems to be, when you are preein't, as innocent as the 
 dew o' lauchin lassie's lip, yet it's just as dangerous, and leads 
 insensibly on, by littles and wees, to a state o' unconscious 
 intoxication. 
 
 Tickler. I never saw you the worse o' liquor in my life, 
 James, 
 
 Shepherd. Nor me you. 
 
 North. None but your sober men ever get drunk. 
 
 Shepherd. I've observed that many a thousan' times ; just 
 as nane but your excessively healthy men ever die. Whene'er 
 I hear in the kintra o' ony man's being killed aff liis horse, I 
 ken at ance that he's a sober coof, that's been gettin himsel 
 drunk at Selkirk or Hawick, and sweein alF at a sharp turn 
 
 ^ This is a faithful description of the old hackney-coach — a very different 
 vehicle from the smart broughams which now ply upon our streets.
 
 THE INEBRIETY OF THE SOBER. 179 
 
 ower tlie bank, he lias played wallop into the water, or is 
 aiblins been fan' Ijin in the middle o' the road, wi' his neck 
 dislocate, the doctors canna tell hoo ; or ayont the wa' wi' his 
 hams^ stickin on the coupin-stane. 
 
 North. Or foot in stirrup, and face trailing the pebbly mire, 
 swept homewards by a spanking half-bred, and disentangled 
 at the door by shriek and candle-light. 
 
 Shepherd. Had he been in the habit o' takin his glass like 
 a Christian, he wad hae ridden like a Centaur ; and instead 
 o' havin been brought hame a corp, he \^^lld hae been 
 staggerin geyan steady into the parlour, wi' a' the weans 
 ruggin at his pouches for fairins,^ and his wife haK angry, 
 half pleased, helping him tidily and tenderly aff wi' his big 
 boots ; and then by-and-by mixing him the bowster cup — 
 and then 
 
 Tickler. Your sober man, on every public occasion of 
 festivity, is uniformly seen, soon after " the Duke of York 
 and the Army," led off between two waiters, with his face as 
 white as the table-cloth, eyes upwards, and a ghastly smile 
 about his gaping mouth, that seems to threaten unutterable 
 things before he reach the lobby. 
 
 North. He turns round his head at the " three times three," 
 with a loyal hiccup, and is borne off a speechless martyr to 
 the cause of the Hanoverian Succession. 
 
 Shepherd. I wad rather get fou five hunder times in an 
 ordinar way hke, than ance to expose mysel sae afore my 
 fellow-citizens. Yet, meet my gentleman next forenoon in 
 the ParHament House, or in a bookseller's shop, or in Princes 
 Street, arm-in-arm wi' a minister, and he bauds up his face 
 as if naething had happened, speaks o' the pleasant party, 
 expresses his regret at having been obliged to leave it so 
 soon, at the call of a cKent, and, ten to ane, denounces you to 
 his cronies for a dninkard, who exposes himself in company, 
 and is getting constantly into scrapes that promise a fatal 
 termination. 
 
 North. Hush ! The minstrels ! 
 
 Shepherd. Maist delightfu' music ! 0, sir, hoo it sweetens, 
 and strengthens, and merrifies as it comes up the avenue ! 
 Are they Foreigners ? 
 
 North. An itinerant family of Savoyards. 
 
 ^ Harris — brains. ^ Fairins — presents.
 
 180 A PARTY OF MINSTRELS. 
 
 Shepherd. Look at them — Look at them ! What an out- 
 landish, toosy-headed, wee sunbrunt deevil o' a lassie that, 
 playin her antics, heel and head, wi' the tambourine. Yen's 
 a darHn wi' her thoom coquet-coquettin on the guitaiir, and 
 makin music without kennin't — a' the while she is curtshyin, 
 and singin wi' lauchin rosy mouth, and then blushin because 
 we're glowering on her, and lettin fa' her big black een on 
 the grun', as if a body were askin for a kiss ! That maun be 
 her younger sister, as dark as a gypsey, that hafflins lassie wi' 
 the buddin breast, her that's tinklin on the triangle that surely 
 maun be o' silver, sae dewy sweet the soun' I Safe us, only 
 look at the auld man and his wife ! There's mony a comical 
 auld woman in Scotland, especially in the Heelans, but I 
 never saw the match o' that ane. She maun be mony hunder 
 year auld, and yet her petticoats as short as a playactress 
 dancin on the stage. Gude legs too — thin ankles, and a thick 
 calve — girl, wife, and witch a' in ane, and only tliink o't, — 
 playin on a base drum ! Savyaurds ! It'll be a mountainous 
 kintra theirs — for sic a lang-backed, short-thee'd, sinewy 
 and muscular, hap-and-stap-jump o' a bouncin body as that 
 man o' hers, wi' the swarthy face and head harlequinaddin 
 ou the Pan's-pipes, could never hae been bred and born on a 
 flat But whish — whish — they're beginning to play some- 
 thing pathetic ! 
 
 Tickler. Music is the universal language. 
 
 Shepherd. It's a lament that the puir wandering creturs are 
 singing and playin about their native land. I wush I may 
 hae ony change in my pocket 
 
 Tickler. They are as happy in their own way as we are in 
 ours, my dear James. May they find their mountain cottage 
 unharmed by wind or weather on their return, and let us join 
 our little subscription — 
 
 Shepherd. There's a five-shillin crown-piece for mine. 
 
 North. And mine. 
 
 Tickler. And mine. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll gie't to them. — [Shepherd leaps out.) — There, 
 my bonny bloomin brunette wi' the raven hair, that are just 
 perfectly beautifu', wanderin wi' your melody hameless but 
 happy, and may nae hand untie its snood till your bridal 
 night in the hut on the hill, when the evening marriage 
 dance and song are hushed and silent, and love and innocence
 
 SHEPHERD SmGS. 181 
 
 in their lawfu' delight lie in each other's arms — If your 
 sweetheart's a shepherd, so am I 
 
 Tickler. Hallo, Hogg — no whispering. Here, give each 
 of them a tumbler of punch, and God be with the joyous 
 Savoyards. 
 
 Shepherd. Did you see, sirs, hoo desperate thirsty they a' 
 ■were — nae wonner, singin frae mom to night a' up and doun 
 the dusty streets and squares. Yet they askt for naething, 
 contented creturs ! — Hear till them singin awa doun the 
 avenue "God save the King," in compliment to us and our 
 countiy. A weel-timed interlude tliis, Mr North, and it has 
 putten me in a gran' mood for a sang. 
 
 North and Tickler. A song — a song — a song ! 
 
 ( Shepherd sings. ) 
 
 MY BONNY MARY.^ 
 
 Where Yarrow rows among the rocks, 
 
 An' wheels an' boils in mony a linn, 
 A blithe young shepherd fed his flocks, 
 
 Unused to branglement or din. 
 But Love its silken net had thrown 
 
 Around his breast so brisk an' airy, 
 And his blue eyes wi' moistiu-e shone, 
 
 As thus he sung of bonny Mary. 
 
 " O Mary, thou'rt sae mild an' sweet, 
 
 My very being clings about thee, 
 Tliis heart wad i-ather cease to beat, 
 
 Than beat a lonely thing without thee. 
 I see thee in the evening beam, 
 
 A radiant glorious apparition ; 
 I see thee in the midnight dream, 
 
 By the dim light of heavenly vision. 
 
 "When over Benger's haughty head 
 
 The morning breaks in streaks sae bonny, 
 I climb the mountain's velvet side. 
 
 For quiet rest I get nae ony. 
 How sweet the brow on Brownhill cheek, 
 
 Where many a weary hour I tarry ! 
 For there I see the twisted reek 
 
 Eise frae the cot where dwells my Mary. 
 
 1 By Hogg.
 
 182 SHEPHERD SINGS. 
 
 " When Phcsbus mounts outower the muir, 
 
 His gowden locks a' streaming gaily, 
 AVlien morn has breathed its fragrance pm-e, 
 
 An' life, an' joy, ring through the valley, 
 I drive my flocks to yonder brook, 
 
 The feeble in my arms I carry. 
 Then every lammie's harmless look 
 
 Brings to my mind my bonny Mary. 
 
 " Oft has the lark sung o'er my head, 
 
 And shook the dew-draps frae her wing. 
 Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed, 
 
 And round their shepherd form'd a ring. 
 Their looks condole the lee-lang day. 
 
 While mine are fixed an' canna vary, 
 Aye turning down the westlan brae, 
 
 Where dwells my loved, my bonny Mai-y. 
 
 " When gloaming o'er the welkin steals, 
 
 And haps^ the hills in solemn grey, 
 And bitterns, in their airy wheels. 
 
 Amuse the wanderer on his way ; 
 Eegardless of the wind or rain. 
 
 With cautious step and prospect wary, 
 I often trace the lonely glen, 
 
 To steal a sight o' bonny Mary. 
 
 " When midnight draws her curtain deep, 
 
 And lays the breeze aroang the bushes. 
 And Yarrow, in her sounding sweep, 
 
 By rocks and rains raves and rushes ; 
 Then, sunk in short and restless sleep. 
 
 My fancy wings her flight so airy. 
 To where sweet guardian spirits keep 
 
 Their watch around the couch of Mary. 
 
 " The exile may forget his home, 
 
 Where blooming youth to manhood grev;, 
 The bee forget the honeycomb, 
 
 Nor with the spring his toil renew ; 
 The sun may lose his light and heat, 
 
 The planets in their rounds miscarry, 
 But my fond heart shall cease to beat 
 
 When I forget my bonny Mary." 
 
 Tickler. Equal to anything of Burns'. 
 
 North. Not a better in all George Thomson's collection. 
 
 1 Haps — wraps.
 
 THE EEV. C^SAR MALAN. 183 
 
 Thank ye, James — God bless you, James — give me your 
 hand — you're a most admirable fellow — and there's no end to 
 your genius. 
 
 Shepherd. A man may be sair mistaen about mony things 
 — such as yepics, and tragedies, and tales, and even lang-set 
 elegies about the death o' great public characters, and hymns, 
 and odds, and the like — but he canna be mistaen about a 
 sang. As soon's it's doun on the sclate, I ken whether it's 
 gude, bad, or middlin — if ony o' the twa last, I dight it out 
 wi' my elbow — if the first, I copy't ower into write, and then 
 get it aff by heart, when it's as sure o' no being lost as if it 
 were engraven on a brass-plate ; for though I hae a trea- 
 cherous memory about things in ordinar, a' my happy sangs 
 will cleave to my heart till my dying day, and I shouldna 
 wonder gin I was to croon a verse or twa frae some o' them 
 on my death-bed. 
 
 North. Once more we thank you, my dear James. There, 
 the chill is quite gone — and I think I have been almost 
 as happy in this bowl as you have been in your inimitable 
 lyric. 
 
 Tickler. What think you, Kit, of the Eev. Caesar Malan?^ 
 
 North. What think you, Timothy, of his audience ? 
 
 Shepherd. A French sermon in a chapel in Eose Street o' 
 Embro' for purchasing the freedom o' a black wench in the 
 West Indies ! He maun hae been a man o' genius that first 
 started the idea, for it's a'thegither out o' the ordinary course 
 o' nature. Was you there, Mr Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. I was. But you will pardon me, James, when I 
 tell you how it happened. I was going to order a cheese at 
 Mrs M'Alpine's shop, when I found myself unexpectedly 
 walking in a hurried procession. Being in a somewhat 
 passive mood, for the cheese had been a mere passing thought, 
 I sailed along with the stream, and ere long found myself 
 sitting in a pew between two very good-looking middle-aged 
 women, in Dunstable bonnets, streaming with ribbons, and 
 tastily enveloped in half-withdrawn green veils, that on 
 either side descended to my shoulder. 
 
 Shepherd. Mr North, did you ever ken ony chiel fa' on his 
 feet at a' times like Mr Tickler ? He never gangs out to 
 walk in the Meadows, or doun to Leith, or romi' the Calton, 
 or up Arthur's Seat, or out-by yonder to Duddistone, but he 
 
 1 An eminent clergyman of Geneva.
 
 184 TICKF.ER DRAWN INTO THE VORTEX, 
 
 is sure to forgatlier, as if by appointment, wi' some bonny 
 leddy, wha cleeks his arm wi' little pressin, and then walks 
 off wi' him, looking up and laugliing sae sweetly in his face, 
 and taldn half-a-dizzen wee bit triflin fairy steps to ane o' 
 his lang strides, tUl they disappear ayont the horizon. 
 
 North. But let us hear about Caesar Malan and the negro 
 wench. 
 
 Shepherd. It's the same way wi' him in the kintra — at kirk 
 or market. The women-folk a' crowd round him like fasci- 
 nated creatures 
 
 North. Whom are you speaking of, James ? — the Eev. Cesar 
 Malan ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na, na — the Eev. Timothy Tickler, wha'll preach 
 a better sermon than ony Genevese Frenchman that ever 
 snivelled. 
 
 Tickler. Caesar, to my astonishment, began to speak French, 
 and then I remembered the advertisement. I whispered to the 
 Dunstable Dianas, that they must be my interpreters — but 
 they confessed themselves ignorant of the Gallic tongue. 
 
 Shepherd. No ane in ten, ay twenty — forty — were able to 
 make him out, tak my word for't. It's a very different thing 
 parleyvouing about the weather, and following out a discourse 
 frae the poupit in a strange tongue. But I'm thinking Mr 
 Malan '11 be a gude-looking fallow, wi' a heigh nose and gleg 
 een, and a saft insinuatin manner 
 
 Tickler. A gentlemanly-looking man enough, James, and 
 even something of an orator, though rather wishy-washy. 
 
 Shepherd. And then, och, och ! the shamefu' absurdity o' 
 the subjec ! Thousan's and thousan's o' our ain wliite brithers 
 and sisters literally starving in every manufacturin toun in 
 Scotland, and a Frenchman o' the name o' C»sar coUeckin 
 plate fu's o' siller, I'se warrant, to be sent aff to the Wast 
 Indies, to buy an abstract idea for an ugly black wench, wha 
 suckles her weans outower her shouther ! 
 
 North. Why, James, that is the custom of the country. 
 
 Shepherd. And an ugly custom it is, and maist disgustfu' ; 
 at least when you compare't wi' the bosoms o' our ain nxursing 
 matrons. 
 
 North. An odd reason, James, for charity 
 
 Shepherd. Nae odd reason at a', Mr North. I mainteen, 
 that at the present creesis, when thousands o' bonny white
 
 Coleridge's six months' visit. 185 
 
 callans are lining the roses out o' tlieir cheeks for verra 
 hunger — and thousands o' growin lasses sittin disconsolate 
 wi' Games sae trig in their silken hair, although they hae been 
 obliged to seU their claes to buy bread for their parents — and 
 thousands o' married women, that greet when they look on 
 their unemployed and starving husbands — I mainteen, Mr 
 North, that under such affecting, distressing circumstances 
 o' our ain hame-condition, the he, or the she, or the it, that 
 troubles their head about Wast India Niggers, and gangs to 
 glower like a gawpus at a Gallic g-uU-grupper goUaring out 
 geggery about some gruesome black doudy — stinking amang 
 her piccaninnies 
 
 Tickler. I plead guilty, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Were there nae white slaves, sir, about the door- 
 cheek, haudin out their hauns for an awmous ? Nae sickly 
 auld widows, wi' baskets aneath their arms, pretendiu to be 
 selling tape, and tliread, and chap ballads or religious tracts, 
 but, in truth, appealin %\i' silent looks to the charity o' the in- 
 goers and outcomers, a' gossipin about the Eev. Mr Caesar 
 Malan ? 
 
 North. What ! are there slaves in Scotland, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay — ae half o' mankind, sir, are slaves a' ower 
 the face o' the earth. I'm no gaun to blether about the Wast 
 Indian question to a man like you, Mr North, wha kens a' the 
 ins and the outs o't, better than ony abolitionist that ever sacri- 
 ficed the sincerity o' his soiil at the shrine o' East Indian 
 sugar. 
 
 Tickler. Hear — ^hear — ^hear. — Encore — " The shrine o' East 
 Indian sugar ! " 
 
 North. Speaking of the West India question, there is a 
 great deal too much impertinence in Mr Coleridge's Six Months' 
 Visit.^ An old man like myself may with some difficulty be 
 excused for occasionally drivelling about his rheumatism, all 
 the world knowing his martyrdom ; but who can endure this 
 conceited mannikin, apparently because he is the nephew of a 
 bishop, prating, in print, of his bodily infirmities, in a style 
 that might sicken a horse or an apothecaiy ? 
 
 Tickler. Scotch and English puppies make a striking con- 
 trast. The Scotch puppy sports philosophical, and sets to 
 
 1 Six MontM Visit to the West Indies. By Henry Coleridge, a nephew of 
 S. T. Coleridge.
 
 186 SCOTCH AND ENGLISH PUPPIES. 
 
 rights Locke, Smith, Stewart, and Eeid. In his minority he 
 is as solemn as a major of two-score — sits at table, even dur- 
 ing dinner, with an argumentative face, and in a logical posi- 
 tion — and gives out liis sentences deliberately, as if he were 
 making a payment in sovereigns. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, man, how I do hate sic formal young chiels — 
 reason, reason, reasoning on things that you maun see whether 
 you will or no, even gin you were to shut your een wi' a' yotir 
 force, and then cover them wi' a bandage — chiels that are 
 employed frae morning to nicht collecldn facks out o' books, 
 in that dark, dirty dungeon the Advocates' Leebrary, and 
 that'll no hesitate, wi' a breach o' a' gude manners, to correct 
 your verra chronology when you're in the middle o' a story 
 that may hae happened equally weel ony day frae the flood to 
 the last judgment — chiels that quote Mr Jeffrey and Hairy 
 Cobrun, and even on their first introduction to Englishers, 
 keep up a clatter about the Ooter-House — chiels that think it 
 a great maitter to spoot aff by heart an oraution on the com 
 laws, in that puir puckit Gogotha, the Speculative Society, 
 and treat you, ower the nits and prunes, wi' skreeds o' College 
 Essays on Syllogism, and what's ca'd the Association o' Ideas 
 — chiels that would rather be a Judge o' the Court o' Session 
 that the Great Khan o' Tartary himsel — and look prouder, when 
 taking their forenoon's airing, alang Princes Street, on a bit 
 shachlin^ ewe-necked powney, coft frae a sportin flesher, than 
 Saladin, at the head of ten thousand chosen chivalry, shaking 
 the desert — chiels 
 
 North. Stop, James — just look at Tickler catching flies. 
 
 Shepherd. Sound asleep, as I'm a Contributor. Oh ! man — 
 I wush we had a saut herring to put intil the mooth o' him, 
 or a burned cork to gie him mistasliies, or a string o' ingans 
 to fasten to the nape o' his neck by way o' a pigtail, or 
 
 North. Shamming Abraham. 
 
 Shepherd. Na — he's in a sort o' dwam — and nae wonner, 
 for the Lodge is just a verra Castle o' Indolence. Thae broad 
 vine-leaves hingin in the veranda in the breathless heat, or 
 stirrin when the breeze sughs by, like water-lilies trembhn 
 in the swell o' the blue loch-water, inspire a di-eamin somno- 
 lency that the maist waukrife^ canna a'thegither resist ; and 
 the bonny twilight, chequering the stane floor a' round 
 
 ' Shachlin — shuffling. 2 Waulcrife — watchful.
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE SIX MONTHS' VISIT. 187 
 
 and round the shady Lodge, keeps the thochts confined within 
 its glimmerin bonndaries, till every cause o' disturbance is 
 afar off, and the life o' man gets tranquil as a wean's rest in 
 its cradle, or amang the gowans on a sunny knowe ; sae let 
 us speak lown and no wauken him, for he's buried in the um- 
 brage o' imagination, and weel ken I what a heavenly thing 
 it is to soom doun the silent stream o' that haunted world. 
 
 North. What say you to that smile on his face, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. It's a gey wicked ane — I'm thinkin he's after 
 some mischief, I'll put this raisin-stalk up his nose. Mercy 
 on us, what a sneeze ! 
 
 Tickler [starting and looking round). Ha ! Hogg, my dear 
 fellow, how are you ? Soft — soft — I have it — why that hotch- 
 potch, and that afternoon sun But — but — what of Master 
 
 Coleridge, is he a Prig ? 
 
 North. Besides the counterfeited impertinence of my rheu- 
 matism, he treats the ladies and gentlemen who peruse his 
 Six Months' Visit with eternal assurances that he is a young 
 man — that his stomach is often out of order — and that he 
 always travels with a medicine-chest — and that he is a very 
 sweaty young gentleman. 
 
 Shepherd. That's really a disgustfu' specie o' yegotism. 
 But is't true ? 
 
 North. May I request you, James, to get me the volume. 
 That's it beside Juno — 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding bitch, 
 That -wTeathes her old fantastic tail so low. 
 
 Shepherd. Nine and saxpence for a bit volumm like that, 
 and a' about the state o' the author's stomach and bowels ! 
 But let's hear some extracks. 
 
 North. " I was steamed by one, showered by another, just 
 escaped needling by a third, and was nearly boiled to the 
 consistency of a pudding for the love of an oblong gentleman 
 of Ireland," &c. 
 
 Shepherd. That's gey an stupid, but excusable aneuch wut 
 in a verra young lad. Anither extrack. 
 
 North. " I went simply and sheerly on my own account, or 
 rather on account of the aforesaid rheumatism ; for as every 
 other sort of chemical action had failed, I was willing to try if 
 fusion would succeed." — " If Yorick had written after me, he
 
 188 SENTENCE PASSED UPON IT. 
 
 would have mentioned the Eheumatic Traveller." — " This book 
 is rheumatism from beginning to end." — "I rarely argue a 
 matter unless my shoulders or knees ache." — " I trust they 
 will think it is my rheumatism that chides." — 
 
 Shepherd. I'm afraid that's geyan puppyish ; but stUl, as 
 I said before, I can excuse a laddie anxious to be enterteenin. 
 Anither extrack. 
 
 North. " I sat bolt upright, and for some time contemplated, 
 by the glimmering of the lantern, the huge disarray of my 
 pretty den. I fished for my clothes, but they were bathing ; 
 I essayed to rise, but I could find no resting-place for the sole 
 of a rheumatic foot." 
 
 Tickler. Curse the whelp ! — fling the book over the 
 laburnums. 
 
 North. There it goes. Go where he will — do what he will 
 — Master Coleridge is perpetually perspiring during his whole 
 Six Months' Visit to the West Indies. He must have been 
 very unpleasant company — especially as he was a vale- 
 tudinarian. Had he been in fine fresh health, it might have 
 passed ; but what a nuisance a cabin passenger with the 
 sallow and the sweating sickness ! 
 
 Shepherd. Is he dead noo ? 
 
 North. Not at all. 
 
 Shepherd. That's maist inexcusable. 
 
 North. He tells the world upwards of fifty times that he 
 was at Eton — and 
 
 Tickler. What the devil is the meaning of all this bothera- 
 tion about the Diary of an Invalid ? Let the puppy keep his 
 own kennel. 
 
 North. I believe my temper was a little ruffled just now by 
 the recollection of an article in the Quarterly Review^^ of which 
 this poor prig's performance was the text-book. All the quota- 
 tions were most loathsome. Fowell Buxton'^ is no great witch, 
 but he has more sense, and knowledge too, in his little finger 
 than this most perspiring young genius has in all his cranium. 
 The Six Months^ Visit should have been a book of Colburn's. 
 
 Tickler. Colburn has pubHshed many valuable, interesting, 
 
 1 No. Lxvi., for March 1826, p. 490. 
 
 2 Afterwards Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, sometime member of Parliament, 
 and a zealous advocate for the abolition of slavery in our West Indian colonies. 
 He died in 1845.
 
 colburn's puffery. 189 
 
 and successful books, within these few years, and I wish him 
 that success in his trade which his enterprising spirit deserves. 
 
 North. So do I, and here's " The Trade," ^ if you please, in 
 a bumper. 
 
 Shepherd. The Tread— The Tread— The Tread— Hurraw— 
 hurraw — hurraw ! 
 
 North. But if he persists in that shameful and shameless 
 puffery, which he has too long practised, the public vdW turn 
 away with nausea from every volume that issues from his 
 shop ; and men of genius, scorning to submit their works to the 
 pollution of his unprincipled paragraph-mongers, will shun a 
 publisher who, contrary to liis natural sense and honour, has 
 been betrayed into a system that, were it to become general, 
 would sink the literary character into deep degradation, till 
 the name " Author " would become a byword of reproach and 
 insult, and the mere suspicion of having written a book be 
 sufficient ground for expulsion from the society of gentlemen. 
 
 Tickler. Colburn, James, must have sent puffs of Vivian 
 Grey'^ to all the newspapers, fastening the authorship on vari- 
 ous gentlemen, either by name or inuendo ; thus attacliing an 
 interest to the book, at the sacrifice of the feelings of those 
 gentlemen, and, I may add, the feelings of his own conscience. 
 The foohsh part of the public thus set agoing after Vivian 
 Grey^ for example, puff after p)uff continues to excite fading 
 cmiosity ; and Colburn, knowing all the while that the writer 
 is an obscure person, for whom nobody cares a straw, chuckles 
 over the temporary sale, and sees the names of distinguished 
 writers opprobriously bandied about by the blackguards of the 
 press, indifferent to eveiything but the " Monish " which he is 
 thus enabled to scrape together from defrauded purchasers, who, 
 on the faith of puff and paragraph, believed the paltry catch- 
 penny to be from the pen of a man of genius and acliievement. 
 
 North. As far as I know, he is the only publisher guilty of 
 this crime, and, 
 
 " If old judgments hold their sacred course," 
 
 there will come a day of punishment. 
 
 Tickler. Among the many useful discoveries of this age, 
 
 1 The Book-trade is the trade par excellence. 
 
 3 Vivian Grey was the juvenile production of the Right Honourable Benja- 
 min Disraeli; Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1S52.
 
 190 PROSE-POETRY ADVOCATED. 
 
 none more so, my dear Hogg, than that poets are a set of 
 very absm-d inliabitants of this earth. The simple fact of 
 their presuming to have a language of their own, should have 
 dished them centimes ago. A pretty kind of language to be 
 sure it was ; and, conscious themselves of its absurdity, they 
 pabned it upon the Muses, and justified their own use of it on 
 the plea of inspiration ! 
 
 North. Till, in course of time, an honest man of the name 
 of Wordsworth was born, who had too much integrity to sub- 
 mit to the law of their lingo, and, to the anger and astonish- 
 ment of the order, began to speak in good, sound, sober, 
 intelligible prose. Then was a revolution. All who adhered 
 to the ancient regime became in a few years utterly incom- 
 prehensible, and were coughed down by the pubHc. On the 
 other hand, all those who adopted the new theory observed 
 that they were merely accommodating themselves to the 
 language of their brethren of mankind. 
 
 Tickler. Then the pig came snorting out of the poke, and 
 it appeared that no such tiling as poetry, essentially distinct 
 from prose, could exist. True, that there are still some old 
 women and children who rhyme ; but the breed will soon be 
 extinct, and a poet in Scotland be as scarce as a capercailzie. 
 
 North. Since the extinction, therefore, of English poetry, 
 there has been a wide extension of the legitimate province of 
 prose. People who have got any genius find that they may 
 traverse it as they will, on foot, on horseback, or in chariot. 
 
 Tickler. A Pegasus with wings always seemed to me a silly 
 and inefficient quadruped. A horse was never made to fly on 
 feathers, but to gallop on hoofs. You destroy the idea of his 
 peculiar powers the moment you clap pinions to his shoulder, 
 and make him paw the clouds. 
 
 North. Certainly. How poor the image of 
 
 " Heaven's warrior-horse, beneath his fiery form, 
 Paws the light clouds and gallops on the storm," 
 
 to one of Wellington's aid-de-camps, on an English hunter, 
 charging liis way tlirough the French Cuirassiers, to order up 
 the Scotch Greys against the Old Guard moving on to redeem 
 the disastrous day of Waterloo ! 
 
 Tickler. Poetry, therefore, being by universal consent ex- 
 ploded, all men, women, and cloildren are at liberty to use
 
 SHEPHERD DEFENDS VERSE-POETRY. 191 
 
 wtat style they choose, provided it be in the form of prose. 
 Cram it full of imagery, as an egg is fuU of meat. If caller,^ 
 down it will go, and the reader be grateful for his breakfast. 
 Pour it out simple, hke whey, or milk and water, and a swal- 
 low will be found enamoured of the liquid murmur. Let it 
 gurgle forth, rich and racy, Uke a haggis, and there are 
 stomachs that wiU not scunner. Fat paragraphs will be 
 bolted Kke bacon ; and, as he puts a period to the existence 
 of a lofty climax, the reader will exclaim, " 0, the roast beef 
 of Old England, and, oh! the English roast beef!" 
 
 North. Well said, Tickler. That prose composition should 
 always be a plain, uncondimented dish, is a dogma no longer 
 endurable. Henceforth I shall show, not only favour, but 
 praise, to aU prose books that contain any meaning, however 
 small; whereas I shall use all vampers, like the great 
 American shrike, conunemorated in last Nimaber, who sticks 
 small singing-bkds on sharp-pointed thorns, and leaves them 
 sticking there in the sunshine, a rueful, if not a saving 
 spectacle to the choristers of the grove. 
 
 Shepherd. Haver awa, gentlemen — haver awa, — you'se hae 
 a' yoTir ain way o't, for onything I care — but gin either the 
 tane or the tither o' you could write verses at a' passable, you 
 would hand a different theory. What think you o' a prose 
 sang? What would Burns's "Mary in Heaven" be out o' 
 verse ? or Moore's Melodies — or 
 
 Tickler. The Queen's Wake. 
 
 Shepherd. It's no worth while repeatin a' the nonsense, ]\Ir 
 North, that you and Tickler 'U speak in the course o' an after- 
 noon, when youx twa lang noses forgather ower a bowl o' 
 punch. But I've a poem in my pouch that'll puU down yotir 
 theories wi' a single stanza. I got it frae A this forenoon, wha 
 kent I was gaun to the Lodge to my denner, and I'll read it 
 aloud whether you wull or no ; — but, deevil tak it, I've lost my 
 specs ! I maun hae drawn them out, on the way doun, wi' 
 my hankercher. I maun hae them adverteesed. 
 
 Tickler. There, James, mine will suit you. 
 
 Shepherd. Yours ! What, glowerin green anes ! Aneuch 
 to gie a body the jaundice ! 
 
 North. Feel your nose, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, that's waur than the butcher swearing 
 
 1 Caller — fresh.
 
 192 A DIRGE. 
 
 througli his teeth for his knife, wi' hit^ in his mouth a' the 
 while. Hae I been sittin wi' specs a' the afternoon ? 
 
 North. You have, James, and very gash have you looked. 
 
 Shepherd. Oo ! Oo ! I recollec noo. I put them on when 
 that bonny dark-hahed, pale-faced, jimp-waisted lassie came 
 in wi' a h'esh velvet cushin for Mr North's foot. And the 
 sicht o' her being gude for sair een, I clean forgot to tak aff 
 the specs. But wheish — here's an answer to your theories ! 
 
 A DIKGE.^ 
 
 Weep not for her ! — Oh she was far too fair, 
 Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth ! 
 
 The sinless glory, and the golden air 
 
 Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth : 
 
 A spirit wander'd from its native zone, 
 
 Which, soon discovering, took her for its own : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — Her span was like the sky, 
 Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright ; 
 
 Like flowers, that know not what it is to die ; 
 Like long-link' d, shadeless months of Polar light ; 
 
 Like Music floating o'er a waveless lake. 
 
 While Echo answers from the flowery brake : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — She died in early youth, 
 Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; 
 
 When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth. 
 And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews, 
 
 Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze ; 
 
 Her wine of life was run not to the lees : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her!— By fleet or slow decay, 
 It never grieved her bosom's core to mark 
 
 The playmates of her childhood wane away, 
 Her prospects wither, or lier hopes grow dark ; 
 
 Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, 
 
 She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 i Wi' /«■«— with it. 
 
 '■^ By D. M. Moir, the woll-known A of Blachioood's Magazine.
 
 A FULL-LENGTH OF TICKLER. 193 
 
 "Weep not for her ! — It was not hers to feel 
 The miseries that corrode amassing years, 
 
 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, 
 To wander sad down Age's vale of tears, 
 
 As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree, 
 
 And on earth's wintry wold alone to be : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — She is an angel now. 
 And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise ; 
 
 All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, 
 Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes : 
 
 Victorious over death, to her appear 
 
 The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — Her memory is the shrine 
 Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 
 
 Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline. 
 Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 
 
 Eich as a rainbow with its hues of light. 
 
 Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — There is no cause for woe ; 
 
 But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
 Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, 
 
 And from earth's low defilements keep thee back : 
 So, when a few fleet severing years have flown, 
 She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate— and lead thee on ! 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Omnes. Beautiful — beautiful — ^beautiful — beautiful indeed ! 
 
 North. James, now that you have seen us in summer, how 
 do you like the Lodge ? 
 
 Shepherd. There's no sic anither house, Mr North, baith for 
 elegance and comfort, in a' Scotland. 
 
 North. In my old age, James, I think myself not altogether 
 unentitled to the luxmies of learned leisure — Do you find that 
 sofa easy and commodious ? 
 
 Shepherd. Easy and commodious ! What ! it has a' the saft- 
 ness o' a bed, and a' the coolness o' a bank ; yielding rest 
 without drowsiness, and without snoring repose. 
 
 Tickler. No sofa like a chair ! See James, how I am lying 
 and sitting at the same time ! carelessly diffused, yet 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 A KIT-CAT OF NORTH. 
 
 Shepherd. You're a maist extraordinary feegur, Mr Tickler, 
 I humbly confess that, wi' your head imbedded in a cushion, and 
 your een fixed on the roof like an astronomer; and your endless 
 legs stretched out to the extremities o' the yearth ; and your 
 lang arms hanging down to the verra floor, atower the bend o' 
 the chair-settee, and only lift up, wi' a magnificent wave, to bring 
 the bottom o' the glass o' cauld punch to rest upon your chin ; 
 and wi'that tamboured waistcoat o' the fashion o' aughty-aught, 
 like a meadow yellow wi' dandylions ; and breeks • 
 
 Tickler. Check your hand, and change your measure, my 
 dear Shepherd. — Oh ! for a portrait of North ! 
 
 Shepherd. I daurna try't, for his ee masters me ; and I fear 
 to tak the same leeberties wi' Mr North that I sometimes ven- 
 ture upon wi' you, Mr Tickler. Yet, oh man ! I like him weel 
 in that black neckerchief: it brings out his face grandly — 
 and the green coat o' the Eoyal Archers gies him a Robin- 
 Hoodish character, that makes ane's imagination think o' the 
 umbrage o' auld oaks, and the glimmering silence o' forests. 
 
 Tickler. He blushes. 
 
 Shepherd. That he does — and I like to see the ingenuous 
 blush o' bashfu' modesty on a wrinkled cheek. It proves that 
 the heart's-blood is warm and free, and the circulation vigor- 
 ous. Deil tak me, Mr North, if I dinna think you're something 
 like his majesty the King. 
 
 North. I am proud that you love the Lodge. There ! a bold 
 breeze from the sea I Is not that a pleasant rustle, James ? — 
 and lo ! every sail on the Firth is dancing on the blue bosom 
 of the waters, and brightening Like sea-mews in the sunshine ! 
 
 Shepherd. After a', in het wather, there's naething like a 
 marine villa. What for dinna ye big^ a Yott ? 
 
 North. My sailing days are over, James ; but mine is now 
 the ship of Fancy, who can go at ten knots in a dead calm, 
 and carry her sky-scrapers in a storm. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae wonder, after sic a life o' travel by sea and 
 land, you should hae found a hame at last, and sic a hame ! 
 A' the towers, and spires, and pillars, and pinnacles, and be- 
 wilderments o' blue house-roofs, seen frae the tae front through 
 amang the leafy light o' interceptin trees — and frae the tither, 
 where we are noo sitting, only here and there a bit sprinklin 
 o' viUas, and then atower the grove-heads seeming sae tliick 
 and saft, that you think you might lie down on them and tak 
 
 ' Big— hm\A.
 
 THE ABSENT MAN. 195 
 
 a sleep, the murmuring motion o' the never weary sea ! Oh, 
 Mr North, that you would explain to me the nature o' the tides ! 
 
 North. When the moon 
 
 Shepherd. Stap, stap; I couldna command my attention wi' 
 yon bonny brig huggin the shores o' Inchkeith* sae lovingly 
 — at first I thocht she was but a breakin wave. 
 
 North. Wave, cloud, bird, sunbeam, shadow or ship — often 
 know I not one from the other, James, when half-sleeping half- 
 waking, in the debatable and border land between realities 
 and dreams, 
 
 " My wearv length at noontide would I stretch, 
 And muse upon the world that wavers by." 
 
 Tickler. Yet I never saw you absent in company, North. 
 
 North. Nor, I presume, spit on the carpet. 
 
 Shepherd. The ane's just as bad as the ither, or rather the 
 first's the warst o' the twa. What right has ony man to leave 
 his ugly carcass in the room, by itsel, without a soul in't ? 
 Surely there could be nae cruelty or uncourtesy in kickin't 
 out o' the door. Absent in company indeed I 
 
 Tickler. Look at the ninny's face, with his mouth open and 
 his eyes fixed on the carpet, his hand on his chin, and his head 
 a Little to the one side — in a fit of absence. 
 
 North. Thinking, perhaps, about ginger-beer or a radish. 
 
 Shepherd. Or determining which pair o' breeks he shaU 
 draw on when he gangs out to sooper — or his mind far awa in 
 Montgomery's shop, tasting something sweet — or makin pro- 
 foun' calculation about buyin a second-hand gig — or thinkin 
 himsel waitin for a glass o' mineral water at St Bernard's 
 Wall — or tryin on a foraging- cap for sleepin in cotches — or 
 believin himsel stannin at the window o' a prent-shop, lookin 
 at Miss Foote's pas seul — or forgettin he's no in the kirk, and 
 nae occasion to be sleepy, — or deluded into a belief that he is 
 spittin ower a brig — or 
 
 Tickler. Stop, James, stop. You are a whale running off 
 with a thousand fathom 
 
 Shepherd. Thank ye, Mr Tickler. I was beginning to get 
 
 ower copious. But I wonner what made me think the 
 
 noo o' the Author o' the Modern Athens.^ What for didna 
 ye tak him thi'ough hauns, Mr North ? 
 
 1 An island in the Firth of Forth near Edinburgh. 
 
 2 Robert Mudie was the author of Modern Athens {i.e. Edinburgh), and 
 many other works, most or all of which are now forgotten. He died in 1842.
 
 196 THE AUTHOR OF MODERN ATHENS. 
 
 North. Because I think liim a man of some talent ; and, for 
 the sake of talent, I can overlook much, seeing that block- 
 heads are on the increase. 
 
 Shepherd. On the increase, say ye ? 
 
 North. I fear so. Now, he is miserably poor. And knowing 
 that many dull dogs dine at shilling ordinaries (beef, bread, 
 and beer, with some vegetables) regularly once a-day, when 
 he, who is really a man of merit, can afford to do so only on 
 Tuesdays and Fridays, he naturally gets irritated and misan- 
 thropical ; and what wonder, if, on the dinnerless afternoons, 
 he writes what he would not commit on a full stomach, and 
 much that he would sincerely repent of over a tm-een of hotch- 
 potch or a haggis ? 
 
 Tickler. You hear the rumbling of empty bowels, poor 
 fellow, in his happiest passages. 
 
 Shepherd. But wull you tell me that being puir's ony reason 
 for being a blackguard ? 
 
 North. You mistake me — I did not say, James, that the 
 author of Modern Athens is absolutely a blackguard. The 
 usage, too, that he met with in his native country — literally 
 kicked out of it, you know — could not but nafifle and sour his 
 temper ; and such is my opinion both of his head and heart, 
 that, but for that unlucky application to his posteriors, I 
 verily believe he might have been somewhat of an honest man, 
 and a libeller merely of foreign countries. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel — it's verra gnde in you, Mr North, to make 
 sic an ingenious defence for the scoonrel ; but I canna forgie 
 him for abusin alike the lasses and the leddies o' Scotland. 
 
 North. There are lassies and leddies in Scotland, my dear 
 James, of whom you know nothing — houses where, it is 
 obvious from his writings, the author of Modern Athens must 
 have had his howf ;* — and really, when one considers from 
 what originals he painted his portraits of Edina's girlery, the 
 wonder is that his daubings are not even more disgusting 
 than they are ; but the likenesses are strong, although his 
 nymphs miist have been unsteady sitters. 
 
 Tickler. Poor devil! suppose we send him a few pounds 
 
 Shepherd. I wad dae** nae sic thing. You canna serve sic 
 chiels by charity. It does them nae gude. Neither am I 
 convinced that he wouldna tell lees when he's no hungry. 
 Yon wasna a solid argument about the empty stomach. Sic 
 
 ^ Howf—hwcni. ^ Dae — do.
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKHEADS. 197 
 
 a neerdoweel wadna scruple to utter falsehoods in tlie face o' a 
 round o' beef. Cram lirm till lie's like to burst, and he'll 
 throw up onything but truth — loosen his shirt-neck when he's 
 lying dead-drunk on a form, and he'll unconsciously ettle at a 
 lee in maudlin syllablings, till his verra vomit is a Hbel, and 
 falsehood rancifies the fume o' the toasted cheese that sickness 
 brings harHn out o' his throat in a gin-shower aneuch to 
 sicken a fulzie-man.^ 
 
 North. Stop, James, stop — that's out of all bounds 
 
 Tickler. By the by. North, I have a letter from Mullion in 
 my pocket, apologising, I believe, for not dining here to-day. 
 There it is, folded up in the Secretary's usual business-like 
 style. 
 
 North {reading). Why, it's an article. 
 
 Shepherd. An article — let's hear't. Mullion and me never 
 agrees verra weel in company ; but when he's absent I hae a 
 great kindness for him, and naebody can dispute his abeeUties. 
 
 North. It seems a sort of parody. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKHEADS.^ 
 
 BY MR SECRETARY MULLION. 
 
 Air—" Battle of the Baltic" 
 
 Of Wastle,' Hogg, and North, 
 Sing the glory and renown, 
 And of Tickler, who came forth 
 With his bald and shining crown, 
 As their pens along our page brightly shone ; 
 The knout and searing brand, 
 In each bold determined hand, 
 While ODoherty japann'd 
 Led them on. 
 
 Turnipologist * and Stot, 
 
 AH the breeds of Whiggish kine, 
 Trembled when the streamers flew 
 
 Over Blackwood's gallant line : 
 
 i Anglicl, a night- man. 2 gy j)_ ]yi_ Moir. 
 
 3 "Wastle" %vas a mere mythical contributor to Blackwood, and does not 
 appear to have represented any real person in particular. 
 
 •* The stoiy went that the Edinburgh phrenologists had been hoaxed by means 
 of a cast taken from a Swedish turnip. They reported that its organs were 
 very finely developed, and that it was remarkable, in particular, for "tune," 
 "ideality," and "veneration!"
 
 198 THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKHEADS. 
 
 The twentieth of October was the time : 
 As they scoured proud Learning's path, 
 Every blockhead dreamt of death, 
 And Hunt held his stinking breath, 
 For a time. 
 
 But Maga's rage was flushed 
 In her garb of olive green ; 
 And her foes, as on she ruah'd, 
 "Wish'd for greater space between. 
 "Pens of pluck !" the Tories cried, when each Gun, 
 With wit, intellect, and nous, 
 Did pound, pommel knaves, and souse. 
 Like blithe kitten with poor mouse 
 Making fun. 
 
 They play ! they slay ! they flay ! 
 
 While untooth'd for all attack. 
 The old woman^ o'er the way 
 
 To oui' cheer a scraugh gave back ; — 
 As sibyl-like she mutter'd our dark doom : — 
 Then they fled with draggled tail ; 
 While her young men took leg-bail, 
 Eaising ullaloo and wail 
 In their gloom. 
 
 Blue and Yellow was hail'd then. 
 
 By our Editor so brave ; 
 '■ We are victoi-s, yet are men, 
 And old Jeffrey we would save. 
 From the wise at your prophecies who sneeze : 
 Then bid Bryan Procter beat 
 To dramaticals retreat, 
 And bring Hazlitt to our feet 
 On his knees." 
 
 Then the London blest our North, 
 
 Tliat he let the dull repose ; 
 And the plaudits of his worth. 
 
 Spake each Cockney through his nose, 
 Glad to bundle off" whole-skiun'd from the fray ; 
 But all England laugh'd outright 
 At their poor and piteous plight, 
 A nd subscribers taking flight, 
 Waned away. 
 
 ^ Constable's Magazine.
 
 MRS EADCLIFFES POSTHUMOUS WOEKS. 199 
 
 Now joy, bold comrades, raise ! 
 
 For these tidings of our might, 
 By this lamp, whose patent blaze 
 Holds photometers in spite ; 
 But yet, amid fuu, fuddle, and uproar, 
 Let us think of Tims, who keeps 
 Hand on hinderland, and weeps 
 That no golden grain he reaps 
 From Victoire.^ 
 
 Lean pates ! to Whiggish pride 
 
 Aye so faithful and so true, 
 Who in pan of scorn were fried. 
 With grey Jerry,^ the old shrew : 
 The Westminster's fond wings o'er you wave ! 
 While loud is Hazlitt's growl, 
 And Hunt and Hone condole. 
 Singing sonnets to the soul 
 Of each knave ! 
 
 Shepherd. It soun's as gin it was gude — but I'm sick o' a' 
 that clan, and canna be amused wi' even true wnt wasted 
 upon tbem ; besides, the dowgs hae had their day — ^hae died 
 o' the mange, and been buried in the dunghill. 
 
 Tickler. There, my dear bard, conquer your disgust by a 
 peep into this volume. 
 
 Shepherd. Dog on't, Mr Tickler, gin I hadnajouked ^ there, 
 you had felled me — but — ou ay ! — a volume of Mrs Radcliffe's* 
 Posthumous Warks. Poems, too ! I'm sure they'll be bonny, 
 for she was a true genius. 
 
 Tickler. Kit, smoke his eyes, how they glare ! 
 
 Shepherd. The description is just perfectly beautifa'. Here's 
 the way o' readin out poetry. 
 
 " On the bright margin of Italia's shore. 
 Beneath the glance of summer-noon we sti-ay, 
 And, indolently happy, ask no more 
 Than cooling au-s that o'er the ocean play. 
 
 " And watch the bark, that, on the busy strand. 
 Washed by the sparkling tide, awaits the gale, 
 Till, high among the shrouds, the sailor band 
 Gallantly shout, and raise the swelling sail. 
 
 ' See aw^e, p. 32, note 2. 2/^,.,.y__jeremyBentbam. Bom 1749 ; died 1832. 
 3 JouJced— dodged. * Mrs Radcliffe died in 1823, aged 59.
 
 200 SHEPHERD ON REVIEWING. 
 
 " On the broad deck a various group recline, 
 Touch'd with the moonlight, yet half-hid in shade ; 
 Who, silent, watch the bark the coast resign, 
 The Pharos lessen, and the mountains fade. 
 
 " We, indolently happy, watch alone 
 The wandering airs that o'er the ocean stray, 
 To bring some sad Venetian sonnet's tone, 
 From that lone vessel floating far away ! " 
 
 North. I wish you would review these four volumes, James, 
 for next Number. 
 
 Shepherd. Tuts — What's the use o' reviewin? Naething 
 like a skreed o' extracts into a magazeen taken in the kintra. 
 When I fa' on, tooth and nail, on an article about some new 
 wark, oh, Mr North, but I'm wud when I see the cretur 
 that's undertaken to review't, settin himsel wi' clenched 
 teeth to compose a philosophic creeticism, about the genius 
 o' an owther that every man kens as weel as his ain face in 
 the glass — and then comparing him wi' this, and contrastin 
 him wi' that — and informin you which o' his warks are best, 
 and which warst, and which middlin — balancin a genius 
 against himsel, and settin his verra merits against his cha- 
 racter and achievements — instead o' telling you at ance what 
 the plot is about, and how it begins, and gangs on, and is 
 vrunded up ; in short, pithy hints o' the characters that 
 feegur throughout the story, and a maisterly abridgment o' 
 facts and incidents, wi' noo and then an elucidatory observa- 
 tion, and a glowing panegyric ; but, aboon a' things else, 
 lang, lang, lang extracts, judiciously seleckit, and lettin you 
 ken at ance if the owther has equalled or excelled himsel, 
 or if he has struck out a new path, or followed the auld ane 
 into some unsuspeckit scenery o' bonny underwood, or lofty 
 
 standards — or whether but I'm out o' breath, and maun 
 
 hae a drink. — Thank you, Mr North — that's the best bowl 
 you've made yet. 
 
 Tickler. I never had any professed feeling of the super or 
 j»/"e<er- natural in a printed book. Very early in life I dis- 
 covered that a ghost, who had kept me in a cold sweat during 
 a whole winter's midnight, was a tailor who haunted the 
 house, partly through love, and partly through hunger, being
 
 HIS DREAD OF THE SUPERNATURAL. 20 1 
 
 enamoured of my nurse, and of the fat of ham which she gave 
 him with mustard, between two thick shaves^ of a quartern 
 loaf, and afterwards a bottle of small-beer to wash it down, 
 before she yielded him the parting kiss. After that I slept 
 soundly, and had a contempt for ghosts, which I retain to 
 this day. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, it's verra different wi' me. I should be 
 feared yet even for the ninth paiii; o' a ghost, and I fancy a 
 tailor has nae mair ; — but I'm no muckle affeckit by reading 
 about them — an oral tradition out o' the mouth o' an auld 
 grey-headed man or woman is far best, for then you 
 canna dout the truth o' the tale, unless ye dout a' history 
 thegither, and then, to be sure, you'll end in universal 
 skepticism. 
 
 North. Don't you admire the romances of the Enchantress 
 ofUdolpho? 
 
 Shepherd. I hae nae doubt, sir, that had I read Udolpho and 
 her ither romances in my boyish days, that my hair would hae 
 stood on end like that o' ither folk, for, by nature and educa- 
 tion baith, ye ken, I'm just excessive superstitious. But afore 
 her volumes fell into my hauns, my soul had been fi-ichtened 
 by a' kinds of traditionary terrors, and mony hunder times hae 
 I maist swarfed^ wi' fear in lonesome spats in muirs and woods, 
 at midnicht, when no a leevin thing was movin but mysel and 
 the great moon. Indeed, I canna say that I ever fan' mysel 
 alane in the hush o' darkened nature, without a beatin at my 
 heart ; for a sort o' spiritual presence aye hovered about me — a 
 presence o' something like and unlike my ain being — at times 
 felt to be solemn and nae mair — at times sae awfu' that I 
 wushed mysel nearer ingle-licht — and ance or twice in my 
 lifetime, sae terrible that I could hae prayed to sink down into 
 the moss, sae that I micht be saved frae the quaking o' that 
 ghostly wilderness o' a world that wasna for flesh and bluid ! 
 
 North. Look — James — look — what a sky! 
 
 Shepherd. There'll be thunder the mom. These are the 
 palaces o' the thimder, and before daybreak every window 
 will pour forth Kchtnin. Mrs EadcKffe has weel described 
 mony sic, but I have seen some that can be remembered, but 
 never, never painted by mortal pen ; for after a', what is 
 ^ Shaves— s^cQs. 2 Swarf ed — swooned.
 
 202 GHOSTS IN TRAGEDY. 
 
 ony description by us puir creturs o' the works o' the Great 
 God? 
 
 North. Perhaps it is a pity that Mrs Eadclifte never intro- 
 duced into her stories any real ghosts. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna just a'thegither think sae. Gin you in- 
 troduce a real ghost at a', it maun appear but seldom — seldom, 
 and never but on some great or dread account — as the ghost 
 o' Hamlet's father. Then, what difficulty in makin it speak 
 with a tomb voice ! At the close o' the tale, the mind would 
 be shocked unless the dead had burst its cerements for some 
 end which the dead alane could have accomplished — unless 
 the catastrophe were worthy an Apparition. How few events, 
 and how few actors would, as the story shut itself up, be felt 
 to have been of such surpassing moment as to have deserved 
 the very laws o' nature to have been in a manner changed 
 for their sakes, and shadows brought frae amang the darkness 
 o' burial-places, that seem to our imaginations locked up frae 
 a' commimion wi' the breathin world ! 
 
 North. In liighest tragedy, a Spirit may be among the dra- 
 matis personce — for the events come all on processionally, and 
 under a feeling of fate. 
 
 Shepherd. There, too, you see the ghost ; and indifferently 
 personated though it may be, the general hush proves that 
 religion is the deepest principle o' our nature, and that even 
 the vain shows o' a theatre can be sublimed by an awe-struck 
 sadness, when, revisiting the glimpses o' the moon, and makin 
 night liideous, comes glidin in and awa in cauld unringin 
 armour, or unsubstantial vapour, a being whose eyes ance saw 
 the cheerfa' sunlight, and whose footsteps ance brought out 
 echoes frae the flowery earth. 
 
 North. In tliis posthumous tale of Mrs Kadcliffe — I forget 
 the name — a real ghost is the chief agent, and is two or three 
 times brought forward with good effect ; but I confess, James, 
 that agreeably to your excellent observations, I became some- 
 what too much hand-in-glove with his ghostship, and that all 
 supernatural influence departed from him through too frequent 
 intercourse with the air of the upper world. 
 
 Tickler. Come, James, be done with your palavering about 
 ghosts, you brownie, and " gie us anither sang." 
 
 Shepherd. Wi' a' my heart. What'll you hae ? But beggars 
 shouldna be choosers, sae here it gaes.
 
 SHEPHERDS SONG. 203 
 
 SONG.^ 
 
 O weel befa' the maiden gay, 
 
 In cottage, bught,^ or penn ; 
 And weel befa' the bonny May 
 
 That wons in yonder glen, 
 Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel — 
 Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal, 
 An' pure as blooming asphodel, 
 
 Amang sae mony men. 
 O weel befa' the bonny thing, 
 
 That wons in yonder glen. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the music float 
 
 Alang the gloaming lea ; 
 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note 
 
 Come pealing frae the tree ; 
 To see the lambkin's lightsome race — 
 The dappled kid in wanton chase — 
 The young deer cower in lonely place, 
 
 Deep in his flowery den ; 
 But sweeter far the bonny face 
 
 That smiles in yonder glen. 
 
 O, had it no been for the blush 
 
 Of maiden's virgin-flame. 
 Dear Beauty never had been known, 
 
 And never had a name. 
 But aye sin' that dear thing of blame 
 Was modell'd by an angel's frame, 
 The power of Beauty reigns supreme 
 
 O'er a' the sons of men ; 
 But deadliest far the sacred flame 
 
 Burns in a lonely glen. 
 
 There's beauty in the violet's vest — 
 
 There's hinny in the haw — 
 There's dew within the rose's breast, 
 
 The sweetest o' them a'. 
 The sun will rise an' set again, 
 And lace with burning gowd the main — 
 And rainbow bend outower the plain, 
 
 Sae lovely to the ken ; 
 But lovelier far my bonny thing 
 
 That smiles in yonder glen. 
 
 1 By Hogg. 2 Bugfit — sheepfold.
 
 204 NORTH SINGS. 
 
 North. Better and better. I see, James, that Allan Cun- 
 ningham^ has included some of your lyrics in his late Collection 
 of the Songs of Scotland. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, man ! I wush you would lend me the wark. 
 Is't a gude collekshon, d'ye opine ? 
 
 North. A very good collection, indeed, James. Allan is 
 occasionally very happy in his ardent eulogy of his country's 
 lyrical genius, and one loves to hear a man speaking about a 
 species of poetry in which he has himself excelled. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm thinkin you wad scarcely trust me wi' the 
 reviewin o' Allan Kinnigam's wark — for you'll be for doin't 
 yoursel — though I wad do't a hantle better, wi' mair nature 
 and knowledge, too, if wi' fewer fine-spun theories. But you're 
 gettin desperate con9ated, and mair especially o' what you 
 execute warst. 
 
 North. Come, James, be less severe, and I will sing you 
 one of Allan's songs. 
 
 Shepherd. Huts, ye never sung a sang i' your life — at least 
 never that I heard tell o'; — but to be sure you're a maist 
 extraordinary cretur, and can do onything you hae a mind to 
 try. 
 
 North. My voice is rather cracked and tremtdous — but I 
 have sung Scotch airs, James, of old, with Urbani. 
 
 MY AIN COUNTREE. 
 
 The sun rises bright in France 
 
 And fair sets he ; 
 But he has tiut^ the blithe bhnk he had 
 
 In my ain countree. 
 O ! gladness comes to many, 
 
 But sorrow comes to me, 
 As I look o'er the wide ocean 
 
 To my ain countree ! 
 
 O ! it's not my ain ruin 
 
 That saddens aye my ee, 
 But the love I left in Galloway, 
 
 Wi' bonny bairns three ; 
 My hamely hearth burn'd bonny, 
 
 And smiled my fair Marie — 
 I've left a' my heart behind me 
 
 In my ain countree. 
 
 1 Allan Cunningham died in October 1842. 2 Tint— 'ion*..
 
 TO BED, 205 
 
 The bud comes back to summer, 
 
 An' the blossom to the bee, 
 But I win back — oh, never ! 
 
 To my ain countree ! 
 I'm leal to the high heaven, 
 
 Which will be leal to me ; 
 And there I'll meet ye a' soon 
 
 Frae my ain countree ! 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, I never heard the like o' that in a' my 
 days. Deevil tak me gin there be sic a perfectly beautiful 
 singer in a' Scotland. I prefer you to baith Peter HiU and 
 David WyUe/ and twa bonnier singers you'U no easier hear 
 in "house or ha' by coal or candle licht." But do you ken, 
 I'm desperate sleepy. 
 
 Tickler. Let's off to roost. 
 
 North. Stop till I ring for candles. 
 
 Shepherd. Cawnels! and sic a moon! It wad be perfect 
 blasphemy — dounricht atheism. But hech, sirs, it's het, an' 
 I'se sleep without the sark the nicht. 
 
 North. Without a sark, James ! "a mother-naked man !" 
 
 Shepherd. I'm a bachelor ye ken, the noo, sae can tak my 
 
 aia way o't Gude nicht, sir — gude nicht — We've reaUy 
 
 been verra pleasant, and our meetin has been maist as agree- 
 able as ane o' the 
 
 NocTES Ambrosian^. 
 
 1 Peter Hill is spoken of in the "Chaldee MS." ch. i., v. 57, as "a sweet 
 singer." David Wylie is one of the circuit clerks of the Court of Session.
 
 IX. 
 
 (OCTOBEK 1826.) 
 
 Mr Tickler's smaller Dining-room — Southside. 
 Shepherd, Mr North, Mr Tickler. 
 
 Shepherd. We've just had a perfec denner, Mr Tickler — 
 neither ae dish ower mony, nor ae dish ower few. Twa 
 coorses is aneuch for ony Christian — and as for frute after 
 fade, it's a dounricht abomination, and coagulates on the 
 stamach like sour cruds. I aye like best to devoor frute in 
 the forenoons, in gardens by mysel, daunering ^ at my leisure 
 frae bush to bush, and frae tree to tree, pu'in awa at straw- 
 berries, or rasps, or grozets, or cherries, or aipples, or peers, 
 or plooms, or aiblins at young green peas, shawps^ an' a', or 
 wee juicy neeps, that melt in the mooth o' their ain accord 
 without chewin, like kisses of vegetable maitter. 
 
 Tickler. Do you never catch a tartar, James, in the shape 
 o' a wasp, that 
 
 Shepherd. Confound thae deevils incarnate, for they're the 
 curse o' a het simmer. 0' a' God's creturs, the wasp is the 
 only ane that's eternally out o' temper. There's nae sic 
 thing as pleasin him. In the gracious sunshine, when a' the 
 bit bonny burdies are singing sae cantily, and stopping for 
 half a minute at a time, noo and than, to set richt wi' their 
 bills a feather that's got rumpled by sport or spray — when 
 the bees are at wark, murmurin in their gauzy flight, although 
 no gauze, indeed, be comparable to the filaments o' their 
 woven wings, or clinging silently to the flowers, sook, sookin 
 out the hinny-dew, till their verra doups dirl wi' delight — 
 
 1 Daunering — sauntering. 2 Shawps — husks.
 
 WASPS. — SHEPHERDS DREAM OF BEING HANGED. 207 
 
 when a' the flees that are ephemeral, and weel contented wi' 
 the licht and the heat o' ae single sun, keep dancin in their 
 burnished beauty, up and down, and to and fi-o, and back- 
 wards and forwards, and sideways, in millions upon millions, 
 and yet ane never joistling anither, but a' harmoniously 
 blended together in amity, like imagination's thochts, — why, 
 amid tliis " general dance and minstrelsy," in comes a shower 
 o' infuriated wasps, red het, as if let out o' a fiery fm-nace, 
 pickin quarrels wi' their ain shadows — ^then roun' and roun' 
 the hair o' your head, bizzin against the drum o' your ear, till 
 you think they are in at the ae hole and out at the ither — 
 back again, after makin a circuit, as if they had repentit o' 
 lettin you be unharmed, dashing against the face o' you who 
 are wisliin ill to nae leevin thing, and, although you are 
 engaged out to dinner, stickin a lang poishoned stang in just 
 below your ee, that, afore you can rin hame ffae the garden, 
 swalls up to a fearsome hicht, making you on that side look like 
 a Blackamoor, and on the opposite white as death, sae intoler- 
 able is the agony frae the tail of the yellow imp, that, according 
 to his bulk, is stronger far than the Dragon o' the Desert. 
 
 Tickler. I detest the devils most, James, when I get them 
 into my mouth. Before you can spit them out the evil is 
 done — your tongue the size of that of a rein-deer — or your 
 gullet, once wide as the Gut of Gibraltar, clogged up hke a 
 canal in the neighbourhood of a raihoad. 
 
 Shepherd. As for speaking in sic a condition, everybody 
 but yom'sel kens it's impossible, and wanner to hear ye 
 tryin't. But you'll no be perswauded, and attempt talking 
 — every motion o' the muscles bein' as bad as a convulsion o' 
 hydrophobia, and the best soun' ye can utter waur than ony 
 bark, something atween a gnmt, a growl, and a guUer, like 
 the skraich o' a man lyin on his back, and dreamin that he's 
 gaun to be hanged. 
 
 Tickler. My dear James, I hope you have had that dream ? 
 Wrhat a luxury ! 
 
 Shepherd. There's nae medium in my dreams, sir — heaven 
 or hell's the word. But oh ! that hanging ! It's the warst 
 job o' a', and gars my very sowl sicken wi' horror for sake o' 
 the puir deevils that's really hanged out and out, bond fide, 
 wi' a tangible tow, and a hangman that's mair than a mere 
 apparition, a pardoned felon ^d' creeshy second-hand corduroy
 
 208 SHEPHERD S DREAM OF BEING BEHEADED. 
 
 breeks, and coat short at the cuffs, sae that his thick hairy- 
 wrists are visible when he's adjustin the halter, hair red red, 
 yet no sae red as his bleared een, glarin wi' an unaccountable 
 fairceness, — for Lord hae mercy upon us, can man o' woman 
 bom, think ye, be fairce on a brither, when handlin his wizen* 
 as executioner, and hearin, although he was deaf, the 
 knockin o' his distracted heart that wadna break for a' its 
 meesery, but like a watch stoppin when it gets a fa' on the 
 stanes, in ae minute lies quate, when down wi' a rummle 
 gangs the platform o' the scaffold, and the soul o' the son o' 
 sin and sorrow is instantly in presence of its eternal Judge ! 
 
 North. Pleasant subject-matter for conversation after dinner, 
 gentlemen. In my opinion, hangin 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your tongue about hangin : It's discussed. 
 Gin you've got onything to say about beheadin, let's hear 
 you — for I've dreamt o' that too, but it was a mere flee-bite 
 to the other mode o' execution. Last time I was beheaded, 
 it was for a great National Conspiracy, found out just when 
 the mine was gaun to explode, and blaw up the King on his 
 throne, the constitution, as it was ca'd, and the kirk. Do ye 
 want to hear about it ? 
 r North. Proceed, you rebel. 
 
 Shepherd. A' the city sent out its population into ae michty 
 square, and in the midst thereof was a scaffold forty feet high, 
 a' hung wi' black cloth, and open to a' the airts.'^ A block 
 like a great anvil, only made o' wood instead o' airn, was in 
 the centre o' the platform, and there stood the Headsman wi' 
 a mask on, for he was frichtened I wad see his face, sax feet 
 high and some inches, m' an axe ower liis shouther, and his 
 twa naked arms o' a fearsome thickness, a' crawlin wi' 
 sinews, like a yard o' cable to the sheet-anchor o' a man-o'- 
 war. A hairy fur- cap towered aboon his broos, and there 
 were neither shoes nor stockings on his braid splay feet, juist 
 as if he were gaun to dance on the boards. But he never 
 mudged — only I saw his een rollin through the vizor, and 
 they were baith bloodshot. He gied a gruesome cough, or 
 something not unlike a lauch, that made ice o' my bluid ; and 
 at that verra minute, hands were laid on me, I kentna by 
 whom or whither, and shears began clipping my hair, and 
 fingers like leeches creeped about my neck, and then without 
 1 Wizen — the throat. 2 ^ {,.^ — points of the compass.
 
 HIS SPEECH ON THE SCAFFOLD. 209 
 
 ony farther violence, but rather as in the freedom o' my ain 
 wull, my head was lying on the block, and I heard a voice 
 praying, till a di-um di'owned it and the groans o' the multi- 
 tude together — and then a hissin that, like the sudden east 
 wind, had muved the verra moiurnins o' the scaffold. 
 
 Tickler. North, put about the bottle. AVill you never be 
 cui-ed of that custom of detaining the crystals ? 
 
 North. I am rather squeamish — a little faintish or so. 
 James, your good health. Now proceed. 
 
 Shepherd. Damn their drums, thocht I, they're needless — 
 for had I intended to make a speech, would I not have 
 delivered it afore I laid down my head on the block ? As for 
 the liissin, I kent weel aneuch they werena hissin me, but 
 the Man in the mask and the big haiiy fur-cap, and the naked 
 feet, wi' the axe in his hands raised up, and then let down 
 again, ance, twice, thrice, measuring the spat on my craig^ to 
 a nicety, that wi' ae stroke my head might roU over into the 
 bloody sawdust. 
 
 Tickler. Mr North, Mr North — my dear sir, are you ill ? My 
 God, who could have thocht it ! — Hogg, Christopher has fainted ! 
 
 Shejjherd. Let him faint. The executioner was daunted, 
 for the hiss gaed through his heart ; and thae horrid arms o' 
 his, wi' a' their knots o' muscle, waxed weak as the willow- 
 wands. The axe fell out o' his hauns, and being sharp, its 
 ain wecht di-ove it quivering into the block, and close to my 
 ear the verra senseless wud gied a groan. I louped up on to 
 my feet — I cried wi' a loud voice, " CoTmtrymen, I stand here 
 for the sacred cause of Liberty all over the world ! " 
 
 North {reopening his eyes). " The cause of Liberty all 
 over the world!" Who gave that toast? Hush — hush — 
 where am I ? What is this ? Is that you, James ? What, 
 music ? Bagpipes ? No — no — no — a ringing in my poor old 
 ears. I have been ill, I feel very, very ill. Hark you, 
 Tickler, — hark you — no heeltaps, I suppose — " The cause of 
 Liberty all over the world ! " 
 
 Shepherd. The shouting was sublime. Then was the time 
 for a speech — Not a drum dared to murmur — With the ban- 
 dage still ower my een, and the handkerchief in my hand, 
 which I had forgotten to drap, I bm-st out into such a toiTent 
 of indignant eloquence that the Slaves and Tyrants were all 
 
 1 Craig — neck. 
 VOL. I. O
 
 210 BEHOLD THE HEAD OF A TEAITOR ! 
 
 tongue-tied, lock-jawed, before me ; and I knew tkat my voice 
 would echo to the furthermost regions of the earth, with fear 
 of change perplexing monarchs, and breaking the chains of 
 the shameful bondage by king and priestcraft wound round 
 the Body Politic, that had so long been lying Hke a heart- 
 stricken lunatic under the eyes of his keepers, but that would 
 now issue forth from the dungeon-gloom into the light of 
 day, and in its sacred fi-enzy immolate its grey oppressors 
 on the very altar of superstition. 
 
 North. What the devil is the meaning of all this, James ? 
 Are you spouting a gill of one of Brougham's fi'othy phials 
 of wrath poured out against the Holy Alliance ? Beware 
 of the dregs. 
 
 Shepherd. I might have escaped — ^but I was resolved to 
 cement the cause with my martyred blood. I was not a man 
 to disappoint the people. They had come there to see me die 
 — not James Hogg the Ettrick Shepherd — but Hogg the 
 Liberator; and from my blood, I felt assured, would arise 
 millions of armed men, under whose tread would sink the 
 thrones of ancient dynasties, and whose hands would imfurl 
 to all the winds the standard of Freedom, never again to 
 encii'cle the staff, till its dreadful rustling had quailed the 
 kings, even as the mountain sough sends down upon their 
 knees whole herds of cattle, ere rattles fi-om summit to sum- 
 mit the exulting music of the thunder-storm. 
 
 Tickler. Isn't he a wonderful creature, North? He beats 
 Brougham all to besoms. 
 
 Shepherd. So once more, my head was on the block — the 
 axe came down — and I remember nothing more, except that 
 after bouncing several times about the scaffold, it was taken 
 up by that miserable slave of slaves, who muttered, " Behold 
 the head of a iJraitor ! " Not a voice said. Amen — and I had 
 my revenge and my triumph ! 
 
 North. Strange, so true a Tory should be so revolutionary 
 in his dreams ! 
 
 Tickler. In France, James would have been Eobespierre. 
 
 Shepherd. Huts ! tuts ! Dreams gang by the rule o' con- 
 traries. Yet I dinna say what I might hae been during the 
 French Eevolution. At times and seasons the nature o' the 
 very brute animals is no to be depended on ; and how muckle 
 mair changeable is that o' man, wi' his boasted reason looking
 
 SHEPHERD SINGS. 211 
 
 before and after — Ms imagination building up, and bis pas- 
 sions pu'in down ; ae day a loving angel frae beaven — the 
 next a demon o' destruction let loose frae bell ! But wasna 
 ye tbere yoursel, Mr North ? What for no speak ? There's 
 naebody here but freens ! 
 
 Tickler. Kemember, James, that our beloved Christopher 
 fainted a few minutes ago 
 
 Shepherd. Sae he did — sae he did. But it wasna aneath 
 the innate power o' my words. His ain memory armed them 
 with axes and drenched them in bluid. Mony a man can see 
 bluid rinnin like water and no faint, and yet lang after it has 
 sunk into the earth, or heaven's sunshine dried it up among 
 the flowers o' the field, or heaven's rain washed it out o' the 
 street pavement, the silly fule, fancy-struck, will coup ower 
 on his chair wi' a lang dismal sich, at that short single syllable, 
 that does by the lugs^ what a glass does by the een — that is, 
 recreawtes the sliddery scaffold and a' its headless trunks ! 
 
 Tickler. Cease your fumiing, James, and gives us a song. 
 
 (Shepherd sings.) ^ 
 
 I lookit east — I lookit west, 
 
 I saw the darksome coming even ; 
 The wild bird sought its cosy nest, 
 
 The kid was to the hamlet driven ; 
 
 But house nor hame aneath the heaven, 
 Except the skeugh of greenwood tree, 
 
 To seek a shelter in was given, 
 To my three little bairns and me. 
 
 I had a prayer I couldna pray, 
 
 I had a vow I couldna breathe, 
 For aye they led my words astray, 
 
 And aye they were connected baith 
 
 Wi' ane wha now was cauld iu death. 
 I lookit round wi' watery ee — 
 
 Hope wasna there — but I was laith 
 To see my Uttle babies dee. 
 
 Just as the breeze the aspen stu-r'd, 
 
 And bore aslant the falling dew, 
 I thought I heard a bonny bird 
 
 Singing amid the air sae blue ; 
 
 A Luffs—eixrs. ^ Written by Hogg.
 
 212 TAM NELSON. 
 
 It was a lay that did renew 
 The hope deep sunk in misery ; 
 
 It was of one my woes that knew, 
 And ae kind heart that cared for me. 
 
 O, sweet as breaks the rising day, 
 Or sunbeam through the wavy rain, 
 
 Fell on my soul the charming lay ! 
 Was it an angel poured the strain 1 
 Whoe'er has kenn'd a mother's pain, 
 
 Bent o'er the child upon her knee, 
 they will bless, and bless again, 
 
 The generous heart that cares for me ! 
 
 A cot was rear'd by Mercy's hand 
 
 Amid the dreary wilderness. 
 It rose as if by magic wand, 
 
 A shelter to forlorn distress ; 
 
 And weel I ken that Heaven will bless 
 The heart that issued the decree. 
 
 The widow and the fatherless 
 Can never pray and slighted be. 
 
 North. Very touching, James, indeed. You are a tragic 
 poet after Aristotle's own heart — for well you know how to 
 purge the soul by pity and terror. 
 
 Shepherd. That I do sir, and by a' sorts o' odd humours too. 
 Snap your thumbs. 
 
 Tam Nelson was a queer, queer man,^ 
 He had nae ill nor good about him. 
 
 He oped his een when day began. 
 
 And dozed ower night, ye needna doubt him. 
 
 But many a day, and many a night, 
 I've tried wi' a' the lights o' nature, 
 
 To settle what's come o' the wight. 
 
 The soulless, senseless, stupid creature ! 
 
 Tam lo'ed his meltith ^ and his clink ^ 
 
 As weel as any in the nation. 
 He took his pipe, he drank his drink. 
 
 But that was nought against salvation. 
 
 But were a' the sants and slaves o' sin 
 Opposed in rank an' raw thegither, 
 
 Tam ne'er did aught to cross the ane. 
 And ne'er did aught to mense* the ither. 
 
 1 Written by Hogg. ^ Meltith — victuals. 
 
 3 Clink — cash. * Mense — conciliate.
 
 GREAT OCCASIONS MAKE GREAT CHARACTERS. 213 
 
 Tain graned an dee't like ither men ; 
 
 O tell me, tell me, you wha know it, 
 Will that poor donsy^ rise again ? — 
 
 O sirs, I canna, winna trow it. 
 
 Nae doubt, but he wha made us a' 
 
 Can the same form an' feelings gie him, 
 
 Without a lack, without a flaw — 
 
 But what the deil wad he do wi' him ? 
 
 He'd make nae scram in cavern vile. 
 
 Nor place that ony living kens o', 
 He's no worth ony devil's while, 
 
 Nor upright thing to take amends o'. 
 
 If borne aboon the fields o' day. 
 
 Where rails o' gowd the valleys border, 
 
 He'd aye be standing i' the way, 
 And pitting a' things out of order. 
 
 At psalm, or hymn, or anthem loud, 
 
 Tam wadna pass, I sairly doubt it. 
 He couldna do't — an' if he could 
 
 He wadna care a doit about it. 
 
 O thou who o'er the land o' peace 
 
 Lay'st the cold shroud and moveless fetter, 
 
 Let Tam lie still in careless ease, 
 for d — n him, if he'll e'er be better. 
 
 Tickler. What part, James, do ye think Tam Nelson would 
 have played in the French Revolution ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha ! What a curious thocht ! Yet stop 
 a -wee — there is nae telling. On great occasions have not 
 Idiots been inspired? Bonny lassie-bairns, that wud hae 
 shrieked at a taed or a speeder, have they not stood silent 
 and smiling at the stake, fearin neither the faggot and the 
 fire, nor the foamy flood, whether in meek martyrdom they 
 died amidst the prayers o' a crowded street, or left alane by 
 themselves, puir things, on the sands o' the sea ? Sae, wha 
 kens what Tam Nelson micht hae done had he flourished 
 during the French Revolution ? 
 
 North. I wish to goodness, my dear James, that you would 
 drop the subject once and for all. I have never changed my 
 political principles. 
 
 Shepherd. I ken you never did, ye carle ; and ye could mak 
 
 1 Donsy — a stupid, lubberly fellow.
 
 214 FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 some folk in power the noo hear on the deafest side o' their 
 head, gin you were to ask them where they were some thretty 
 or fourty year sin' syne, in a great city ower the Channel — 
 but 
 
 North. No more politics, my dear James, if you love me. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel then, just ae observation mair, and I will 
 indulge ye by speaking a' manner o' havers. In the French 
 Eevolution some thousans o' fiends gaed rampauging * up and 
 down Paris, lapping blood like butchers' dowgs in a great 
 slaughter-house. Didn't they? Cursing God, singing 
 hymns to the Dee\al, and mony o' them condemmin to ever- 
 lasting death their ain darkened souls. Weel then, in the 
 French Eevolution, some thousans o' angels kept praising 
 God in cells and dungeons, walked like creturs in an awfu' 
 but happy dream to the scaffold, and lifted up their een to 
 Heaven — bairns, virgins, wives, widows, young and auld, then 
 alike supplicating pardon and salvation to the souls o' their 
 murderers. Didn't they? Weel then, before the French 
 Revolution brak out, was there ony difference, and if there 
 was, what was't, between the nature o' thae Fiends and thae 
 Angels ? They were sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, 
 nephews, nieces, and a' manner o' relations by blood and 
 marriage — had been edicatted at the same schools — had said 
 their prayers in the same kirks — assisted at the same bap- 
 tisms, marriages, and funerals — a' things going on in peace ! 
 Till topsy-turvy went the haill structure o' society ; and then 
 to be sure the phenomena, which is mair than ever my soid 
 will be able to understaun, and that has aften filled it with 
 troubled thochts when the wind has been roaring at midnight 
 amang the mountains, and things had been happening through 
 the day that had darkened and distracted our ain Shepherd- 
 life, — an elder o' peculiar sanctity seducing a servant lass, a 
 minister fou in the pulpit, a bosom freen for whom ye had been 
 caution rinnin aff to America, and leavin you bankrupt, or, 
 mercy on us ! a miller murderin a packman, and the body 
 fund in a sack wi' stanes at the bottom o' the dam ! For 
 sma' events — that is, sma' in circumstance and locality — 
 direck the soul that is meditating during the nicht-watches 
 to the greatest that swoop ower the earth — because they a' 
 alike hae their rise in the unfathomable wickedness o' our 
 corrupt and fallen nature; and what signifies it to conscience, 
 
 1 Rampauging — raging and storming.
 
 THE SHEPHERD AS M.P, 215 
 
 or to the Being who gied us conscience, whether the outward 
 sign be a city wail, or but the sabbing o' ae orphan lassie's 
 heart that has been broken by him who now loves her 
 nae mair ! 
 
 Tickler. James, we must put you into the General Assembly 
 to squabash the highflyers.^ 
 
 Shepherd. Ye sumph, I'm a hee-fleer mysel — one o' the 
 wild men : o' a' things whatsomever, be it in sacred matters 
 or profane, I detest moderation. 
 
 Tickler. I shall write to my friend Lord Eadnor, suggesting 
 that since Mr Southey ^ refuses to be a member, he had better 
 elect the Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. Ye may do so ; but mind I make nae promise — 
 gie nae pledge. 
 
 North. Tickler, had James stood for Preston, instead of the 
 Old EufSan,^ he and Stanley would have been returned. 
 
 Shepherd. Me stand for Preston ! Na — na — that would 
 be too disgraceful, even for a dream after tough tripe. 
 
 North. Yes, my dear James, you would make a useful and 
 appropriate representative of a nest of pastoral burghs — such 
 as Peebles and the rest — (but they have the best of possible 
 Members abeady.) As for Proud Preston 
 
 Tickler. Proud Preston, indeed — for in that epithet the place 
 rejoiceth — of a sui-ety thy " Pride has had a Fall." How 
 pleasant, dming a fortnight of dog-days, James, would it be 
 to stand a contested election for Billingsgate ? How dehghtful 
 to kiss and canvass so many maids, wives, and widows, all 
 redolent of the sea ! How thrilling the squeeze of the scaly 
 hand ! How rich the perfume of the fishy sigh ! Eomantic 
 tales of Meraiaids in each embrace would be realised — and 
 what pearl ever shone in oyster-sheU so beautiful as the drop 
 in those melting and maudling eyes ! 
 
 North. Then, rising in Parliament, either on some great 
 national question, or to support more especially the interests 
 of your constituents, how encouraging to be saluted from all 
 sides " Hear, hear the Member for Billingsgate !" 
 
 ^ The extreme party in the Church of Scotland were called "highflyers." 
 
 2 In 1826 Mr Southey was returned M. P. for the borough of Downton, but 
 declined to take his seat. 
 
 3 The " old rufiBan" was William Cobbett. Cobbett was not returned for 
 Preston, but the support which he received was sufficient, in the opinion of the 
 interlocutors, to cover that town with obloquy.
 
 216 FOR THE GOOSE-DUBS OF GLASGOW, 
 
 Shepherd. I wad prefer sitting for the Guse-dubs^ o' Glasgow. 
 0, sirs ! What a huddle o' houses, and what a hubbub o' 
 
 North. Gently, James, gently — Your love of alliteration 
 allures you occasionally across the confines of coarseness, 
 and 
 
 Shepherd. If you interrup me, Mr Noi-th, I'll no scruple 
 to intei'rup you, in spite o' a' my respect for your age and 
 endowments. But was ye ever in the Guse-dubs o' Glasgow ? 
 Safe us a' ! what clarty closses, narrowin awa' and darkenin 
 doun — some stracht, and some serpentine — into green middens 
 o' baith liquid and solid matter, soomin' wi' dead cats and 
 auld shoon, and rags o' petticoats that had been worn till 
 they fell aff and wad wear nae langer ; and then ayont the 
 midden, or say, rather surrounding the great central stagnant 
 flood o' fulzie, the wundows o' a coort, for a coort they ca't, 
 some wi' panes o' glass and panes o' paper time about, some 
 wi' what had ance been a hat in this hole, and what had been 
 a pair o' breeks in that hole, and some without lozens 
 a'thegither; and then siccan fierce faces o' lads that had 
 enlisted, and were keeping themselves drunk night and day on 
 the bounty-money, before ordered to join the regiment in the 
 Wast Indies, and die o' the yallow fever! And what fear- 
 some faces o' limmers, like she-demons, dragging them down 
 into debauchery, and handing them there, as in a vice, when 
 they hae gotten them down, — and, wad ye believe't, swearin 
 and dammin ane anither's een, and then lauchin, and tryin 
 to look lo'esome, and jeerin and leerin like Jezabels. 
 
 Tickler. Hear ! hear ! hear ! 
 
 Shepherd. Dive down anither close, and you hear a man 
 murderin his wife, up-stairs in a garret. A' at ance flees open 
 the door at the stair-head, and the mutchless mawsey, a' 
 dreepin wi' bluid, flings herself frae the tap step o' the flicht 
 to the causeway, and into the nearest change-house, roaring 
 in rage and terror — twa emotions that are no carmy when they 
 chance to forgather — and ca'in for a constable to tak baud 
 o' her gudeman, who has threatened to ding out her brains 
 wi' a hammer, or cut her throat wi' a razor. 
 
 North. What painting, Tickler! What a Salvator is our 
 Shepherd ! 
 
 Shepherd. Down anither close, and a battle o' dowgs ! A 
 ^ A low locality in Glasgow.
 
 HE DESCRIBES HIS CONSTITUENCY. 217 
 
 bull-dowg and a mastiff! The great big brown mastiff moutbin 
 the bull-dowg by the verra hainches, as if to crunch his back, 
 and the wee white bull-dowg never seemin to fash his thoomb, 
 but stickin by the regular set teeth o' his under-hung jaw to 
 the throat o' the mastiff, close to the jugular, and no to be 
 drawn aff the grip by twa strong baker-boys pu'in at the tail 
 o' the tane, and twa strong butcher-boys pu'in at the tail o' 
 the tither — for the mastiff's maister begins to fear that the 
 veeper at his throat will kill him outright, and offers to pay a' 
 betts and confess his dowg has lost the battle. But the crood 
 wush to see the fecht out — and harl the dowgs that are noo 
 worryin ither without ony growHn — ^baith silent, except a sort 
 o' snortin through the nostrils, and a kind o' guUer in their 
 gullets — I say, the crood harl them out o' the midden, ontil 
 the stanes again — and " Weel dune, Caesar." — " Better dune, 
 Veeper," — " A mutchkin to a gill on whitey." — " The muckle 
 ane canna fecht." — " See how the wee bick is worrjdn him 
 now, by a new spat on the thrapple." — " He wud rin awa 
 gin she wad let him loose." — "She's just like her mither that 
 belanged to the caravan o' wild beasts." — " Oh man, Davie, 
 but I wud like to get a breed oiit o' her, by the watch-dowg at 
 Bell-meadow bleachfield, that killed, ye ken, the Kilmarnock 
 carrier's Help in twunty minutes, at Kingswell " 
 
 North. I never heard you speak in such kind before, 
 James 
 
 Shepherd. I'm describing the character o' my constituents, 
 you ken, and should be eloquent, for you wull recoUec that I 
 sat out wi' imagining mysel Member o' Parliament, that is 
 representative o' the Guse-dubs. But, as Horace says, 
 
 " Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines." 
 
 I crave a bumper. Faith claret's no that strong, so I'U drink 
 the toast this time in a tnmmler, " Baith sides o' the Tweed !" 
 Hip — ^hip — hip — hurraw! After a,' I maun confess that I 
 like the Englishers, if they wadna be sae pemicketty^ about 
 what they eat. 
 
 North. Minds like ours, my dear James, must always be 
 above national prejudices, and in all companies it gives me 
 true pleasure to declare, that, as a people, the English are 
 very little indeed inferior to the Scotch. 
 
 1 Pernichetty — particiilar.
 
 218 PEASAJSTT-POETS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna gang sae far as that, Mr North. Indeed, 
 I've often observed that when ye praise an individual or a 
 nation, you are apt to transcend a' bounds o' panegyric, juist 
 out o' the natural goodness o' your heart, that gets the better 
 of the greatness of your understanding. To put an end to 
 the argument a'thegither, you see, or rather to prevent it 
 frae getting a beginning, let me simply ask, Where wall 
 you lind in a' England siccan Poets o' the People, the 
 Peasantry, that is, the Children o' the Soil, the Bairns o' 
 Bank and Brae, as Eobert Bums, Allan Kinningham, and Me ? 
 
 North. Why, James, there is Bloomfield. 
 
 Shepherd. man, Mr North, sometimes after you've ta'en a 
 drap, you do really, indeed, my dear sir — believe me when I say't 
 — speak maist awfu' nonsense ! Bums and Bloomfield indeed! 
 
 North. Why, James, there's Clare. 
 
 Shepherd. I howp, sir, you'll no think me ower impertinent, 
 gin I juist ask how auld you are? You see the drift o' my ques- 
 tion, so I'll no press't. But really, sir, you should be cautious 
 — for at your time o' life Kinningham and Clare indeed ! 
 
 North. Then, James — there is — then, James, there is — ^Let 
 me remember — why, James, there is — ^there is — 
 
 Shepherd. Aha! my man, ye were in howps o' findin a 
 parallel Hkewise to me ? But familiar as you are with the 
 haiU range o' original poetry, and deeply as you feel, and 
 weel's you understand it, you were out o' your reckoning 
 there, my lad — when you thocht to seleo some southern 
 swain to shouther the Shepherd out o' the first rank o' 
 genius — or even to staun by his side ! Havena ye, my dear 
 sir — -just confess ? 
 
 Tickler. What think you of Stephen Duck ? ^ 
 
 Shepherd. That he was a duck — that ye are a guse — and 
 that I am a swan. Ha, ha, ha! that's no a bad pun, Mr 
 Tickler, though I made it mysel. It is at least extempore, 
 and no like some o' your ain apothegems, a month auld at the 
 newest. 
 
 North. Hogg, did you recollect old Parr ? "^ 
 
 Shepherd. How could I recoUec him? I never lived in 
 the reign of Charles the Second ; at least if I did, I do not 
 
 ^ A forgotten poetaster, who died in 1756. 
 
 2 There were two " old Parrs," Pill-Parr and Wig-Parr. Pill-Parr was bora 
 in 1483, and died, it is said, at the age of one hundred and fifty-two years and 
 nine months. Wig-Parr bom in 1751, died in 1825.
 
 OLD PARR. 219 
 
 immediately recollec it — ^but, can it be true, do you think, 
 that he ever was so muckle as twa hundred year auld ? I can 
 scarcely credit it. I ken an auld woman in Ettrick wha's 
 a hundred and fifty by the parish register ; but at that time 
 o' life fifty years makes a great difference, and the period of 
 Parr's age maun be apocryphal. 
 
 Tickler. There has been another Parr, James, since Charles 
 the Second's time — the Man with the Wig. 
 
 Shepherd. Pity me ! my memory's no what it ance was — 
 the Doctor o' Deveenity Parr, wi' the frock and fiizzle, that 
 eat so many muirfowl in our Tent ? ^ I thocht him geyan 
 stupid ; but he took a likin to me, which was sae far in his 
 favour, and therefore I howp he's weel, and no dead yet ? 
 
 North. The Doctor is dead, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, then, you can bring him forward noo as 
 ane of the great English scholars, to shame a' the Scotch 
 anes at Embro', St Andrews, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, Do ye 
 recollec my shooting his wig for a ptarmigan ? 
 
 North. I shall never forget it, James, nor any other inci- 
 dent in the excursion. 
 
 Shepherd. That's mair than I'll answer for. I howp there's 
 mony an incident in the " Excursion " that I hae forgotten, for I 
 cannot say that I recollec ony incident at all in the haill poem, 
 but the Pedlar refusing to tak a tumbler o' gin and water 
 with the Solitary. That did mak a deep impression on my 
 memory, for I thocht it a most rude and heartless thing to 
 decline drinking with a gentleman in his ain house ; but I 
 hope it was not true, and that the whole is a maUgnant in- 
 vention of Mr Wordsworth. 
 
 North. James, you are a satirical dog — a wolf in sheep's 
 clothing. But to return to old Parr ; — just as you do, my 
 dear Shepherd, I have a kindness for all that ever set foot 
 within OTir Tent — even Tims.^ 
 
 Tickler. Come, North, no nonsense. You can never name 
 Tims and Parr in the same sentence. 
 
 Shepherd. And what for no ? I recollec perfectly weel 
 thinkin Dr Parr the maist learned o' the twa, mair especially 
 in Greek and Latin ; but Tims appeared to me in the licht o' 
 a man o' greater natural abeehties. It was wi' the greatest 
 diffeeculty that I got the Priest to comprehend the tithe o' 
 what I said, whereas the Pawnbroker was a bit clever aneuch 
 
 ^ See BlackwoocTs Magazine for Aug. 1819. 2 gee ante, p. 32, note 2.
 
 220 PARRS APHORISMS. 
 
 ape o' a body, and after heaiin me crack twa- three times, 
 although I shallna ventur to say that he guessed my meanin, 
 yet you would hae been surprised to hear how he got haud 
 o' the words, and the verra sound of my idiomatic accent — so 
 that had you steekit your een, you micht hae thocht, when 
 the cretur was speakin, that he was Jamie Hogg ; but, to be 
 sure, on opening them again, you would hae gotten an unco 
 fricht to see that it wasna me but only Tims, afore he took 
 up his French title of Wictoire. And I'm tell't that he can 
 do the same thing, witliin the short length of his tether, wi' 
 the bit pen o' him, in regaird to ither folks' printed style, and 
 has putten forth some byuckies that, a' things considered, are 
 not by any means so very muckle amiss. 
 
 North. Have you seen Parr's Aphorisms, Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. Parr's Aphorisms, North ? No — I have not seen 
 Parr's Aphorisms, North : nor have you — nor will you, nor I, 
 nor any other mortal man, ever see Parr's Aphorisms, North ; 
 for tliis simple reason, that Parr was no more able to utter an 
 aphorism, North, than an old tom-cat to coin a gold guinea, 
 Mr North. 
 
 Shepherd. Is an aphorism onythiag at a' like an apopthegem? 
 
 Tickler. As two peas. 
 
 Shepherd. Then I agree with you, Mr Tickler, that Dr 
 Parr never con9aved — never was delivered of — and never 
 brought up an aphorism in his bom days ; and that the pro- 
 ductions bearing it's name will be found to hae nane o' it's 
 nature ; for the seeds o' an aphorism — at least if it be, Mr 
 North, as Mr Tickler manteens, sib^ to an apopthegem — never 
 were in him ; and he was by nature incapacitated frae bringing 
 forth onything mair valuable than an ipse dixit, or a dogma. 
 
 Tickler. The Aphorisms of Parr ! Next we shall have Pas- 
 torals by Day and Martin, and Epithalamia by Jack Ketch. 
 The author of the Pursuits of Literature never said a truer thing 
 than when he called Parr the Birmingham Doctor — not an 
 imitator, observe, but a mere counterfeit ; having the same 
 relation to the true thing, Samuel Johnson, whom he aped, 
 as the thunder of Drury Lane, which no doubt sounds magni- 
 ficently to the ears of Colbum's theatrical critics in the pit, to 
 that of Jove in the heavens, vec^ik-qyfpeTa Zeus, with which he 
 awes the hearts of nations. 
 
 ^ Sib — akin.
 
 PARIS ON DIET. 221 
 
 North. As an original thinker, I own he was Nemo — 
 nobody ; but as a scholar 
 
 Tickler. Hum — hum mi or — hummissimus, — he was a mere 
 Parolles in a Pedagogue's wig. His preface to Bellendenus, 
 as aU the world knows, was never looked into but for its 
 oddities ; first, that it talked about Fox, and Burke, and Lord 
 North, in Latin — when others talked of them in English ; 
 secondly, that this Latin, as he called it, was a monster of 
 deformity, being in fact a cento made up from every Eoman 
 on God's earth, beginning with Fabius Pictor, and the 
 " Stercus Ennii," down to the "rank Africanisms" (to use 
 Milton's phrase) of Amobius. An EngUsh History could not 
 be more extravagant, composed out of the hoary archaisms of 
 Eobert of Glocester, compounded with the " three-piled" Gib- 
 bonisms of Sharon Turner. " He had been at a great feast of 
 languages, and had stolen the scraps." 
 
 North. I cannot help admiring liis Spital sermon, as 
 
 Tickler. Beyond all comparison the most empty bladder- 
 dash that ever attempted to soar without gas into the ethereal 
 regions. 
 
 North. His Dissertation on the word Sublime at the end of 
 Dugald Stewart's Philosophical Essays? 
 
 Tickler. Ay, a sublime treatise on Mud, vnth some superior 
 remarks on the preposition Sub. The whole amount fi-om a 
 world of pother, parade, and pseudo-learning, is, that Sublime 
 means, not that which is under the mud, but that which is 
 above it ; sub coming not from xmo but from vnep. Small struc- 
 ture as all this would have been, had it stood on a true founda- 
 tion. Professor Dunbar has, I perceive, in an able paper in the 
 last Transactions of the Eoyal Society of Edinburgh, smashed 
 it with an iron hand, and the paltry pile has disappeared. 
 
 Shepherd. I would like, Mr Tickler — if it were not usin ower 
 much liberty — to ask leave to ring the bell for some toasted 
 cheese ? It's a gude while now sin' dinner, and I'm getting 
 roun' again into hunger. 
 
 Tickler. Surely, James, surely — you shall have a ton of 
 toasted cheese. 
 
 North. My friend Paris, a clever and charming fellow, has 
 lately published a work on Diet,^ in which I am equally 
 
 ^ A Treatise on Diet and Regimen. By John Ayrton Paris, M.D. London. 
 1826.
 
 222 SHEPHERD ON PARIS. 
 
 surprised and sorry to see laid down tlie most pernicious and 
 penurious principles. Few fellows play a better knife and 
 fork than Paris ; yet, in theory, he supports the starvation 
 system, which, in practice, he does from the very bottom of 
 his stomach condemn. 
 
 Shepherd. 0, man, there's something very auld-wifish-like 
 in publishing a book to tell folk how to devour their vittles. 
 There's nae mystery in that matter — hunger and thirst are 
 simple straughtforward instincts, no likely to be muckle 
 improved by artificial erudition ; and I'll bet you a cheese to 
 a kibbock^ (by the by, what for is't no coming ben,^ the bit 
 Welch rabbit) that your frien's wark on diet will hae nae per- 
 ceptible influence on the character o' the Table during our age. 
 
 Tickler. The Son of Priam talks away hke a Trojan, as he 
 is, about the dangerous tendency of indulgence in a multipli- 
 city of dishes. 
 
 Shepherd. He's richt there. Nae healthy man has ony use 
 for mair than half-a-dizzen dishes at dinner, — soup, fish, flesh, 
 fowl, tairts, and cheese, is aneuch for ony reasonable 
 
 Tickler. Hush, Heliogobalus — and hear Paris. " The 
 stomach being distended with soup, the digestion of which, 
 from the very nature of the operations which are necessary 
 for its completion, would in itself be a sufficient labour for 
 that organ, is next tempted with fish, rendered indigestible 
 from its sauces ; then vdth flesh and fowl ; the vegetable 
 world, as an intelligent reviewer has observed, is ransacked 
 from the Cryptogamia upwards." 
 
 North. What a precious ninny the said intelligent reviewer ! 
 
 Tickler. " And to this miscellaneous aggregate are added 
 the pernicious pasticcios of the pastry-cook, and the complex 
 combinations of the confectioner. All these evils, and many 
 more, have those who move in the ordinary society of the 
 present day to contend with." 
 
 Shepherd. Hech, sirs ! — Hech, sirs ! — Ha — ^ha — ^ha I Forgie 
 me for bursting out a-lauchin at a clever man, and a frien' o' 
 yours, gentlemen ; but, oh dear me, my sides, heard ye e'er 
 the Like o' that last sentence ! It would be a grand warld, 
 sirs, if man had nae mair evils to contend against than soups, 
 and fish, and flesh, and fowl. As to the whole vegetable 
 
 ^ Kihhoch — cheese made of skimmed milk. 
 
 2 Ben — to the inner chamber. In a Scottish cottage the outer room is called 
 But, and the inner Ben.
 
 shepherd's dietetics. 223 
 
 waiid, frae Cryptogamia upwards, I shall say naetkmg anent 
 that clause in our calamities, never having been at Crypto- 
 gamia, which, for anytliing I ken to the contrary, may be the 
 neist kintra to Mesopotamia ; neither shall I ventme to con- 
 tradic the Doctor about the pastigeos — unless, indeed, he mean 
 pigeon-pies, in wliich case I gie him the lee direct in the 
 maist unequivocal and categorical manner, they being the 
 maist hailsome o' a' bird-pies whatsomever, whether common 
 doecots or cushats — only you maunna eat them ower often, 
 for 
 
 Tickler. But the Doctor continues : " Nine persons in ten eat 
 as much soup and fish as woid.d amply suffice for a meal." 
 
 Shepherd. A lee ! a lee ! — amply suffice for a meal ! 
 
 Tickler. " A new stimulus appears in the form of stewed 
 beef, cotelettes a la supreme ; then comes a Bayonne or West- 
 phalia ham, or a pickled tongue, or some analogous salted, 
 but proportionably indigestible dish, and each of these enough 
 for a single meal." 
 
 Shepherd. He forgets, he forgets, the Doctor forgets, Mr 
 Paris, M.D. forgets that each man in the company cannot for 
 his own individual share eat up the whole of the same indivi- 
 dual dish. Each man only takes a platefu', or twa at the 
 maist, o' each o' thae dishes; for whaever heard o' being 
 helped three times to ilka dish on the board ? Nae man would 
 hae the face to ask it ; and if he did, the prayer o' his peti- 
 tion would not be granted. 
 
 Tickler. " But this is not all ; game foUows ; and to this 
 again succeed the sweets, and a quantity of cheese." 
 
 Shepherd. Quite right — quite right, 0, Mr Tickler, what 
 an effect, after sic a dinner, would Dr Paris produce on a 
 guest by an emetic ! 
 
 Tickler. " The whole is crowned with a variety of flatulent 
 fruits and indigestible nick-nacks, included under the name 
 of dessert, in which we must not forget to notice a moim- 
 tain of sponge-cake." 
 
 Shepherd. And then what a cracking o' nitts, till a pyramid 
 of shells rises up before each member of the club. But there 
 I agree with the Doctor. 
 
 Tickler. " Thus then it is, that the stomach is made to 
 receive, not one full meal, but a succession of meals, rapidly 
 following each other, and vying in their miscellaneous and 
 pernicious nature with the ingredients of Macbeth's cauldron."
 
 224 SHEPHERD SINGS. 
 
 Shepherd. There again Dr Paris speaks great nousense, 
 for Shakespeare raeant no affront to a good denner — and too 
 many great folk quote and allude to him with ignorance and 
 presumption. Macbeth' s cauldron, indeed ! Had the Doctor 
 been right, wha wadna be a witch or a warlock ? But the 
 truth is, he has written down the starvation system by the 
 mere simple statement of that of generous repletion. I wish 
 it were now about a quarter of an hour or ten minutes before 
 denner, instead of twa hours after it ; but I will try and put 
 off till supper ; and meanwhile here goes a sort o' nonsensical 
 
 sang 
 
 There's some souls '11 yammer aud cheep ^ 
 If a wiu'le-strae he in their way ; 
 
 And some through this bright world 'ill creep, 
 As if fear'd for the light o' God's day. 
 
 And some would not lend ye a boddle, 
 Although they would borrow a crown ; 
 
 Aud some folk 'ill ne'er fash their noddle 
 Wha's waukin, if they can sleep soun'. 
 
 And some wi' big scars on their face, 
 Point out a prin scart on a frien' ; 
 
 And some black as sweeps wi' disgrace, 
 Cry out the whole world's unclean. 
 
 Some wha on the best o't can cram, 
 
 Thiuk a'body else maun be fu' ; 
 Some wouldna gie misery a dram, 
 
 Though they swattle themsels till they spew. 
 
 Sure's death ! there can be but sma' pleasure 
 
 In livin 'mang sic a cursed crew, 
 An't werena the soul's sacred treasure, 
 
 The friendship that's found in a few. 
 
 That treasure, let's hoord it thegither, 
 
 Enjoy my gude luck or thole ill, 
 Nor grudge though wine's sent to a brither 
 
 In hoggits, when I've but a gill. 
 
 Then here's to the chiel wha's sae bauld 
 As to trust his ain thought to his tongue, 
 
 Wha e'en, though his trunk's growin auld, 
 Has a soul and a heart that are young. 
 
 1 Written by Hogg.
 
 A CAT-CONCERT, 225 
 
 Before I an auld frien' forget, 
 
 My memory first I maun tine ; — 
 Here's a glass for anither health yet, 
 
 Need'st thou guess, angel woman ! — it's thine. 
 
 North. Thanks — a queer, bold, independent, soul-speaking 
 thing 
 
 Shepherd. Mercy on us ! what a deevil o' a noise ! heard ye 
 ever the like o' that ? 
 
 Tickler. A cat-concert, James. The Toms and Tabbies 
 have overheard your song, and are striking up in return an 
 imitation of the Hunter's Chorus in the "Freischutz." 
 
 Shepherd. I've often thocht it aneuch to sicken ane o' love 
 a' their days, just to reflec that all that hissing and spitting, 
 and snuffing and squeaking, and squealing and howling, 
 and growling and groaning, a' mixed up into ae infernal 
 gallemaufry o' din, unlike onything else even in this noisy 
 world, was, wi' these gentle domestic creatures, the saftest, 
 sweetest expression o' the same tender passion that from 
 Adam's lips whispered persuasion into Eve's ear in the 
 bowers of Paradise ! But it's no possible to thole this ony 
 langer — out wi' the musket, Mr Tickler, and let drive at them 
 — and when a's silent again, I'll gie ye anither sang. 
 
 Tickler. Take advantage of that pause, James, and begin. 
 
 Shejjherd. Up wi' the fiddle, then, and let's hae an accom- 
 paniment o' baith vocal and instnimental music. 
 
 North. Stop, James ! Your mine is inexhaustible. But 
 did you ever hear Irish Johnstone sing — my dear crony of the 
 olden time, Jack Johnstone ? Here goes an attempt at his 
 style of chaunt. 
 
 THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR.* 
 
 AlB— " The Athlone Landlady." 
 
 Oh ! 'twas Dermot O'Eowland M'Figg 
 That could properly handle the twig ! 
 
 He went to the fair, 
 
 And kick'd up a dust there, 
 In dancing the Donnybrook jig. 
 
 With his twig — 
 Oh my blessing is Dermot M'Figg ! 
 
 ^ Written by Crofton Croker. 
 VOL. I. P
 
 226 THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR. 
 
 Wlien lie came to the midst of the fair, 
 He was all in a paugh for fresh air, 
 
 For the fair very soon 
 
 Was as full as the moon, 
 Such mobs upon mobs as were there, 
 
 Oh rare ! 
 So more luck to sweet Donnybrook fair! 
 
 The souls they came pouring in fast, 
 
 To dance while the leather would last, 
 For the Thomas Street brogue, 
 Was there in much vogue, 
 
 And oft with the brogue the joke pass'd, 
 
 Quite fast, 
 
 While the cash and the whisky did last ! 
 
 But Dermot, his mind on love bent, 
 
 In search of his sweetheart he went, 
 Peep'd in here, peep'd in there, 
 As he walk'd through the fair, 
 
 And took a small taste in each tent 
 
 As he went, 
 
 Och ! on whisky and love he was bent. 
 
 When, who should he spy in a jig. 
 With a meal-man, so tall and so big, 
 
 But his own darling Kate, 
 
 So gay and so neat — 
 Faith, her partner he hit him a dig, 
 
 , The pig, 
 He beat the meal out of his wig. 
 
 The piper, to keep him in tune. 
 Struck up a gay lilt very soon. 
 
 Until an arch wag 
 
 Cut a hole in his bag. 
 And at once put an end to the tune 
 
 Too soon — 
 Och ! the music flew up to the moon ! 
 
 To the fiddler, says Dermot M'Figg, 
 
 If you please, sir, play " Sheelah na Gig," 
 We'll shake a loose toe, 
 While you humour the bow ; 
 
 To be sure, you won't warm the wig 
 
 Of J^ITigg, 
 
 Wliile he's dancing a tight Irish jig.
 
 DULCE EST DESIPERE. 227 
 
 But, says Katty, the darling, says she, 
 If you'll only just listen to me. 
 
 It's myself that will show 
 
 Billy can't be your foe, 
 Though he fought for his cousin, that's me, 
 
 Says she ; 
 For sure Billy's related to me ! 
 
 For my o'\^ti cousin-german, Ann Wild. 
 Stood for Biddy Mulroone/s first child, 
 
 And Biddy's step-son, 
 
 Sure he married Bess Dunn, 
 Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild 
 
 A child 
 As ever at mother's breast smiled ! 
 
 And maybe you don't know Jane Brown, 
 
 Who served goats' whey in Dundrum's sweet town. 
 
 'Twaa her uncle's half brother 
 
 That married my mother, 
 And brought me this new yellow gown. 
 
 To go down, 
 When the marriage was held at Miltown. 
 
 By the powers ! then, says Dermot, 'tis plain, 
 Like a son of that rapscallion Cain, 
 
 My best friend I have kilt. 
 
 Though no blood there is spilt. 
 And the devil a harm did I mane, 
 
 That's plain ; 
 But by me he'll be ne'er kilt again ! 
 
 Then the meal-man forgave him the blow 
 That laid him a sprawling so low, 
 
 And, being quite gay. 
 
 Asked them both to the play, 
 But Katty being bashful, said " No, 
 
 Oh No— No!" 
 Yet he treated them all to the show. 
 
 Shepherd. The like o' that was never heard in this warld 
 afore. The brogue as perfec as if you had been born and 
 bred in the bog o' Allen ! How muckle better this kind o' 
 weel-timed daffin that aye gangs on here at Southside, than 
 literary and philosophical conversation, and criticism on the 
 fine arts, and polemical discussion \vi' red faces and fieiy een
 
 228 SHEPHERD IN THE SHOWER-BATH. 
 
 on international policy, and the com laws, and surplus popu- 
 lation, and havers about free Tread ! Was ye in the shower- 
 bath the day, Mr Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. Yes, James — do you take it ? 
 
 Shepherd. I hae never yet had courage to pu' the string. 
 In I gang and shut the door on mysel — and tak haud o' the 
 string very gently, for the least rug 'ill bring down the 
 squash like the Falls of the Clyde ; and I look up to the 
 machine, a' pierced wi' so many water-holes, and then I shut 
 my een and my mouth like grim death, and then I let gae the 
 string, and, gruin a' the time, try to wliistle ; and then I 
 agree to allow myself a respite till I count fifty ; and neist 
 begin to argue "wi' my ain conscience, that the promise 
 I had made to mysel to whumle the splash-cask was only 
 between it and me, and that the warld will ken naething 
 about the matter if I come out again re infedd ; and, feenally, 
 I step out as cautiously as a thief frae a closet, and set myself 
 down in the arm-chair, beside the towel warming at the fire, 
 and tak up the Magazine, and peruse, perhaps, ane o' the 
 "Noctes Ambrosiange," till I'mlike to splitwi' lauchin at my ain 
 wut, forgettin a' the time that the door's no locked, and what 
 a figure I wud present to ony o' the servant-lasses that micht 
 happen to come in lookin for naething, or to some collegian 
 or contributor, come out frae Embro' during the vacance to 
 see the Ettrick Shepherd. But I canna help tliinldn, Mr 
 Tickler, for a' your lauchin, that in a like predicament you 
 would be a mair ridiculous mortal than mysel — But what are 
 ye thinking on, Mr North ? I dinna believe ye hae heard a 
 word o' what I've been saying, — but it's your ain loss. 
 
 North. You were speaking of the Greek loan ? 
 
 Shepherd. I was, sir. Yon's a bonny business!^ 
 
 ^ The details respecting the Greek loan and its gross mismanagement are to 
 be found in the Annual Register for 1826, p. 370-376. The following extract 
 is amusing, as showing that, just as charity begins at home, so the exertions of 
 a great reformer, straining every nerve in behalf of an oppressed people, may 
 end in nothing, except tightening the strings of his own purse, at the expense 
 of those whom he is befriending. The facility of the administrators of the fund 
 in yielding to Joseph Hume's claim is even more astounding than his audacity 
 in advancing it. "In the first loan Mr Hume had assigned to him £10,000 
 stock, at the rate of £.'J9 per hundred, the original price at which the contract was 
 made. Some time afterwards, the bonds having fallen to 16 per cent discount, 
 Mr Humo became alarmed, and applied to the deputies and contractors to 
 relieve him from his loss. The deputies at first refused, — intimating that, if the
 
 THE GREEK LOAN. 229 
 
 North. Master Kicardo is the most disinterested of patriots. 
 Sixty-four thousand pounds of commission is a mere nothing 
 to a man of his wealth, and could not in the least have influ- 
 enced Ms zeal in the cause of Greece. Indeed, the whole 
 management of the concern has been admirable. With what 
 despatch the war steam-boats were built, engined, equipped, 
 manned, officered, and sent to sea ! What greatness of soul 
 in Galloway^ to sacrifice the feelings of a father, and succour 
 the sacred cause of Liberty against the machinations of his 
 own son ! How glorious to behold America sending forth her 
 vapoming vessels at the puny price of some hundred and 
 fifty thousand pounds, to cany the invincible Cochi-ane against 
 the prows of the Egyptian Pasha ! At home and abroad 
 alike, among the friends of Freedom, what honour, what 
 honesty, what valour, what devotedness ! How many martyr- 
 doms, on flood and field, on corse-covered lagoon and bloody 
 battlement, in presence of the spirits of those who died at 
 Plataea and Marathon, while liigh above them all stands the 
 Apparition of Leonidas, undeformed by wounds, and with his 
 radiant tresses wreathed with flowers, as on the night before 
 the sacrifice of Thermopyloe, offered to his country's Gods ! 
 
 Tickler. " The old man eloquent ! " 
 
 Shepherd. It gars me a' gnie, like Rule Britannic frae a 
 band o' regimental music o' the Seventh Hussars, now at 
 
 stock had risen, Mr Hume woiild not have parted with the profit. He, how- 
 ever, insisted on his demand : he was powerful, for he had a control over the 
 proceeds of the loan ; and at length the deputies consented to take the stock 
 off his hand at the rate of 13 per cent discount. Thus Mr Hume lost only 
 £1300 instead of £1600; and the loss of the £300 was gratuitously throion 
 upon Greece I Some time afterwards Greek stock rose above par, and Mr 
 Hume made strenuous and persevering appUcations to have the £1300 returned 
 to him 1 1 The request excited considerable surprise ; but, from an unwilling- 
 ness to disoblige so ardent and faitliful a friend to the Greek cause, this sum 
 u-as also given to himl 1! Still Mr Hume was not satisfied. He discovered that 
 the interest on the £1300, from the date when the contractors took his stock 
 from him, at 13 per cent discount, to the date when they made him a present of 
 the £1300, would amount to £54. He accordingly applied also for this sum of 
 £54, and received it I ! H" — Annual Register, 1826, p. 376. 
 
 1 No part of the mismanagement connected with the Greek loan was more 
 disgraceful than the delay and embezzlement which took place in equipping 
 the war-steamers which had been contracted for to aid in the Uberation of 
 Greece. Galloway, the engineer to whom the construction of the machinery 
 had been committed, had a son in the service of the Pasha of Egypt as an 
 engineer. Hence the ironical allusion in the text : while the father abetted 
 the Greeks, the son stood by the Turks.
 
 230 THE SONG OF THE JANISSARY. 
 
 Jock's Lodge.^ I canna read Greek — except in a Latin trans- 
 lation done into English — the case, I suspect, wi' mony a ane 
 that passes for a sort o' scholar ; but I ken pieces, fragments 
 o' their glorious history. Pope's Homer, West's Pindar, and 
 stray strains o' Plato a Poet in prose ; I have heard as in an 
 echo the thunder o' Demosthenes, have seen casts o' marble 
 statues of their gods and demigods, and godlike men, and 
 oh ! fairer far and mair divinely beautiful even than the 
 loveliest lady that ever reined her palfrey through Ettrick 
 Forest of old, or lowly lassie sitting by herself in her plaid on 
 the brae, moulds of those who were worshipped on earth 
 because of their exceeding brightness, and that in Heaven 
 were paramours of the Deities, and shone from the night- 
 firmament, stationary, or a-flight, o'er a hundred generations 
 now all buried in the dust. Therefore, curses be on the 
 turbans of the Turks, and may Diana sit again between the 
 horns of her own crescent, as it rises radiant ower Mount 
 Latmos and 
 
 North. Sit nearer me, James. I am a little deafish on the 
 one side of my head next my dear Shepherd, and am unwill- 
 ing that a word should be lost. 
 
 Shepherd. I haena the least conception noo o' what I was 
 speakin about ; but somehow or ither I was thinkin o' the 
 soun' o' a trumpet. Damn the Turks ! 
 
 North. By the by, here are some verses I got to-day from 
 a young friend, as yet but little known to the world, yet of 
 whose genius and talents I have high hopes. The lines I 
 think are full of spirit, although I have lying by me composi- 
 tions of his, both in prose and verse, that are perhaps 
 
 Shepherd. Noo, Mr North, dinna let your voice fa' at the 
 ends o' lines, and read as if you were reading before James 
 Ballantyne. 
 
 THE SONG OP THE JANISSARY.^ 
 
 Have they trod down the mighty ? — By sea and by shore, 
 Will our name be a watchword and terror no more ? 
 Has the eagle been hnrl'd from his throne in the air ? 
 Will the fox find a home in the grim lion's lair ? 
 
 o' 
 
 1 Jock's Lodge, a cavalry barrack near Edinburgh. 
 
 2 The janissaries (the old Turkish soldiery, who had become utterly worth- 
 less and corrupt) were destroyed by Sultan Mahmoud II. in 1826, after a 
 bloody struggle.
 
 SEEING DOUBLE. 231 
 
 Have they trod down the mighty ? The victors who stood 
 Eesistless when hfe was pour'd forth like a flood ! — 
 The awarders of empire ! tlie mates of the brave ! — 
 The freemen who hallow'd the land of the slave ! 
 
 Our name is a scorn, and our sabres are rust, 
 Our palace a sepulchre gory in dust, — 
 But again shall its turrets gleam high in the air, 
 And again shall the flash of our sabres be there ! 
 
 Again shall the name of our Aga be known — 
 A spell that o'ershadows the mosque and the throne ; 
 Again shall our foeman grow pale when he hears 
 The tread and the shout of the fierce Janiziers ! 
 
 For a time — for a time may the tyi-ant prevail, 
 
 But himself and his Pashas before us shall quail ; 
 
 The fate that tore Selim in blood from the throne, 
 
 We have sworn, haughty Mahmoud ! shall yet be thy own. 
 
 The warriors of ages ! who fought and who bled 
 With Osman and Amurath — the deathless though dead, — 
 Are they destined to pass like the sunshine of spring ? — 
 Their fame to the winds, and their neck to the string ! 
 
 By the Prophet ! the waves of the Eusine shall stop. 
 The stars from the concave like hailstones shall drop, 
 Ere the traitor and coward may hope to tread down 
 The tameless in soul — the undimm'd in renown. 
 
 We warn thee, stern Mahmoud ! thy hour is at hand. — 
 Thou hast sharpen'd the lance, thou has kindled the brand ; 
 We are gathering like tempests that gather by night. 
 Woe — woe to thee. King ! when we burst in our might ! 
 
 Shepherd. Mony a clever lad ye ken, Mr North. But some- 
 times I think that, like ither auld men, ye pretend to do things 
 you're nae capable o' — and you receeted thae verses as if they 
 were yom- ain. Are they? 
 
 North. No. 
 
 Shepherd. That's aneuch. 
 
 North. Here's a copy of fine verses, James, by the same 
 author, but every line seems written twice over — how is that? 
 
 Shepherd. I never could tell how that happens — but miss 
 every ither line, and a' will be right. 
 
 Tickler. I have observed that, at night, after supper, with 
 ships at sea. Two ships of the line ! not one sliip and one 
 fi-igate — but two eighty-fours. Shut one eye, and there at
 
 232 VEKSES TO LUCY. 
 
 anchor lies, let us say, the Bellerophon — for I am speaking of 
 the olden time. Open the other, and behold two Bellerophons 
 riding at anchor. Optics, as a science, are all very well ; but 
 they can't explain that mystery — not they and be hanged to 
 them — ask Whewell or Airy. But, North, the verses ! 
 
 Shepherd. There' snae mair certainty in mathematical science 
 than in sheep-shearing. The verses ! 
 
 Tickler. The stanzas seem to me to be sixteen lines each, 
 but I will divide them by two, which gives eight verses. 
 
 North. Well, well, James, if you think the Magazine's not 
 falling off 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Tickler, man, I canna stay ony langer — ye see 
 Mr North's gotten unco fou, and I maun accompany him in the 
 cotch down to Buchanan Lodge — Shall I ? 
 
 North. Hogg, as to that, if you don't care about the calcu- 
 lation ; for as to the Apocrypha, and so on, if the Bible Society 
 pay four hundred a-year, really the Christian Instructor — hip 
 — hip — hip ! — Why, Hogg, ye see — the fools are — hun-a — 
 hiirra — ^hurra ! — 
 
 Shepherd. 0, Mr Tickler, North's gotten a mouthfu' o' fresh 
 air when you opened the window, and is as fou's the Baltic. 
 But I'll see him hame. The cotch, the cotch, the cotch, — dinna 
 dint the pint o' your crutch into my instep, Mr North — there, 
 there, steady, steady — the cotch, the cotch. Gude momin. 
 Tickler — what a moon and stars ! 
 
 Tickler. Let him take a sleep, James ; you and he have both 
 had your jokes and jibes, and songs and stories, and I have 
 had no opportunity of showing off the whole night. Let me 
 take that sHp of paper gently out of his hand, and pass off the 
 contents for my own. It is the least unprincipled of aU kinds 
 of plagiarism to rob a sleeping friend. To steal from the dead 
 is sacrilege. Listen ! 
 
 TO LUCY. 
 
 The silver tones of woman's tongue, 
 
 The eloquence of woman's eyes, 
 A thousand nameless bards have sung, 
 
 The strains unheeded by the wise. 
 I would not be a bard like them 
 
 Even for the heaven of Lucy's smile. 
 And Lucy would herself condemn 
 
 The flatterer's deceitful wile.
 
 VERSES TO LUCr. 233 
 
 I could not tell thee how I love, 
 
 Nor paint the charms I find in thee, 
 Though every leaf in yonder grove 
 
 Changed into winged words for me ; 
 But, Lucy ! to this heart of mine 
 
 Let me thy gentle fingers press, — 
 Each rapid bounding throb is thine, 
 
 And every throb is happiness. 
 
 Lucy ! it is the holy hour 
 
 When sunlight dies upon the sea — 
 When pearls are hung on every flower, 
 
 And birds are hush'd on every tree. 
 Open the lattice— all is mute. 
 
 Mute as the beams of yon pale star ; 
 T would not even have thy lute 
 
 The music of such silence mar. 
 
 Methinks there is in it a spell 
 
 That gives the soul a higher sway, 
 And thoughts that oft in darkness dwell, 
 
 Start into life in bright array : 
 Thoughts— feelings— ecstasies — that fling 
 
 A sudden joy through both our bosoms. 
 Like flowers in moonlight, or like spring 
 
 That wreaths on every bough her blossoms. 
 
 Each other's world we long have been, 
 
 Our eyeg their sun — or arms their zone. 
 But now a something felt — not seen — 
 
 Gives to oui' bhss a higher tone ; 
 While we can clasp each other thus. 
 
 In love's deep purity entwined. 
 Oh ! what is all this earth to us '? — 
 
 Earth cannot bound the chainless mind ! 
 
 Our souls, like clouds at break of day. 
 
 Across the sun's bright pathway driven. 
 Have into light resolved away — 
 
 O God ! the light— the light of Heaven ! 
 My spirit floats in liquid light. 
 
 Like skiS" upon a sapphire sea. 
 O Lucy ! we have seen to-night 
 
 A glimpse of Heaven's eternity 1
 
 234 LITERARY JEALOUSY. 
 
 Lucy ! it is a time for prayer — 
 
 A time for thoughts we cannot speak, 
 But in the blue and starry air 
 
 Our thoughts will find the home they seek. 
 Kneel with me Lucy, side by side, — 
 
 We are not things of dust and clay, 
 Thou art my own immortal bride, — 
 
 Kiieel with me, dearest ! — we will pray. 
 
 Shepherd. Thae verses are nae small beer, Tickler. You're 
 a bad reader, but they read themselves — sae fu' o' pathos and 
 poetry. Here's the health o' the chiel that wi'ote them. 
 
 North [awakes sober). Have you read the "Hints for the 
 Holidays," ^ James ? and how do you like them ? 
 
 Shepherd. I enterteen ower muckle envy and jealousy o' 
 that awthor, fairly to judge or fully to enjoy ony o' his warks. 
 He does the same o' me — so we're on a fittin^ o' equality. 
 
 Tickler. In short, there's no love lost between you. 
 
 Shepherd. I hope not — for I love liim as weel as ony 
 freen I hae — and sae I verily believe does he me. But, oh ! 
 that leeterary envy and jealousy to which we are baith a 
 prey. It embitters the very heart' s-bluid. 
 
 North. I never felt such passions. 
 
 Shepherd. Because, ye see, Mr North, ye staun ower high 
 aboon a' ither editors. Wi' a weel-pleased face, you keep 
 lookin down on them — and where's the merit in your seeing 
 them, without envy or jealousy, plouterin in the dubs,' or 
 brastlin up the braes, or sittin down pechin* on " Kest and be 
 thankfu'."^ But mind that to you they're a' lookin up — that 
 " they sigh the more because they sigh in vain," yet glad 
 glad would they be if they could rug ye doun frae your throne 
 by the tail o' the coat, or drag the crutch out o' your nieve, or 
 even mislay your specs, that they might dim your perspica- 
 city ! I hae often heard ither editors, and their contributors, 
 wondering how auld ye really were, some o' tliem moving ye 
 up as heigh as fourscore ! They try, but it winna do, to 
 believe it possible that ye may have some constitutional ten- 
 dency to apoplexy, and swear, against the testimony o' their 
 
 1 Contributed to BlackwoocVs Magazine, Nos. cxiv., cxvi., CXVII., by 
 Professor Wilson. ^ Fittin — footing. 
 
 3 Plouterin in the dubs — floundering in the puddles. •* Pechin — panting. 
 
 5 A seat on the summit of tho ascent in Glencroe — a wild Highland pass — 
 is so called.
 
 NORTH GENERALLY ABHORRED. 235 
 
 ain senses, that you're unco short in the neck. There's no a 
 better complaint to bring against a man than cholera morbus, 
 and wi' that, sir, they have charged ye several times, even to 
 the length o' death. In the Great Fire o' Edinburgh, a far 
 greater ane than the Great Fire o' London, in proportion to 
 the size o' the twa toims, and that's a' a Scotchman need 
 contend for, it was rumoured that ye had perished under a 
 fall o' fieiy rafters. That sough ^ I traced mysel back to the 
 Seven Young Men;^ and, nae doubt, mony mony howped ye 
 had been in the Comet. 
 
 North. It is not in my power to bring myself to believe that 
 I can be hated by any human being, James. It is not, indeed. 
 
 Shepherd. Hated — by some you're just perfectly abhorred ! 
 your name's just anither name for Sawtan ; and the sanctum 
 sanctorum, in their imagination, what ither place but, to be 
 plain wi' ye, preceesely hell ? 
 
 North. That is very discouraging to 
 
 Shepherd. Discouragin! What! to be hated, abhorred, 
 feared by the bad and the base, the paltry and the profligate, 
 the sinfu', and, what's sometimes waur than sinfu', the stupit ? 
 What for didna baith o' you twa come up to the moors on the 
 Twalf this season ? 
 
 Tickler. We were at Dalnacardoch, you ignoramus, also at 
 Dalwhinnie, along Loch Ericht, over from Dall to Megamey, 
 at the head of Glen-Lyon, thence across the Moor o' Eeftinoch 
 to the head o' Glenorchy ; then pluff— pluff— rap — rap — slab 
 — bang in the direction of Inverary — away round by Caim- 
 dow — from that ower some grand shooting-ground to the 
 Cobler^ sitting in the Clouds above AiTOchar and Loch Long 
 — and fmally, skirting the coast over against Greenock, a 
 steamer took us to Glasgow, where the rums were looking up, 
 the punch was pleasant, and the people given to geggery, 
 every house hospitable, and a set of first-rate fellows flourish- 
 ing at The Club. 
 
 Shepherd. It wasna fair no to let me ken. 
 
 Tickler. The truth is, James, that North was in rather an 
 odd way, and did not like to be looked at by anybody but 
 me 
 
 ^ Sough — rumour. 
 
 2 The contributors to Cotistable's Magazine were so characterised by -B/ac^-woorf. 
 
 3 A lofty mountain in Argyllshire is so called, from the appearance it pre- 
 sents of a cobbler bending over his last.
 
 236 CHEEK UP, MR NORTH. 
 
 Shepherd. Didna like to be looked at by ony ither body but 
 you ! He maun hae been in an odd way indeed. — Was ye 
 rather a wee wrang in the head, sir ? If sae, I can sympa- 
 theeze wi' you, for I was geyan ill mysel in that way about 
 the time that I was writing the " Pilgrims o' the Sun." 
 
 Tickler. Not then, James. It was when you were engaged 
 in writing Memoirs of your own Life. 
 
 Shepherd. Cheer up, Mr North, cheer up ! Oh, my dear 
 sir, whenever the Magazine wants a gran' article, only ask me, 
 and ye shall hae't. I hate to see ye sae down i' the mouth. 
 
 North. Nobody can understand my feelings, James. I am 
 an unliappy man. The Magazine is getting every month 
 stupider and stupider. I think — that is, Ebony thinks of 
 reducing the price to two shillings, and augmenting the sheets 
 to twelve. Kousseau in his Confessions — and the Opium- 
 Eater 
 
 Shepherd. Cheer up, Mr North, cheer up. You hae nae 
 occasion for Eousseau, and he's ower far aff to send articles 
 without a sair expense — and naebody kens where he is ; and 
 as for the Opium-Eater, he lives in a world o' his ain, where 
 there are nae Magazines o' ony sort,, but o' hail and sleet, and 
 thunder, and Kchtnin, and pyramids, and Babylonian terraces 
 covering wi' their fallen gardens, that are now naething but 
 roots and trunks o' trees, and bricks o' pleasure-houses, 
 the unknown tombs o' them that belonged ance to the 
 Beasts in the Revelations, and were ordered to disappear by a 
 hand on a wall, shadow and substance baith emblems — (is 
 that the word?) — o' the thousan years transitory greatness of 
 the michty — ignorant, that at the verra best they were the 
 ghosts of ghosts, shadows of dreams, and tenth-cousins to 
 the dust, frailer and mair evanescent than their dry relation 
 wha is himsel disowned by that proud landed proprietor — 
 Earth! 
 
 North. Surely Ambrose has made some alteration in his 
 house lately. I cannot make out tliis room at all. It is not 
 the Blue Parlour ? 
 
 Shepherd. We're at Southside, sir — we're at Southside, sir 
 — perfectly sober ane and a' ; but dinna be alarmed, sir, if 
 you see twa cotches at the door, for we're no gaun to separate 
 — there's only ane, believe me — and I'll tak a hurl wi' ye as 
 far's the Harrow.
 
 X. 
 
 (NOVEMBER 1826.) 
 
 Scene, — Ambrose^ s Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlour. 
 Shepherd, Korth, and Tickler. 
 
 Shepherd. Do you ken, Mr North, that I'm beginning to 
 like this snug wee roomy in Mr Awmrose's New Hotel, maist 
 as weel's the Blue Parlour in the dear auld tenement? 
 
 North. Ah no, my dear James, none of us will ever be able 
 to bring our hearts to do that ; to us, Gabriel's Eoad will aye 
 be holy and haunted ground. George Cooper^ is a fine 
 fighter and a civil landlord, but I cannot look on his name on 
 that door without a pensive sigh ! Mr Ambrose's worthy 
 brother has moved, you know, up stairs, and I hobble in upon 
 him once a fortnight for auld langsyne. 
 
 Shepherd. I aften wauken greetin' ^ £rae a dream about that 
 dear dear tenement. " But what's the use o' sigliing, since 
 life is on the wing ; " and but for the sacredness o' a' thae 
 recollections, tliis house — this hotel — is in itsel preferable, 
 perhaps, to our ancient howf. 
 
 North. Picardy is a pleasant place, and our host is pros- 
 perous. No house can be quieter and more noiseless. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a great maitter. You'll recollect me ance 
 lodgin in Anne Street,^ noo nae langer in existence, — a steep 
 street, ye ken, rinnin down alang the North Brig towards 
 where the New Markets are, but noo biggit up vn' a' thae new 
 buildings 
 
 1 George Cooper, a respectable man, although a pugilist, succeeded Ambrose 
 in Gabriel's Road. 3 Greetin — weeping. 
 
 ^ The Scottish Central Railway terminus is close to the site where Anne 
 Street formerly stood.
 
 238 THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 
 
 North. That I do, James. 'Twas there, up a spiral stone 
 staircase, in a room looking towards the Castle, that first I saw 
 my Shepherd's honest face, and first I ate along with him 
 cod's head and shoulders. 
 
 Shepherd. We made a nicht o't wi' twa dear freens^ ; — ane 
 o' them at this hour in Ettrick, and the ither ower the saut 
 seas in India, an Episcopalian chaplain. 
 
 North. But let's be merry, James. Om- remembrances are 
 getting too tender. 
 
 Shepherd. What I was gaun to say was this, — that yon room, 
 quate** as it seemed, was aften the maist infernally noisy 
 chawmer on the face o' this noisy earth. It wasna far, ye 
 ken, frae the playhouse. Ae wunter there was an afterpiece 
 ca'd the Burnin o' Moscow, that was performed maist every 
 nicht. A while afore twal the Kremlin used to be blawn up ; 
 and the sorm', like thunder, wauken'd a' the sleepin dowgs 
 in that part o' the town. A' at ance there was set up siccan 
 a barkin, and yellin, and youlin, and growlin, and nyaflS.n, and 
 snaffin, and clanldn o' chains fi'ae them in kennels, that it was 
 waur than the din o' aeiial jowlers pursuing the wild hunts- 
 men through the sky. Then cam the rattlin o' wheels, after 
 Moscow was reduced to ashes, that made the dowgs, especially 
 the watch anes, mair outrageous than ever, and they keepit 
 rampaugin in their chains on tiU past twa in the mornin. 
 About that hour, or sometimes suner, they had wauken'd a' 
 the cocks in the neebourhood — baith them in preevate families 
 and in poulterers' cavies ; and the creturs keepit crawin de- 
 fiance to ane anither quite on to dawn o' licht. Some butchers 
 had ggem-cocks in pens no far frae my lodgings ; and oh ! 
 but the deevils incarnate had hoarse, fierce, cruel craws I 
 Neist began the dust and dung carts ; and whare the mail- 
 coaches were gaun, or comin frae, I never kent, but ilka half- 
 hour there was a toutin o' horns — lang tin anes, I'm sure, frae 
 the scutter o' broken-winded soun'. After that a' was din 
 and distraction, for day-life begude'' to roar again; and aften 
 
 J Mr Grieve of Cacra Bank, Ettrick, an Edinburgh merchant ; and Mr 
 James Gray, one of the masters of the High School, The latter was an accom- 
 plished linguist. After leaving the High School, he held an appointment in 
 Belfast College, and died in India, in the service of the Church of England, 
 while engaged in translating the Scriptures into one of the native dialects. 
 
 ^ ^waie— quiet. ^ Begude — began.
 
 A HUNTING-PIECE. 239 
 
 hac I risen without ever having bowed an ee, and a' owing to 
 the biinnn o' Moscow, and blawin up o' the Kremlin. 
 
 North. Nothing of the sort can happen here. Tliis must 
 be a sleeping house fit for a Sardanapalus. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll try it this verra nicht. — But what for tauk o' 
 bedtime sae sune after denner ? It's really a bit bonny parlour. 
 
 North. What tliink you, James, of that pattern of a paper 
 on the wall ? 
 
 Shepherd. I was sae busily employed eatin durin denner, 
 and sae muckle mair busier drinldn after denner, that, wnill 
 ye believe me when I say't, that gran' huntin-piece paperin 
 the wa's never ance caught my een till this blessed moment ? 
 Oh sii-s, but it's an inspeeritin picture, and I wush I was but 
 on horseback, following the hounds I 
 
 Tickler. The poor stag ! how his agonies accumulate, and 
 intensify in each successive stage of his doom, flying in dis- 
 traction, like Orestes before the Furies ! 
 
 Shepherd. The stag ! confoun' me gin I see ony stag. But 
 yen's a lovely leddy — a Duchess — a Princess — or a Queen — 
 wha keeps aye crownin the career, look whare you wull — 
 there soomin^ a ford like a Na'iad — there pkmgin a Bird o' 
 Paradise into the forest's gloom — and there, lo ! reappearing 
 star- bright on the mountain brow ! 
 
 North. Few ladies look loveable on horseback. The 
 bimiping on theii' seat is not elegant ; nor do they mend the 
 matter much when, by means of the crutch, they rise on the 
 saddle like a postilion, buckskin breeches excepted. 
 
 Tickler. The habit is masculine, and, if made by a country 
 tailor, to ordinary apprehension converts a plain woman into 
 a pretty man. 
 
 North. No modest female should ever sport beaver. It 
 gives her the bold air of a kept-mistress. 
 
 Tickler. But what think you of her elbows, hard at work 
 as those of little Tommy Lye, the Yorkshire Jockey, begin- 
 ning to make play on a north-country horse in the Doncaster 
 St Leger, when opposite the Grand Stand ? 
 
 North. How engagingly delicate the virgin splattering 
 along, whip in mouth, draggle-tailed, and with left leg bared 
 to the Ivuee-pan ! 
 
 Shepherd. Taiik awa — tauk awa — ye twa auld revilers; 
 
 1 Soomin — swimming.
 
 240 DIANA ON HORSEBACK. 
 
 but let me hae anither glower o' my galloping goddess, gleam- 
 ing gracefully through a green glade, in a' the glorious grim- 
 ness of a grove of gigantic forest-trees ! 
 
 Tickler. What a glutter o' gutturals ! 
 
 Shepherd. that some moss-hidden stump, like a snake in 
 the grass, wud but gar her steed stumble, that she might 
 saftly glide outower the neck before the solitary shepherd in 
 a flichter o' rainbow light, sae that I were by to come jookin 
 out frae ahint an aik, like a Satyr, or rather the god Pan, and 
 ere her lovely limbs cou'd in their disarray be veiled among 
 the dim wood violets, receive into my arms and bosom — 
 blessed burthen ! — the peerless Forest Queen ! 
 
 North. Oh gentle Shepherd ! — thou fond idolater ! — how 
 canst thou thus in fancy burn with fruitless fires before the 
 image of that beautiful cruelty, all athirst and a-wing for 
 blood? 
 
 Shepherd. The love that starts up at the touch o' imagina- 
 tion, sir, is o' mony million moods. — A beautiful Cruelty! 
 Thank you, Mr North, for the poetic epithet. 
 
 North. Such Shapes, in the gloom of forests, hunt for the 
 souls of men ! 
 
 Shepherd. Wood -witch, or DeU-deevil, my soul would 
 follow such a Shape into the shades o' death. Let the 
 Beautiful Cruelty wear murder on her face, so that sometlung 
 in her fierce eyeballs lure me to a boundless love. I see 
 that her name is Sin; and those figures in the rear, vsdth 
 black veils, are Remorse and Repentance. They beckon me 
 back into the obscure wi' lean uplifted hands, and a bony 
 shudder, as if each cadaver were a clanking skeleton ; but the 
 closer I come to Sin, the farther awa and less distinct do 
 they become ; and, as I touch the hem o' her garment, where 
 are they gone ? 
 
 North. James, you must have been studying the German 
 Romances. But I see your aim — there is a fine moral 
 
 Tickler. Curse all German Romances. — {Rings the hell 
 violently.) 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, Mr Tickler, just sae. You've brak the bell- 
 rope, ye see, wi' that outrageous jerk. What are ye wantin ? 
 
 Tickler. A spitting-box. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoots ! You're no serious in sayin you're gaun 
 to smoke already ? Wait till after sooper.
 
 A TWINGE AND ITS CURE. 241 
 
 Tickler. No, no, James. I rang for our dear Clmstopher's 
 cushion, I saw, by the sudden twist that screwed up his 
 chin, that his toe twinged. — Is the pain any milder now, sir ? 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, sir ! oh, sir ! say that the pain's milder noo, 
 sir ! — Oh, dear me ! only to think o' your listenin to my stupid 
 havers, and never betrayin the least uneasiness, or wish to 
 interrupt me, and gaur me haud my tongue ! — Oh, sir ! oh, 
 sii' I say that the pain's milder noo, sir ! 
 
 North. Wipe my brow, James — and let me have a glass of 
 cold water. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll wipe your broo. Pity me — pity me — a' 
 drappin wi' cauld sweat ! But ye maunna tak a single 
 mouthfu' o' cauld water. My dearest sir — its poishin for the 
 gout — try a soup o' my toddy. There ! grasp the tummler wi' 
 baith your hauns. Aff wi't — it's no Strang. — Arena ye better 
 noo, sir ? Isna the pain milder noo ? 
 
 North. Such filial tenderness, my dear boy, is not lost on 
 oh ! gemini — that was the devil's own tv\dnge ! 
 
 Shepherd. What's to be dune ? What's to be dune ? 
 Pity me, what's to be dime ? 
 
 North. A single small glass, James, of the unchristened 
 creature, my dear James. 
 
 Shepherd. Aj, ay — that's like your usual sense. Here it's 
 — open your mouth, and I'll administer the di'aught wi' my 
 ain haims. 
 
 Tickler. See how it runs down his gizzem, his gizzem, his 
 gizzem, see how it runs down his gizzem — ye ho ! ye ho ! ye ho ! ^ 
 
 North. Bless you, James — it is very reviving — continue to 
 converse — you and Tickler — and let me wrestle a Little in 
 silence with the tormentor. 
 
 Shepherd. Wha wrote yon article in the Magazine on 
 Captain Cleeas and Jymnastics ? ^ 
 
 Tickler. Jymnastics ! — James, — if you love me — G hard. 
 The other is the Cockney pronunciation. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, then, GGGhhymnastics 1 WuU that do ? 
 
 Tickler. I WTote the article. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a damned lee. It was naebody else but 
 Mr North himsel. But what for didna he describe some o' 
 the fates^ o' the laddies at the Edinburgh Military Academy, 
 
 1 This is the fag-end of some old Bacchanalian ditty. 
 
 2 See a7ite, p. 33, note 2. 3 _Fates — feats. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 GYMNASTICS. 
 
 on tlie Saturday afore their vacanse ? I never saw tlie 
 match o' yon ! 
 
 Tickler. What tricks did the imps perform ? 
 
 Shepherd. They werena tricks — they were fates. First, 
 ane after anither took hand o' a transverse bar o' wud aboon 
 their heads, and raised their cliins ower't by the power o' 
 their arms, wi' a' the ease and elegance in the warld. Every 
 muscle, frae wrist to elbow, was seen doin its wark, aneath 
 the arms o' their flannel-jackets. Then ane after anither 
 mounted like so many squirrels up to anither transverse bar — 
 (transverse means cross.) 
 
 Tickler. Thank ye, James, — you are a glossarial Index. 
 
 Shepherd. Eh ? What ? — and leanin ower't on their breasts, 
 and then catching hand, by some unaccountable cantrip, o' 
 the waistband o' their breeks, awa they set heels ower head, 
 wliirligig, whirligig, whirligig, wi' a smoke-jack velocity, that 
 was pei-fectly confoundin, the laddie doin't being nae mair 
 distinguishable in lith and limb, than gin he had been a bunch 
 o' claes hung up to frichten craws in the fields, within what's 
 ca'd a wund-mill. 
 
 Tickler. I know the exercise — and have often done it in my 
 own back-green. 
 
 Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! What maun the neebors hae 
 thought the first time they saw't, looldn out o 'their wundows; 
 or the second aither ? Ha, ha, ha, ha ! What a subject for 
 a picture by Geordie Cruickshanks — Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Tickler. Your laugh, Hogg, is coarse — it is offensive. 
 
 Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! My lauch may be coorse. 
 Tickler, for there's naetliing superfine about me ; but to nae 
 man o' common sense can it, on sic an occasion, be offensive. 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Oh dear me ! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, 
 ba ! Lang Timothy whurlin round a cross-bar, up in the air 
 amang the rowan-tree^ taps, in his ain back-green at South- 
 side ! ! ! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! I wush I mayna choke 
 mysel. 
 
 Tickler. Sir, you are now a fit object of pity — not of anger 
 or indignation. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm glad o' that, for I hate to see ye angry, sir. 
 It gars ye look sae unco ugly — perfectly fearsome. Weel, 
 
 ^ This rowan tree, or mountain ash, still flourishes in the back-green of 
 No. 20 George Square, formerly occupied by Mr Robert Sym.
 
 AN ERA m EDUCATION. 243 
 
 tlien, after the whirlin, then first ae laddie, and tlien anither, 
 took a grup o' a lang rope lunging down to the grund frae a 
 bar thi-etty feet heech ; ^ and then, haun o'er head, up they 
 swung, like sae mony prime seamen in a storm ; and in a 
 jiffey were seen sittin aloft, arms a-kimbo, and legs across, 
 the same thing as on chairs — a' the crood ruffin the exploit, 
 and the maisters o' the Academy walkin weel-pleased about 
 underneath, as they weel micht be, wi' the proficiency o' their 
 poopils. In a minute the active creatures caught baud fu-st 
 o' ae rape, and then o' anither ; for some dizzen rapes were 
 danglin doun frae the bar ; and wad ye believe, they crossed 
 in that mainner the haill breadth o' the court, just as if they 
 were on the riggin o' a sliip ? 
 
 North. It must indeed have been a pretty sight, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, Mr North ! is that your vice ? I am glad 
 to see you've come roun'. Then began the loupin and ither 
 ggghymnastics ; and never saw I sic a set o' Eobin-good- 
 fellows, bouncin ower hichts as heech as my nose. 
 
 North. Was there no danger, James, in all these exploits ? 
 
 Shepherd. None whatsomever. Captain Cleeas tells us in 
 his byuck, that among thousans o' boys performin their evo- 
 lutions every day for years, not a single serious accident has 
 ever occurred — and now I believe't. It was curious to see the 
 verra mithers o' the callants, and their bits o' bonny sisters, and 
 aibhns sweethearts, a' sittin on benches as in the playhouse, 
 viewin them gaun tapsalteerie in the lift, v^ithout a shiver or 
 a shriek. 
 
 North. I understand the system has been brought into play 
 at Herict's Hospital — (now under excellent management, 
 thanks to Mr Bookseller Blackwood, Mr Surgeon Wood, Dr 
 Brunton, and others for that) — and next year it is to be intro- 
 duced into the New Academy. I hope the High School will 
 follow the example — for what other recreation at once so 
 joyous and so useful ? The credit of establishing the sys- 
 tem in Scotland will then be due to that excellent nobleman 
 and soldier. Lord Eobert Kerr, and my worthy friend Sir 
 Patrick Walker, whose zeal and knowledge in eveiything 
 they have done about the Militaiy Academy, is above all 
 praise. 
 
 Shepherd. It's an aera in edication — and I howp Captain 
 
 ^ Heech — ^high.
 
 244 DESCRIPTION OF EDINBURGH. 
 
 Cleeas '11 come to Scotland some day. We'll gie him a gran' 
 dernier at Awmrose's ; and to Mr Voelkner too, wha's a 
 capital Ggghymnast, likewise, they say, and a model o' a man 
 for muscularity and banieness, mthout an unce o' superfluous 
 flesh, and balanced in a' his powers, to verra perfection. 
 Major Downes,* I'm sure, '11 accept an inveetation, and we'll 
 be a' glad to do honour to sic a clever and accomplished 
 offisher; nor maun we forget honest Serjeant Lawson, wha 
 has proved himsel a worthy disciple o' Cleeas, and dune 
 wonders wi' his poopils in sae short a time. We'll a' get fou 
 thegither, and we'll hae a rape frae the ceilin for a game at 
 Ggghymnastics afore oysters. Mr Tickler's back-green prac- 
 tice vnl\ gie him a great advantage. 
 
 Tickler. Ah! Jamie, Jamie — nae mair o' your satire- 
 shafts, for like elf-shots they're no canny. 
 
 Shepherd. Gie's your haun. Ay, that's a hearty squeeze. 
 Nane o' thae cauldiife forefinger touches for me, that fine 
 folk are sae fond o'. I like a grasp that gars the nails grow 
 red, for then the bluid gangs back wi' birr again in circu- 
 lation to the heart. 
 
 Tickler. Your right hand, my dear Shepherd, is like a vice, 
 in friendship or in love. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm out o' breath, Ane o' you tak up the thread 
 o' the discoorse, or rather spin a new yarn. Mr North, sir, 
 gie's ane o' your gran' speeches. I want to fa' asleep. 
 
 North. Yes, Edina, thou ai-t indeed a noble city, a metro- 
 poHs worthy the Land of Mountain and of Flood, Glen, Forest, 
 Loch, and long- winding arms of Ocean ! Queen of the North ! 
 which of thy august shrines dost thou love the best — the 
 Castle-CHff, within whose hoary battlements Kings were born 
 — the Green Hill looking down on deserted Holyrood — the 
 Craigs smitten into grandeur and beauty by time and the ele- 
 ments — or the Mountain, like a lion couchant, reposing in the 
 sky?' 
 
 Shepherd. Losh me ! that's beautifu' language. 
 North. The glorious works of Nature everywhere overshadov/ 
 those of man's hands, and her primeval spirit yet reigns, with 
 paramount and prevaiHng power, over the region that art has 
 
 1 At this time Major Dowries was the superintendent of the Military 
 Academy which had been recently instituted in Edinburgh. 
 3 Arthur Seat and Salisbury Crags.
 
 SHEPHERD GETS DROWSY, 245 
 
 made magnificent with spires and obelisks, towers, temples, 
 and palaces ! 
 
 Shepherd. Nane o' your astmatic coughs — on wi' ye — on wi' 
 ye — ^ye deevil. 
 
 North. Wheel round the city as on eagle's wing, slamming 
 the edge of the smoke, and the din, and the tumult, in itself a 
 world, yet bordered how beautifully by another world of plains, 
 woods, and ranges of hills, and that glorious Firth — all silent, 
 serene, sublime — and overhead a heaven swept into cloudless 
 azure by the sea-blasts, and stretching out an ample circum- 
 ference for the path of the sun ! 
 
 Shepherd. Eh ? Was ye speakin to me? Ou ay, it's a gude jug. 
 
 North. Eastward — those are ships hanging afar off between 
 
 wave and weathergleam ; — westward — those are not clouds, 
 
 but snow-capt mountains, whose sides are thundering with 
 
 cataracts, and round whose bases lie a hundred lakes. 
 
 Shepherd. Whoo — ah — uch — awe ! 
 
 North. The eye needs not, here, the aid of Imagination : 
 but Imagination >vill not, in such a scene, suffer the eye to be 
 without her aid. The past and the future she makes to darken 
 or brighten on the present — the limits of the horizon she ex- 
 tends afar — and round " stately Edinborough, throned on 
 craggs," arises a vision of old Scotland from sea to sea ! 
 
 Shepherd [starting). Lord, sirs, Ithocht I had coupit ower a 
 precipice just then. 
 
 North. Thou hast been a great traveller. Tickler. Say, then, 
 if ever thou didst behold a more splendid Panorama ? Con- 
 jure up in competition the visions of great Capitals — for 
 there is room enough in the mind's domain for them all — for 
 all the metropolitan cities whose hum is heard in the centre of 
 continents, by the flo^^^ng of rivers, or along the sounding sea- 
 shore. Speak thou — and I shall be silent. Let those stone build- 
 ings fall into insignificance before mansions of marble — those 
 domes sink to the dust beneath the height of Oriental cupolas 
 — those puny squares disappear beside palace-bounded plains, 
 on which a people might congregate — and those streets slnink 
 up like a scroll, as fancy sees interminable glens of edifices, 
 from which the music from the van of a mighty army would 
 be emerging as the rear was entering the gate. 
 
 Shepherd. Did ye say ye heard the bawn ? ^ Are the sodgers 
 
 1 Bawn — band.
 
 246 SHEPHERD STRUGGLES AGAINST SLEEP. 
 
 gauii by ? If sae, I maun hae a look out o' the wundow. 
 Hoots, ye gouk, it's only the watchmen crawing the hour to 
 ana anither like sae mony midden-cocks. Dinna be angry gin 
 I lay down my head on the table — for it's a lang ride, sirs, 
 £rae Mount Benger, and the beast I hae the noo's an awfu' 
 hard trotter, and his canter's a wearifu' wallop. Do ye think 
 Mr Awmrose could gie me the lend o' a nicht-cap? 
 
 Tickler. Why, James, I have heard you talk in your sleep 
 better than any other man awake, half-an-acre-broad. The 
 best ghost story I ever shuddered at, you delivered one Christ- 
 mas midnight, to the accompaniment of one of your very finest 
 snores. 
 
 Shepherd. Wauken me, Mr Tickler, when Mr North's dune. 
 Whew — hoo — whew — hoo — whew — hoo — ho, ho — ho, ho — ^ho, 
 ho — ^hro — ^hro — liro — ^hro — hro — ^hro ! 
 
 Tickler. Had I never heard the Shepherd in his sleep before, 
 North, I could have sworn from that snore that he played the 
 fiddle. What harmony ? Not a note out of tune. 
 
 North. Why he is absolutely snoring the " Flowers of the 
 Forest." A Jew's harp 's a joke to it. Heavens ! Tickler, 
 what it is to be a man of genius ! 
 
 Shepherd. A man o' genius ! Did ye never ken afore that I 
 was a man o' genius ? But I really feel it's no gude manners 
 to fa' asleep in sic company ; so I'll do a' I can to struggle 
 against it. Gang on wi' your bonny description, sir. Just 
 suppose yoursel speakin to some stranger or ither frae Eng- 
 land, come to see Embro' — and astonish the weak native. 
 
 North. Stranger ! wilt thou take us for thy guide, and ere 
 sunset has bathed Benledi in fast-fading gold, thou shalt have 
 the history of many an ancient edifice — tradition after tradition, 
 delightful or disastrous — unforgotten tales of tears and blood, 
 wept and shed of old by kings and princes and nobles of the 
 land? 
 
 Shepherd. man, but that's bonny, bonny ! Ye hae mair 
 genius nor me yoursel. 
 
 North. Or threading our way through the gloom of lanes 
 and alleys, shall we touch your soul with trivial fond records 
 of humbler life, its lowliest joys and obscurest griefs? for oh! 
 among the multitudes of families all huddled together in that 
 dark bewilderment of human dwellings, what mournful know-
 
 NOKTH GOES ON DESCRIBING, 247 
 
 ledge have we from youth to age gathered, in our Bmall ex- 
 perience, of the passions of the human heart ! 
 
 Shepherd. Dinna fa' into ony imitation o' that flowery writer^ 
 o' the Lichts and Shadows. I canna thole that. 
 
 North. Following that palsy- stricken crone to her lonely 
 hearth, from her doom we could read a homily on the perish- 
 ing nature of all this world's blessings — friendsliip, love, 
 beauty, virtue, and domestic peace ! What a history is writ- 
 ten on that haggard face, so fair and yet so miserable ! How 
 profound a moral in that hollow voice ! Look in at that dusty 
 and cobwebbed window, and lo ! a family of orphans, the eldest, 
 not fifteen years, rocking an infant's cradle to a melancholy 
 song ! Stoop your head below that gloomy porch, and within 
 sits a widow beside her maniac daughter, working day and 
 night to support a being, ia her malignant fierceness still ten- 
 derly beloved ! Next door lives a woman whose husband 
 perished in shipwreck, and her only son on the scaffold ! And 
 hark to an old grey-headed man blithely humming at lais 
 stall, who a month ago bm-ied his bedridden spouse, and has 
 survived all his cliildren, unless, indeed, the two sons, of whom 
 he has heard no tidings for twenty years, be yet alive in 
 foreign lands. 
 
 Shepherd. man ! what for dinna ye write byucks ? There 
 ye hae just sketched out subjects for Tales in Three Volmnms. 
 
 North. It is long, James, since Poetry became a drag, and 
 Prose is now in the same predicament. 
 
 Shepherd. Ye never said a truer word in a' your life. Some 
 o' thae late Lunnrm stories garred me scunner. There's 
 Treman, that Lockhart or some ither clever chield praises in 
 the Quarterly — and there's Mawtildy, and there's Graunby, and 
 there's Brambleberry-hoose, and there's the Death Fetch,^ and 
 Carry, and some dizzen ithers, whase teetles I hae forgotten 
 — no worth, a' o' them pitten thegither, ony ae volumm of 
 my Winter Evenings' Tales^ that nae reviewer but yoursel, Mr 
 North (and here's to ye in a bumper), ever either abused or 
 panegaireezed — because, forsooth, they are not " Novels, of 
 Fashionable Life." 
 
 1 "That flowery writer" was Professor Wilson himself. 
 
 2 Tremaine, by Ward ; Matilda, by Lord Normanby ; Granly, by Lister ; 
 BramUetye House, by Horace Smith ; the Death Fetch, by Banim.
 
 248 TREMAINE. — THE COCKNEYS. 
 
 Tickler. Treinaine is a sad ninn j. Only imagine to yourself 
 the heau ideal of a Freetliinlcer, who is unable to give any 
 kind of answer, good, bad, or indifferent, to the most com- 
 monplace arguments urged against his deistical creed. The 
 moment he opens his mouth, he is posed by that pedantic old 
 prig, Dr Evelyn, and his still more pedantic daughter, on sub- 
 jects wliich he is represented as having studied professedly 
 for years. There he stands gaping like a stuck pig, and is 
 changed into a Christian by the very arguments with wliich 
 he must have been familiar all his life, and which, in the 
 writings of the most powerful divines, he had, it seems, con- 
 tinued utterly to despise. Such conversion proves him to 
 have been an idiot — or a knave. 
 
 North. The tliird volume is indeed most despicable trash. 
 But you are wrong. Tickler and James, about the Doctor and 
 his daughter, as they show themselves in the first two volumes. 
 There we have really a pleasing picture of a fine, old, worthy, 
 big-wigged, orthodox, and gentlemanly divine of the Church 
 of England, and of a sweet, sensible, modest, elegant, and 
 well-educated, lovely young English gentlewoman. Had it 
 been my good fortune, James, to fall in with Miss Evelyn at 
 the rectory, I would have bet a board of oysters to a rizzard 
 haddock, that I should have carried her off to Gretna Green, 
 without any preliminary exposition of my religious principles, 
 and, within the fortnight, convinced her of my being an ortho- 
 dox member of her own church. 
 
 Shepherd. siccan vanity — siccan vanity ! and it's me that 
 you're aye lauchin at for haeing sic a gude opinion o' mysel. I 
 never thocht I could hae married Miss Evelin, though I've aye 
 been rather a favourite amang the lassies — that's sure aneuch. 
 
 North. Imitators — imitators are the Cockneys all. They 
 can originate nothing. And in their paltry periodicals, how 
 sneakingly they blaspheme that genius, from whose sacred 
 urn they draw the light that discovers their own nakedness 
 and their own impotence ! 
 
 Tickler. Title-pages, chapter-mottoes even — stolen, trans- 
 mogrified, and denied ! 
 
 North. What a cadger crew, for example, are the Cockney 
 chivalry ! At a tournament, you think you see the champion 
 of some distressed damsel holding fast by the pummel, that 
 he may not be unhorsed, before the impugner of his lady's
 
 EDTNBUEGH FISHWIVES. 249 
 
 chastity does, from losing his stim:ps, of himself fall with a 
 thud, James, on the ground. 
 
 Shepherd. And then what a way o' haudin the lance ! As 
 for the swurd, they keep ruggin* awa by the hilt, as if they 
 were pu'in^ up a stane wi' a soocker ; but up it wunna come, 
 rug as they widl, ony mair than if it were glued or clesped 
 on wi' a muckle twusted preen.^ They're ackart* as the Soor- 
 milks. ^ 
 
 North. Wlio the devil are they, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. No ken the Soor -milks ? The Yeomanry, to be 
 sure, wi' the hairy-heel'd, long-chafted naigs, loosen'd frae 
 pleuch and harrow, and instead o' a halter round their noses, 
 made to chow a snaffle, and free frae collar and breeching, to 
 hobble their hurdles at a haun-gallop, under the restraint o" a 
 martingirl, and twa ticht-drawn girths, aneuch to squeeze all the 
 breath out o' their lean-ribbed bodies. That's the Soor-milks. 
 
 Tickler. Then, the store of ladies, " whose bright eyes rain 
 influence and dispense the prize," are such nymphs as maybe 
 seen in the slips of Drury Lane or Covent Garden Theatre, 
 having flocked in, at half-price, with fans, parasols, reticules, 
 plaid -shawls, and here and there a second-hand ostrich 
 feather. 
 
 Shepherd. Scotland has produced some bad aneuch writers 
 — but the verra waurst o' them hae aye a character o' origi- 
 nality. For if ony ane of our authors hae mannerism — 
 it's at least mannerism o' his ain. The dilference atween us 
 and them, is just the difference atween a man and a monkey. 
 
 North. What think ye, James, of this plan of supplying 
 Edinburgh with living fish ? 
 
 Shepherd. Gude or bad, it sail never hae my countenance. 
 I couldna thole Embro' without the fishwives, and gin it suc- 
 ceeded, it would be the ruin o' that ancient race. 
 
 Tickler. Yes, James, there are handsome women among 
 these Nereids. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel-faured hizzies, Mr Tickler. But nane o' 
 your winks — for wi' a' their fearsome tauk, they're decent 
 
 1 Ruggin—T^ulVrng. ^ Pw'm— pulling. 
 
 3 Preen — pin. * Ackart — awkward. 
 
 « At the time of the Radical riots in 1819 and 1820, the Edinburgh rabble 
 gave the name of Sour-milks to the county yeomanry, intimating thereby that 
 the milk with which they supplied the market was generally sour.
 
 250 NEW FISHING COMPANY. 
 
 bodies. I like to see tlieir well-shaped shanks aneath their 
 short yellow petticoats. There's something heartsome in the 
 creak o' their creeshy creels on their braid backs, as they 
 gang swinging up the stey^ streets without sweetin, with the 
 leather belt atower their mutched heads, a' bent laigh doun 
 against five stane load o' haddocks, skates, cods, and flounders, 
 like horses that never reest^ — and, oh man, but mony o' them 
 hae musical voices, and their cries afar aff make my heart- 
 strings dirl. 
 
 North. Hard-worldng, contented, cheerful creatures, indeed, 
 James, but unconscionable extortioners, and 
 
 Shepherd. Saw ye them ever marchin hamewards at nicht, 
 in a baun of some fifty or threescore, down Leith Walk, wi' 
 the grand gas-lamps illuminating their scaly creels, all shin- 
 ing like silver? And heard ye them ever singing their 
 strange sea-sangs — first half-a-dizzen o' the bit young anes, 
 wi' as saft vices and sweet as you could hear in St George's 
 Kirk on Sabbath, half singin and half shoutin a leadin verse, 
 and then a' the mithers and granmithers, and ablins great- 
 granmithers, some o' them wi' vices like verra men, gran' 
 tenors and awfu' basses, joinin in the chorus, that gaed echo- 
 ing roun' Arthur's Seat, and awa ower the tap o' the Martello 
 Tower, out at sea ayont the end o' Leith Pier? Wad ye 
 believe me, that the music micht be ca'd a hymn — at times 
 sae wild and sae mournfu' — and then takin a sudden turn into 
 a soil; o' queer and outlandish glee ? It gars me think o' the 
 saut sea-faem — and white mew- wings wavering in the blast — 
 and boaties dancin up and down the billow vales, wi' oar or 
 sail, — and waes me — waes me — o' the puir fishing-smack, gaun 
 down head foremost into the deep, and the sighin and the 
 sabbin o' widows, and the wailin o' fatherless weans ! 
 
 Tickler. But, James, I saw it asserted in a printed circular 
 that there had never been a perfectly fresh fish exposed to 
 sale in Edinburgh since it was a city. 
 
 Shepherd. That's been in what they ca' a prospectus. A 
 prospectus is aye a desperate pack o' lees, whether it be o' a 
 new Magazine or Cyclopedy, or a Joint- Stock Company, o' 
 ony ither kind whatsomever. — A' fish stinkin ! — War the cod's 
 head and shouthers, and thae baddies, and flukes, and oyster- 
 sass, that Mr Awmrose gied us this blessed day, a' stinkin? 
 1 Stey — steep. 2 Ueest — grow restive.
 
 GENERAL WOLFE. 251 
 
 Wad Mr Denovan^ or ony other man hae daured to say sae, 
 and luckit me or you in the face when we were swallowing 
 the fresh flakes that keepit fa'in aff the braid o' the cod's 
 shouthers as big as crown-pieces, and had to be helpit wi' a 
 spnne instead a' that feckless fish-knife, that's no worth a 
 button, although it be made o' silver ? 
 
 Tickler. Why, I must say that I approve ]\Ir Denovan's 
 enterprise and public spirit. A few days ago I saw a cargo 
 of live fish, not one of which had been caught on this side of 
 Cape Wrath. 
 
 North. So do I, James. No fear of the fishwives. — But 
 has any of you seen Murray's list ? He has lately published, 
 and is about to publish, some excellent works. 
 
 Tickler. I see announced, " Letters of General Wolfe." 
 
 Shepherd. Is that fack ? Oh, man, that wull indeed be an 
 interesting and valuable work ; ^ which is mair than can be 
 truly said of all the volumes sae yclepd by the Duke of 
 Albemarle, in his gran', pompous, boastin adverteesements. 
 
 North. Every Englishman, to use the noble language of 
 Cowper, must be proud 
 
 " That Chatham's language is his mother-tongue, 
 And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own." 
 
 But, alas ! as Wordsworth finely says, 
 
 " So fades, so languishes, grows dim, and dies, 
 All that this world is proud of;" — 
 
 and the glory even of the conqueror of Quebec has sunk into 
 a kind of uncertain oblivion. These letters will revive its 
 lustre. Wolfe was a man of genius and virtue as well as 
 valoiir ; and it will be a rousing thing to hear, speaking as 
 from the tomb, him who so gloriously fought and fell, and in 
 his fall upheld, against France, the character of England, — a 
 service worth a thousand Canadas. 
 
 Shepherd. Then there's Tam Moore's "Life o' B;>Ton." 
 That'll be a byuck that'll spread like wildfire. 
 
 North. That is to be a book of Longman's.* 
 
 1 The projector of the new plan for supplying Edinburgh with fish, alluded 
 to in the text. 
 
 2 This work, announced by John Murray of Albemarle Street, was never 
 published. 
 
 3 Murray eventually was the publisher of Moore's Life of Byron.
 
 252 MOORE'S life of BYRON. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm glad to hear that ; for Longman's hoose is a 
 gran' firm, and has stooden, amang a' the billows o' bank- 
 niptcy, like a rock. They aye behaved generously to me ; 
 and I wnsh they would gie me a trifle o' five hundred pounds 
 for a rural romance, in three volumes. 
 
 North. Mr Moore's "Life of Lord Byron" will be a most 
 interesting one. With all its too many faults, his "Biography 
 of Sheridan" has gone rapidly through several large editions. 
 But his " Byron," we prophecy, will be far better than his 
 " Sheridan." Of that character there is no mistaking either 
 the glory or the gloom ; and as no one doubts or denies Mr 
 Moore's feehng, fancy, and genius, how can he fail in the 
 biography of his illustrious and immortal fiiend ? 
 
 Tickler. I wish Oliver and Boyd would give us Allan Cun- 
 ningham's Paul Jones. What are they about? 
 
 North. The publishing season has scarcely set in. That, 
 too, will be an excellent tiling, for Allan is full of the fire 
 of genius. 
 
 Tickler. Hogg, what do you say ? 
 
 Shepherd. Whan he praises me, I'U praise him; but no 
 till than. 
 
 North. No bad rule either, James. Torr Hill too, Horace 
 Smith's novel or romance, will be well worth reading, if it be 
 at all equal to Bramblefije House ; for he is a manners-painting 
 author, and brings character and incidents together in a very 
 interesting style. 
 
 Shepherd. What's the Odd Volume that a' the news- 
 papers is praisin sae ? 
 
 North. A very lively and amusing volume it is, James ; 
 and the joint production, as I have heard it whispered, of two 
 young ladies, sisters,' 
 
 Shepherd. And no married ? 
 
 North. Time enough, James. You are old enough to be 
 their father. 
 
 Shepherd. Whan wuU a' the Christmas-present volumes, wi' 
 the bonny ciits, be out, — the Souvenir, and the Amulet, and the 
 Friendship's Offering, and the Forget-me-Not, and the Aurora, 
 and ithers ? 
 
 North. Next month, my dear Shepherd, the horizon will be 
 sparkling with stars. That most worthy and indefatigable 
 Mr Ackermann was the first, I think, to rear a winter-flower of 
 
 ^ Their name was Corbett.
 
 ANNUALS. — MISS MITFORD. 253 
 
 that kind, and its blossoms were very pretty and very fragrant. 
 Alaric Watts then raised from the seed that bright consum- 
 mate flower the Souvenir ; other gardeners took the hint, and 
 from the snow-wreaths peeped forth other annuals, each with 
 its own peculiar character, and forming together a charming 
 bouquet of rarest odour and blossom. I will bind them all 
 up in one sweet-smelling and bright-glowing article, and lay 
 it on my lady's bosom. ^ 
 
 Shepherd. I'm thinkin you'll hae written some pieces o' 
 prose and verse in them yoursel. 
 
 North. Such is the strange stupidity of the editors, that not 
 one among them has ever so much as asked me to give his 
 work a decided superiority over all the rest. 
 
 Shepherd. Sumphs ! 
 
 Tickler. Master Christopher North, there's Miss Mitford,^ 
 author of Our Village — an admirable person in all respects, of 
 whom you have never, to my recollection, taken any notice in 
 the Magazine. What is the meaning of that ? Is it an over- 
 sight ? Or have you omitted her name intentionally, from 
 your eulogies on our female worthies ? 
 
 North. I am waiting for her second volume. Miss Mitford 
 has not, in my opinion, either the pathos or humour of Wash- 
 ington Ir\TLng ; but she excels him in vigorous conception of 
 character, and in the truth of her pictures of English life and 
 manners. Her writings breathe a sound, pure, and healthy 
 morality, and are pervaded by a genuine niral spirit — the 
 spirit of meny England. Eveiy line bespeaks the lady. 
 
 Shepherd. I admire Miss Mitford just excessively. I dinna 
 wanner at her being able to write sae w^eel as she does about 
 dra^T.ng-rooms wi' sofas and settees, and about the fine folk 
 in them seein themsels in lookin-glasses frae tap to tae ; but 
 what puzzles the like o' me, is her pictures o' poachers, and 
 tinklers, and pottery-trampers, and ither neerdoweels, and o' 
 huts and hovels without riggin by the wayside, and the 
 cottages o' honest puir men, and byi'es, and bams, and stack- 
 yards ; and merry-makins at winter-ingles, and courtship 
 aneath trees, and at the gable-ends o' farmhouses, atween 
 lads and lasses as laigh in life as the servants in her father's 
 ha'. That's the puzzle, and that's the praise. But ae word 
 
 ^ The Annuals, in those days so numerous and gaudy, have long agxj faded 
 from our literature. 
 
 2 Miss Mitford ; bom in 1787, died January 10, 1855.
 
 254 MRS JOHNSTOiSr. — MISS FERRIER. 
 
 explains a' — Genius — Genius — wull a' the metafliizzians in 
 the warlcl ever expound that mysterious monysyllable ? 
 
 Tickler. Monosyllable, James, did ye say ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay — Monysyllable ! Doesna that mean a word 
 o' three syllables? 
 
 Tickler. It's all one in the Greek — my dear James, 
 
 Shepherd. Do you ken onything about Elizabeth de Bruce, 
 a novelle, in three volumes, announced by Mr Blackwood ? 
 
 North. Nothing — but that it is the production of the lady^ 
 who, a dozen years ago, wrote Clan Albin, a novel of great 
 merit, full of incident and character, and presenting many fine 
 and bold pictures of external nature. 
 
 Shepherd. Is that the way o't? I ken her gran'ly — and 
 she's little, if at a' inferior, in my opinion, to the author o' the 
 Inheritance, which I aye thought was vsaitten by Sir Walter, 
 as weel's Marriage, till it spunked out that it was vmtten 
 by a leddy.^ But gude or bad, ye'U praise't, because it's a 
 byuck o' Blackwood's. 
 
 North. That speech, James, is unworthy of you. With 
 right good-wiU do I praise all good books piiblished by Ebony 
 — and know well that Elizabeth de Bruce will be of that class. 
 But the only difference between my treatment of his bad 
 books, and those of other publishers, is this — that I allow his 
 to die a natui'al death, wliile on theirs I commit immediate 
 murder. 
 
 Shepherd. Forgie me, Mr North. It's a' true you say — and 
 mair nor that, as you get aulder you also get milder ; and I 
 ken few bonnier sichts than to see you sittin on the judgment- 
 seat ance a-month, no at the Circuit, but the High Court o' 
 Justiciary, tempering justice wi' mercy ; and aften sentencing 
 them that deserve death only to transportation for life, to some 
 unknown land whence never mair come ony rumour o' their 
 far-aff fates. 
 
 Tickler. Are Death's Doings worthy the old Anatomy?' 
 
 North. Yes — Mors sets his best foot foremost — and, like 
 Yates,* plays many parts, shifting his dress with miraculous 
 
 ^ Mrs Johnston, compiler of Meg Dodds' Coohery Booh, and for many years 
 the principal writer in TaiCs Magazine. See ante, p. 173, note 1. 
 
 2 Miss Ferrier ; born in 1782, died in 1854. 
 
 3 Death's Doings, says the American editor, consisted of a series of engravings 
 by Dagley, with letterpress by Croly, Jerdan, and others. 
 
 * A celebrated mimic and comedian.
 
 cruikshank's illustrations. 255 
 
 alacrity, and popping in upon yon unexpectedly, an old friend 
 with a new face, till you almost A\dsli liim at the devil. 
 
 Tickler. We can't get up these tilings in Scotland. 
 
 North. No — no — we can't indeed, Tickler. Death's Doings 
 will have a nm. 
 
 Shepherd. That they wuU, I'se warrant them, a rin thi-ough 
 hut-and ha', or the Auld Ane's haun maun hae forgot its cun- 
 nin, and he maun hae gien ower "writin wi' the pint o' his dart. 
 
 Tickler. James, a few minutes ago you mentioned the 
 name of that prince of caricaturists, George Cruikshank ; 
 pray, have you seen his Phrenological Illustrations ? ^ 
 
 Shepherd. That I hae, — ^he sent me the present o' a copy 
 to Mount Benger ; and I thocht me and the haill hoose 
 wud hae faen distracted wi' lauchin. sii'S, what a plate 
 is yon Pheeloprogeniteeveness ? It's no possible to make 
 out the preceese amount o' the family, but there wad seem to 
 be somewhere about a dizzen and a half — the legitimate pro- 
 duce o' the Eerish couple's ain fniitfu' lines. A' noses alike 
 in their langness, wi' sleight vareeities, dear to ilka paw- 
 rent's heart ! Then what kissing, and hugging, and rug- 
 ging, and ridin on backs and legs, and rockin o' craddles, 
 and speeUn o' chairs, and washing o' claes, and boilin o' pir- 
 tawties ! And ae wee bit spare rib o' flesh twurlin afore the 
 fire, to be sent roun' lick and lick about, to gie to the tongues 
 of the contented crew a meat flavour, alang wi' the werslmess 
 o' vegetable maitter ! Sma' wooden sodgers gaun through 
 the manuel exercise on the floor — ae Nine-pin stannin by him- 
 sel amang prostrate comrades — a boat shaped wi' a knife, by 
 him that's gaun to be a sailor, and on the wa', emblematical 
 o' human Pheeloprogenitiveness (0 bit that's a kittle word !) 
 a hen and chickens, aue o' them perched atween her shouthers, 
 and a countless cleckin aneath her outspread wings ! What 
 an observer o' Nature that chiel is ! — only look at the back of 
 tlie Faither's neck, and you'll no wonner at his family ; for is't 
 no like the back o' the neck o' a great bill ?^ 
 
 Tickler. " Language " is almost as good. Wliat a brace of 
 Billingsgates, exasperated, by long -continued vituperation, 
 up to the very blood-vessel-bursting climax of insanity of 
 speech I The one an ancient beldame, with hatchet face and 
 
 1 Phrenological Illustrations, or an Artist's View of the Craniological System 
 of Drs Gall and Spurzkeim. ^ -Bill — bull.
 
 256 LANGUAGE. — VENERATION. 
 
 shrivelled breast, and arms lean, and lank, and brown, as is 
 the ribbed sea-sand, smacldng her iron palms till they are 
 heard to tinkle with defiance ; the other, a mother-matron, 
 with a baboon visage, and uddered like a cow, with thigh- 
 thick arms planted with wide-open mutton fists on each heap 
 of hips, and huge mouth bellowing thunder, spht and cracked 
 into pieces by eye-glaring rage ! Then the basket of mute 
 unhearing fish, so placid in the storm ! Between the combat- 
 ants, herself a victress in a thousand battles, a horrible virago 
 of an umpire, and an audience " fit though few," of figures, 
 which male, which female, it is hard to tell, smoking, and 
 leering, with tongue-lolling cheek, finger-tip, and nose-tip, 
 gnostically brought together, and a smart-bonneted Cyprian 
 holding up her lily-hand in astonishment and grief for her 
 sex's degradation, before the squint of a white-aproned fish- 
 monger, who, standing calm amid the thunder, with paws in 
 his breeches, regards the chaste complainant with a philan- 
 thropic grin. 
 
 North. Not a whit inferior is "Veneration." No monk ever 
 gloated in his cell with more holy passion on the bosom of a 
 Madonna, than that alderman on the quarter of prize beef fed 
 by Mr Heavyside, and sprig-adorned, in token of victory over 
 all the beasts in Smithfield, from knuckle to chine. You hear 
 the far-protruding protuberance of liis paunch rumbling, as, 
 with thick-lipped opening mouth he inhales into palate, gullet, 
 and stomach-bag, the smell of the firm fat, beneath whose 
 crusted folds lies embosomed and imbedded the pure, precious 
 lean ! Wife — children — counter — iron-safe — Bank of England 
 — stocks — all are forgotten. With devouring eyes, and out- 
 spread hand, he stands, stafi'-supported, before the beauty of 
 the Beeve, as if he would, if he could, bow down and worship 
 it ! Were all the bells in the city, all the cannons in the Tower, 
 to ring and roar, his ears would be deaf to the din in presence 
 of the glorious object of his veneration. For one hour's mouth- 
 worship of tliis idol, would he sink Ins soul and liis hope of 
 any other heaven. "Let me eat, were I to die !" is the senti- 
 ment of his mute, unmuttered prayer ; and the passionate 
 watering from eyeball, chop, and cliin, bears witness to the 
 intensity of his religious faith — say rather his adoration ! 
 
 Shepherd. I wush Mr Ambrose had been in the room, that 
 he micht hae telt us which o' the three has spoken the
 
 WILLIAM ALLAN. 257 
 
 greatest nonsense. Yet I'm no sure if a mair subdued style 
 o' criticism would do for the warks o' the Fine Arts, especially 
 for picturs. 
 
 Tickler. George Cruikshank's various and admirable works 
 should be in the possession of all lovers of the Arts. He is 
 far more than the Prince of Caricaturists, — a man who regards 
 the ongoings of life with the eye of genius ; and he has a clear 
 insight through the exterior of manners into the passions of 
 the heart. He has wit as well as humour — feeling as well as 
 fancy — and his original vein appears to be inexhaustible. — 
 Here's his health in a bumper. 
 
 Shepherd. Geordy Cmikshank ! — But stop awee, my 
 tummler's dune. Here's to him in a caiilker, and there's no 
 mony folk whase health I wad drink, during toddy, in pure 
 speerit. 
 
 North. T will try you with another, James. A man of first- 
 rate genius — yet a man as unlike as can be to George Cmik- 
 shank — WilUam Allan .^ 
 
 Shepherd. Kax ower the green bottle — Wully Allan ! hurra w, 
 hurraw, hurraw ! 
 
 North. The "Assassination of the Regent Moray," my fi-iend's 
 last great work, is one of the finest historical pictures of 
 modern times ; and the Duke of Bedford showed himself a 
 judicious patron of the art, in purchasing it. In all but 
 colouring, it may stand by the side of the works of the great 
 old masters. A few days ago I looked in upon him, and 
 found him hard at work, in a large fur cap, like a wizard or 
 an alchemist, on " Queen Mary's Landing at Leith." Of all 
 the Queen Marys that ever walked on wood, the Phantom his 
 genius has there conjured up, is the most lovely, beautiful, 
 and majestic. Just ahghted from her gilded barge, the vision 
 floats along 
 
 Shepherd. Come, come, nae mair description for ae nicht. 
 Ne quid riimis. 
 
 Tickler. It will shine a star of the first magnitude and 
 purest lustre 
 
 Shepherd. Did you no hear me teUin Mr North that there 
 was to be nae mair description ? 
 
 Tickler. The Cockney critics will die of spite and spleen ; 
 
 ^ Afterwards Sir William Allan, the late president of the Royal Scottish 
 Academy. He died in 1850. 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 258 SHEPHERD ON LOCKHART, 
 
 for the glory of Scotland is to them an abomination, and the 
 sight of any noble work of the God-given genius of any one 
 of her gifted sons, be it picture, or poem, or prose tale bright 
 as poetry, tm-ns their blood into gall, and forces them to eat 
 their black hearts. 
 
 North. But England admires Mr Allan — throughout London 
 Proper — and all her towns and cities. His pictm'es will in 
 future ages be gazed at on the walls of galleries within the 
 old jDalaces of her nobles 
 
 Shepherd. I say nae mair description for this ae night — nae 
 mair description — for either that, or else this tummler, that's 
 far ower sweet, is beginning to mak me fin' raither queer 
 about the stamach. 
 
 North. You alluded, a little while ago, to the Quarterly Review^ 
 James. — What think you of it, under the new management ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na — I wad rather hear your ain opinion. 
 
 North. I may be somewhat too partial to the young gentle- 
 man,^ James, who is now editor ; and indeed consider him as 
 a child of my own 
 
 Shepherd. Wasna't me that first prophesied his great abee- 
 lities when he was only an Oxford Collegian, wi' a pale face 
 and a black toozy head, but an ee like an eagle's, and a sort 
 o' lauch about the screwed-up mouth o' him, that fules ca'd 
 no canny, for they couldna thole the meanin o't, and either 
 sat dumfoundered, or pretended to be engaged to sooper, and 
 slunk out o' the room ? 
 
 North. I have carefully preserved, among other rehcs of 
 departed worth, the beautiful manuscript of the first article he 
 ever sent me. 
 
 Tickler. In the Balaam-box ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na, faith, Mr Tickler, you may set up your 
 gab noo ; but do you recollec how ye used to try to fleech 
 and flatter him, when he begood sharpening his keeKvine 
 pen, and tearing aff the back o' a letter to sketch a bit cari- 
 cature o' Southside ? Na — I've sometimes thocht, Mr North, 
 that ye were a wee feared for him yoursel, and used, rather 
 without kennin't, to draw in your horns. The Balaam-box, 
 indeed ! Ma faith, liad ye ventured on sic a step, ye micht 
 just as weel at ance hae gien up the Magazine. 
 
 * John Gibson Lockhart, Esq., the late editor of the Quarterly Review. 
 Born in 1793 ; died in 1854.
 
 CONTRIBUTORS TO BLACKWOOD. 259 
 
 North. James, that man never breathed, nor ever will 
 breathe, for whose contributions to the Magazine I cared one 
 single curse. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, man, IMr North, dinna lose your temper, sir. 
 What for do you get sae red in the face at a bit puii", harmless, 
 silly joke, — especially you that's sae wutty and sae severe 
 yoursel, sae sarcastic and fu' o' satire, and at times (the love 
 o' tmth chirts^ it out o' me) sae like a sleuth-hound, sae keen 
 on the scent o' human bluid ! Dear me ! mony a luckless 
 deevil, wi' but sma' provocation, or nane, Mr North, hae ye 
 worried. 
 
 North. The Magazine, James, is the Magazine. 
 
 Shepherd. Is't really? I've nae mair to say, sir; that 
 oracular response removes a' diffeeculties, and settles the 
 hash o' the maitter, as Pierce Egan^ would say, at ance. 
 
 North. Nothing but the purest philantliropy could ever have 
 induced me, my dearest Shepherd, to suffer any contributors 
 to the Magazine ; and T sometimes bitterly repent having 
 ever departed from my original determination (long religiously 
 adhered to), to write, proprio Marte, the entire miscellany. 
 
 Shepherd. A' the world kens that — but whaur's the harm 
 o' a few gude, sober, steady, judicious, regular, weel-informed, 
 versateele, and biddable contributors ? 
 
 North. None such are to be found on earth — You must 
 look for them in heaven. Oh, James ! you know not what 
 it is to labour under a load of contributors ! A prosy parson 
 who, unknown to me, had, it seems, long worn a wig, and 
 published an assize sermon, surprising me off my guard on a 
 dull rainy day when the most vigilant of editors has fallen 
 asleep, effects a footing in the Magazine. Oh what toil 
 and trouble in dislodging the Doctor ! The struggle may 
 continue for years — and there have been instances of clerical 
 contributors finally removed only by death. We remember 
 rejecting all the Tliirty-Nine Articles, before we could con- 
 vince a rural Dean of oiu- heterodoxy ; but, thank heaven, the 
 controversy, for our epistles were polemical, broke his heart. 
 He was a parson of rare perseverance, and could never be 
 brought to comprehend the meaning of that expression so 
 largely illustrated during the course of our correspondence, 
 " A rejected article." Back, in a wonderfully few days, the 
 
 1 Chirts — spurts, ^ The author of Boxiana.
 
 260 THEIR PERTINACITY. 
 
 unrejectable article used to come, from a pleasant dwelling 
 among trees, several hundred miles off, drawn by four horses, 
 and guarded by a man in scarlet raiment, ever and anon 
 blowing a horn. 
 
 Shepherd. Dog on't, ye wicket auld Lucifer, hoo your 
 een sparkle as you touzle the clergy! You just mind me 
 o' a lion purlin wi' inward satisfaction in his throat, and 
 waggin his tufted tail ower a Hottentot lying atween his 
 paws, aye preferring the flesh o' a blackamoor to that o' a 
 white man. 
 
 North. I respect and love the clergy, James. You know 
 that well enough, and the feeling is mutual. Or, suppose a 
 young lawyer who has been in a case with Mr Scarlett or 
 Serjeant Cross, in the exultation of his triumph indites an 
 article for me, whom he henceforth familiarly calls Old Chris- 
 topher, in presence of the block which, in liis guinea-per-week 
 lodging in Lancaster, liis wig dignifies and adorns. Vapid 
 is it as a would-be-impressive appeal of Courtnay's, in mitiga- 
 tion of damages. — ^Yet retiu-n it with poHte and peremptory 
 respect, and long ere the moon hath filled her horns, lo and 
 behold there is again and again redelivered from the green 
 mail-cart the self-same well-known parcel of twine-entwisted 
 whitey-brown ! The lawyer is a leech, and will adhere to a 
 Magazine after you have cut him in two ; but a little Attic 
 salt, if you can get him to swallow it, makes him relax his 
 hold, and takes the bite out of him, or so weakens his power 
 of jaw that he can be easily shaken off, like a little sick 
 reptile from the foot of a steed, which has been attacked 
 tmawares in passing a ford, but on feeling the turf beneath 
 his hoofs, sets off in a thundering gallop, with red open 
 nostrils, snuflSng the east wind. 
 
 Shepherd. Or suppose that some shepherd, moni silly than 
 his sheep that roams in yon glen where YaiTow frae still 
 St Mary's Loch rows wimpUn to join the Ettrick, should lay 
 down his cruick, and aneath the shadow o' a rock, or a ruin, 
 indite a bit tale, in verse or prose, or in something between 
 the twa, wi' here and there aiblins a touch o' nature — what is 
 ower ower aften the fate o' his unpretendin contribution, Mr 
 North ? A cauld glint o' the ee — a curl o' the lip — a humph 
 o' the voice — a shake o' the head — and then, — but the warld, 
 wicked as it is, could never believe it, — a wave o' your haun.
 
 CONTRIBUTORS, CLASSICAL AND NAVAL. 261 
 
 and instantly and for evermore is it swallowed up by the 
 jaws of the Balaam-box, greedy as the grave, and hungry as 
 Hades. Ca' ye that friendship — ca' ye that respec — ca' ye 
 that sae muckle as the common humanity due to ane anither, 
 frae a' men o' woman bom, but wliich you, sir, — na, dinua 
 frown and gnaw your lip — hae ower aften forgotten to show 
 even to me, the Ettrick Shepherd, and the author o' the 
 Queen's Wake. 
 
 North {much affected). What is the meaning of this, my dear, 
 dear Shepherd ? May the Magazine sink to the bottom of the 
 Red Sea?— 
 
 Shepherd. Dinna greet, sir, — oh ! dinna, dinna greet ! For- 
 gie me for hurtin your feehns ; and be assured, that frae my 
 heart I forgie you, if ever you hae hurted mine. As for wushin 
 the Magazine to sink to the bottom o' the Eed Sea, that's nu 
 possible ; for its lichter far than water, and sink it never wull 
 till the laws o' Nature hersel undergo change and revolution. 
 My only fear is, under the present constitution o' the elements, 
 that ae month or ither Maga will flee ower the moon, and 
 thenceforth, a comet, will be eccentric on her course, and 
 come careering in sight o' the inhabitants o' the yearth, per- 
 haps, only ance or twice before Neddy Irving' s* Day o' Judg- 
 ment. 
 
 North. Then, James, imagine the miseries inflicted on me, 
 an old grey-headed editor, by fat and fubzy Fellows of Colleges, 
 who are obliged to sit upnght in the act of an article, by pro- 
 tuberance of paunch — whose communication feels greasy to 
 the touch, so fat is the style — and may be read in its oiliness, 
 without obliteration dming a thunder- shower ! 
 
 Shepherd. They're what's ca'd Classical Scholars. 
 
 North. Intelligent naval officers are most formidable con- 
 tributors. They have been known to take possession of a 
 periodical by boarding. No way of getting rid of them but 
 by blowing up the Magazine. 
 
 Shepherd. What ! would ye quarrel wi' sic clever chiels as 
 Captain Basil Ha', and Captain Pawrie, and Captain Lyon, 
 and Captain Griffiths, and Captain Marryat, and a hunder 
 ither naval heroes, gin ony o' them were to send you a saibng 
 or a fechtin article, or an account o' soundings taen aff the 
 roaring coast o' Labrador, or the wolf-howling Oonalashka, or 
 1 The Rev. Edward Irving, a popular preacher of the day. He died in 1834.
 
 262 MAGAZINE-POETEY. 
 
 ony itlier rock-bound sea-sliore, where that fierce auld heathen, 
 Neptune, rampauges in faem and thunder, and lauchs to see 
 the bit wee insignificant eighty-gun ships, or pechs^ o' Forty- 
 fours, dashed into flinders, like sae muckle spray, up and at- 
 ower the precipices far ontil the dry land, where the cannibals 
 are dancin round a fire, that they keep beetin wi' planks and 
 spars o' the puir man-o'-war ! 
 
 North. No, James. I would not i-un my head against any 
 such Posts as those. But the few contributors I do cherish 
 must be volunteers. And since such Dons of the Deck regu- 
 larly read, but seldom write in Maga, all I can do is, to avail 
 myself of their publications, and occasionally enrich Maga by 
 a masterly review of a Voyage to Loo-Choo, or attempt to 
 force the North-West Passage. 
 
 Shepherd. Do you get mony grautis articles ? 
 
 North. I seldom pay for poetry. In cases of charity and 
 courtesy — that is to say, of old women and young ones — my 
 terms are, a sHUing for a sonnet, a dollar for a dramatic scene, 
 and for a single book of an epic, by way of specimen, why, I 
 do not grudge a sovereign. 
 
 Shepherd. Heard ever onybody the like o' that ? A book 
 o' an epic poem, perhaps immortal, rated nae higher than 
 a sheep fit for the butcher! Mr Tickler, what's the mat- 
 ter wi' you that you're no spealdn ? I howp^ you're no 
 sick ? 
 
 Tickler. I was thinking pensively, James, of the worthy old 
 woman whom to-day we saw decently interred in Greyfriars' 
 Churchyard ; the ancient lady with the green gown,^ on whom 
 the Shepherd was but too fond of playing off his gibes, his 
 jeers, and his jokes. Peace to her ashes ! 
 
 Shepherd. She was indeed, Mr Tickler, an honest auld body ; 
 and till she got into the natural dotage that is the doom o' a' 
 flesh, she wasna wantin in smeddum, and could sing a sang, 
 or tell a story, wi' nae sma' speerit. She was really an amusin 
 chronicler o' the byganc times; and it was pleasant now and 
 then, on a Saturday nicht, to tak a dish o' tea wi' her, and 
 hearken to her clishmaclavers about the Forty-five. Her and 
 me had never ony serious quarrel, and I'm proud to think she 
 has left me a mumin ring. 
 
 Tickler. I shall not strip crape before Christmas, in token 
 
 1 PecAs— pigmies. 2 Howp—ho^e. 3 Constables Magazine is meant.
 
 LONDON PERIODICALS. 263 
 
 of mj respect for her memory. It was affecting to see the 
 seven young men as pall-bearers.^ 
 
 Shepherd. Puir fallows ! what'll become o' them noo ? They 
 maun hae recourse to the Dumfries Magazine. 
 
 North. Have ye no flowers, James, to wreath over her 
 tomb? 
 
 Tickler. "Her memoiy " — in solemn silence. 
 Shepherd. Lend me your pocket-handketcher, Mr North. 
 {The Shepherd weeps.) 
 
 North. It does one great good to see the flourisliing condi- 
 tion of the Periodicals. Colburn has always some facetious 
 town- articles; and although somewhat too exclusively adapted 
 to the meridian of London, his Magazine is ujidoubtedly a 
 pleasant naiscellany. The very name of Campbell sheds a lam- 
 bent lustre over its occasional dulness ; and a single scrap of 
 one of his Lectures on Poetry — such is my admiration of his 
 dehghtful genius — redeems the character of a whole Number. 
 Campbell is a fine critic, at once poetical and plulosophical, 
 full of feeling as of thought. The Prefaces to his Specimens — 
 are they not exquisite ? The Smiths are clever men — but why 
 is not Hazlitt kicked out of the concern ? 
 
 Shepherd. 'Cause Cammel kens he's hungry. 
 
 North. That may be a very good reason for sending an 
 occasional loaf or fish to his lodgins, with Mr Campbell's, or 
 Mr Colburn' s comphments ; but it is a very bad one for suf- 
 fering him to expose his nakedness periodically to the reading 
 public. 
 
 Tickler. It does not seem to me, from his writings, that 
 HazUtt's body is much reduced. The exhaustion is of mind. 
 His mind has the wind-colic. It is troubled with flatulency. 
 Let him cram it with borrowed or stolen victuals, yet it gets 
 no nourishment. It is fast dying of atrophy i; and when it 
 belches its last, will be found to be a mere skeleton. 
 
 North. I perceive he has lately assumed the character, in 
 Colburn^ of Boswell Redivivus. ^Vlly, Jemmy Boswell was a 
 gentleman bom and bred — a difficulty in the way of imper- 
 sonation, which Billy HazUtt can never, in liis most sanguine 
 moments, hope to overcome. 
 
 Tickler. Then Jemmy was in good society, and a member 
 
 ^ See "The Pilgrimage to the Kirk of Shotts," Blackwood's Magazine, vol. 
 v., p. 674.
 
 264 BOSWELL. — HAZLITT, 
 
 of the Club. Moderate as were his talents, he was hand-in- 
 glove with Burke, and Langton, and Beauclerk, and Percy, 
 and the rest. He of Table-Talk has never risen higher than 
 the lowest chcle of the Press-gang — Reporters fight shy — and 
 the Editors of Sunday newspapers turn up their noses at the 
 smell of his approach. 
 
 North. Jemmy had a sycophantish, but a sincere admira- 
 tion of the genius, erudition, and virtue of Ursa- Major, and 
 in recording the noble growlings of the Great Bear, thought 
 not of his own Scotch snivel. Billy hates and envies all that 
 he pretends to love and venerate, for the best of reasons, 
 because his eulogiums on others are libels on himself. 
 
 Tickler. And, pray, who may N. the ninny be, whom he 
 takes for his Samuel Johnson? 
 North. A wasp called Nash.* 
 
 Tickler. How can Mr Campbell prostitute his pages so ? 
 North. Indolence — indolence. The indolence of a man of 
 genius, deepened by disgust, and getting rid of a loathsome 
 dunce by admitting him within the sheets of the Magazine, 
 just as a delicate boarding-school Miss has been known, in 
 the impulse of pure horror, to marry a monster from Munster, 
 in order to escape blindfold from his odious addresses ! 
 
 Tickler. I like the Monthly much, since its incorporation 
 with the European. Its fun and frolic is often capital ; and, 
 vidth a httle more weighty matter, it will have success. It is 
 free from bitterness and ill-nature. Gall is corrosive, and. Like 
 canker at the root of a flower, spoils the colour of the blos- 
 soms, and soon snaps the staUc. No man will ever be a sati- 
 rist who has not a good heart. I like the Monthly much. 
 
 North. The London often contains striking articles. That 
 Cantab was no small-beer in his bouncing. The Traveller on 
 the Continent is terse, lively, and observant, and the Foreigner 
 who writes about Greece must amuse the public. The editor 
 has been frequently fortunate in his correspondents — then 
 why so fretful in his temper, and discontented with the 
 lieges ? 
 
 Shepherd. What gars the cretur keep yaumer — ^yaumerin — 
 yaumerin, as if he had aye the toothache, or a pain in his lug ? 
 
 1 For "Nash" we must read NoHhcote the painter, whostj conversations 
 were reported by Hazlitt in the Nm Monthly Magazine, and afterwards 
 published in a volume.
 
 THE "WESTMINSTER REVIEW. — JEFFREY, 265 
 
 Canna he clear liimsel o' bile by a gran' emetic, keep his 
 bowels open wi' peels, and wi' an unjaundiced ee look abroad 
 over the glorious warks o' nature and o' art, till the sowl 
 begins to burn within him (for he has a sowl), and generous 
 sentiments come skelpiu alang, thick and three -fauld, like 
 bees out o' a bike, with stings, it is true, but stings keepit for 
 severe occasions — happier far to murmur in shade and sun- 
 shine amang the honey-dew, harmless as birds or butterflies, 
 and leaving wasps and hornets to extract poison from the 
 very flowers, distilling by the power of piercing proboscis, 
 the odours and the balm o' paradise frae earth's common 
 weeds ! 
 
 Tickler. Confound me, if, with all my Toryism, which, were 
 I bled to death, would glitter like a pearl of price in my last 
 heart's drop — I do not take in the Westminster Review, instead 
 of paying fourpence a night for it to a Circulating Library. 
 In the ring, they hit hard, and go right up to their man's 
 head. 
 
 Shepherd. They're dour dowgs ! 
 
 Tickler. Every party in the land should have its organ. 
 
 North. Even though it should be but a hand one. 
 
 Shepherd. Ye're baith nae better than twa auld Leeberals. 
 What for did the Westminster sneer at me ? Because I'm ane 
 o' the principal writers in Blackwood! Puir, puir spite. Then 
 what a confusion o' ideas to be angry at me for what I say at 
 Awmi'ose's ! Mayna a man say what he likes in a preevat 
 party ? But it was just the same way in the Embro'. 
 
 Tickler. You squabashed Jeffrey, James, in that famous 
 letter anent the Jacobite Relics.^ 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, that I did, like the red arm o' a hizzie wi' a 
 beetle champing rumbledethumps. But it wasna Mr Jafirey 
 himsel, yon. I hae a great affection and respect for Mr 
 Jaffrey ; but why should a real man o' letters like him — " a 
 man of morals and of manners too," a man proud, and justly 
 proud, o' the rank in literattire that his genius has won him — 
 
 1 " I never saw the Shepherd," says Mr Loekhart, " so elated as he was on. 
 the appearance of a very severe article on this book (the Jacobite Relics) in 
 the Edinburgh Review ; for, to his exquisite delight, the hostile critic (Jeffrey) 
 selected for exceptive encomium one ' old Jacobite strain,' — viz., 'Donald 
 M'Gillivi-ay,' which Hogg had fabricated the year before. Scott, too, enjoyed 
 the joke almost as much as the Shepherd." — Life of Scott, vol. vi. p. 37, second 
 edition, Hogg exposed the blunder in the letter referred to in the text.
 
 266 MADAME GENLIS, 
 
 why should lie suffer ony o' his yelpin curs to bite the heels 
 o' the Shepherd — perhaps hound hira on wi' his ain gleg vice 
 and ee — when I was daunerin amang the braes, wushin ill to 
 nae leevin thing, and laith to tramp even on the dewy daisies 
 aneath my feet ? 
 
 North. By heavens, ignobly done ! 
 
 Shepherd. However, ye may knock out the brains o' a mangy 
 mongrel, wi' a stick or a stane, without ony ill-will to the 
 master that aughts^ him ; and I'm sure that gin Mr Jaffrey 
 comes ever ridin ower into Yarrow, by the Grey Meer's Tail, 
 or straught through Peebles, he shanna want a warm welcome 
 at Mount Benger frae me and the mistress — cocky-leeky, or 
 some hare-soop, a rump o' corned beef, and a muirfowl hen, a 
 rice puddin, and a platefu' o' pancakes. 
 
 Tickler. 'Pon my soul, James, I should like vastly to be of 
 the party — an admii'able selection ! What an absurd old bel- 
 dame is Madame Genlis,^ in the last number of the Quarterly ! 
 Have you read her Memoirs, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Me read her Memoii'S ! — no me indeed ! But I 
 have read the article on the slut, French and a'. There can 
 be nae doubt but that she would marry yet ! Hoo the auld 
 lass wad stan' paintin her shrivelled cheeks at a plate-glass 
 mirror, wi' a frame o' naked Cupids ! Hoo she wad try to 
 tosh up^ the rizzered baddies* o' her breest, and wi' paddins 
 round out her hainches ! Hoo she wad smirk, and simper and 
 leer wi' her bleered rheumy een at the marriage ceremony 
 before a Papish Priest ! — and wha wad venture to say that she 
 wadna enterteen expectations and howps o' fa'in into the 
 family- way on the wi-ang side o' aughty ? Think ye she wad 
 tak to the nursin, and show undue partiaUty to her first-born 
 ower a' the ither childer ? 
 
 North. Old age — especially the old age of a lady — should 
 be treated with respect — with reverence. I cannot approve 
 of the tone of your interrogations, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, Mr North — old age ought indeed to be 
 treated with respect and reverence. That's a God's ti-uth. 
 The ancient grandame, seated at the ingle amang her cliil- 
 dren's children, wi' the Bible open on her knees, and lookin 
 
 ^ Aughts^-ovrns. 
 
 2 She was governess to King Louis Philippe in his childhood, and died in 
 1830, aged 84. ^ Tosh up — display to best advantage. 
 
 * Rizzered haddies—h&ddocks dried in the sun.
 
 HER MEMOIRS AND MORALS. 267 
 
 solemn, almost severe, with her dim eyes, through specs 
 shaded by grey hairs, — now and then brichtening up her 
 faded countenance wi' a saintly smile, as she saftly lets fa' 
 her shrivelled hand on the golden head o' some wee bit hafflin 
 imp sittin cowerin by her knee, and, half in love half in fear, 
 opening not his rosy lips — Such an aged woman as that — for 
 leddy I shall not ca' her — is indeed an object of respect and 
 reverence ; and beats there a heart within human bosom that 
 would not rejoice, wi' holy awe, to lay the homage of its 
 blessing at her feet ? — But 
 
 North. Beautiful, James ! — Tickler, is not that beautiful ? 
 
 Shepherd. I was thinking just then, sirs, o' my ain mother. 
 
 North. You needed not to have said so, my dear Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. But to think o' an auld, bedizzened, painted hag 
 o' a French hanidan ripin ^ the ribs o' her wasted carcass wi' 
 the poker o' vanity, to wauken a spark in the dead ashes o' 
 her wonted fires, and tryin a' the secrets o' memory and ima- 
 gination to kindle a glow in the chitterin skeleton 
 
 North. Tickler, what imagery ! 
 
 Shepherd. To hear her gloating ower sins she can no longer 
 commit — nay, ower the sins o' them that are flesh and bluid 
 nae mair, but pai-t o' the moulderin corruption o' catacombs 
 and cemetaries ; — to see the unconscious confusion in which 
 the images o' virtue and vice come waverin thegither afore 
 her een, frae the lang-ago history o' them that, in hfe, were 
 her ain kith and kin 
 
 Tickler. Stop, James ! — stop, I beseech you ! 
 
 Shepherd. To hearken till her drivellin, in the same dotage 
 o' undistinguishing heartlessness, o' chaste matrons that filled 
 the secret drawers in their cabinets wi' love-letters, no frae 
 their ain husbands, but frae princes, and peers, and counts, 
 and gentlemen, and a' sorts o' riff-raff, as plain as pike-staffs 
 ettlin at adultery ; — o' nae less chaste maidens blushin in the 
 dark, in boudoii\s, in the gnip o' unprincipled paramom'S, let 
 lowse^ upon them by their verra ain fathers and mothers, and, 
 after years o' sic perilous rampaugin wi' young sodgers, 
 walin^ out ane at last for her man, only to plant horns on his 
 head, and lose a haud on the legitimacy o' ony ane o' her sub- 
 sequent children except the first, and him mair than apocry- 
 phal ; — o' limmers, that flang their chastity with open hand 
 
 1 Ripin — poking. ^ Lo^cse— loose. ^ Walin — choosing.
 
 268 THE HAMILTONIAN SYSTEM. 
 
 frae them like chaff, and, rolling along in flunky - flanked 
 eckipages by the Boulevards o' Paris, gloried in the blaze o' 
 their iniquity 
 
 North. I must positively shut your mouth, James. — You 
 will burst a blood-vessel in your righteous indignation. 
 That's right, empty your tumbler. 
 
 Tickler. She had many good points about her, nevertheless, 
 James. You are too stern a moralist. Her petits sovpers 
 were very piquant of old ; and the worst thing I knew about 
 Madame Genhs was her snub nose, which, like a piece of 
 weeping Parmesan, had generally a drop at the end of it. 
 To me she was never lovable. 
 
 Shepherd. I could hae fa'en in love mysel wi' Madam de 
 Stawl,^ — and, had she visited Scotland, I should have done my 
 best to be with her un homme d honnes fortunes. 
 
 Tickler. Why, Hogg, you pronounce French like a native. 
 Idiom perfect too ! 
 
 Shepherd. I took half-a-dozen lessons frae Hamilton ; for I 
 had a fancy for his system on account o' the absence o' 
 grammar, which is waur than plague, pestilence, or famine. 
 
 Tickler. Do you think, James, you could teach Mr Hamilton 
 Ettrick as expeditiously as he has taught you French ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ou ay. I'll imdertake to teach him Ettrick in 
 twal lessons, and the four volumes of Dr Jamieson's Scottish 
 Dictionary — with three thousand additional words that I intend 
 publishing in a Supplement forbye. 
 
 North. There is power in what is called, most absurdly and 
 ignorantly, the Hamiltonian System ; but Hamilton himself 
 has shown the white feather before a manly challenger, and 
 stands discomfited and dished. 
 
 Shepherd. He's a bauld fellow that Mackay o' the High 
 School. The Hielan bluid o' him was a' in a low, and he 
 wad hae foughten on to the last gasp. I'm nae great scholar, 
 but I love speeiit. 
 
 Tickler. After all his blustering, Jupiter Tonans ought not 
 to have declined the combat with the Titan. Hamilton might 
 have praised his own system, without so contemptuously 
 treating every modification of every other, and, without 
 doubt, he was himself the challenger. So that the big words 
 
 ^ Madame de Stael-Holstein, daughter of M. Necker the celebrated French 
 financier. Bom in 1766 ; died in 1817.
 
 THE HUMBUG SMASHED. 269 
 
 he thundered before Mr Mackay entered the lists, and that at 
 the time might have been forgiven as the unmeasured vaunt- 
 ing of an enthusiast, could only be described, after his craven 
 refusal to meet his man, as the vapouring of a bully and a 
 braggadocio. 
 
 North. The study of languages is a great mystery — but an 
 itinerant like Hamilton is assuredly not the man to clear it 
 up. Why does he roam about from town to town ? Can't he 
 bring his boat to an anchor, like any other conscientious 
 teacher, and give his system the sanction of a series of 
 successfid years? 
 
 Tickler. If it be sound it will prosper — and the High School 
 and the New Academy will follow the example of that chicken- 
 hearted Institution at Baltimore, and shut their gates. 
 
 North. I take it upon me to give a challenge to Mr Hamilton, 
 from two young gentlemen whom I have never had the plea- 
 sure of taking by the hand — the dux of the Eector's Class in 
 the High School, and the dux of the Eector's class in the 
 New Academy. If both the one and the other of those most 
 promising boys do not beat him blind in Greek and Latin, 
 in a public competition, I will forfeit to the Hamiltonian 
 bugbear a baiTcl of oysters during every week of every 
 month whose name contains the letter E, for the remainder 
 of his existence. 
 
 Shepherd. He daurna do't — he daurna do't. I'll back the 
 laddies, to the value o' a score o' gimmers, in grammar, and 
 syntax, and parsing, and prosody, and construin, and the lave 
 o't ; and my name's no Jamie Hogg gin the great big muckle 
 sumph doesna lin out o' the ring wi' his tail atween his legs 
 like a lurcher, during Caesar's Commentaries. 
 
 North. He should have had more pride and independence, 
 more trust and confidence in himself and his system, than to 
 come down to Edinburgh at the wagging of tlae little finger 
 of the Edinburgh Review.^ There was heard in our streets the 
 blowing of a penny trumpet, and foiihwith appeared thereon 
 the man with the gift of tongues. What made him leave 
 Liverpool ? 
 
 Tickler. Detection, discomfiture, and disgrace. There, too, 
 he was challenged ; and there, too, he took to his heels, with 
 
 ^ The Rev. Sydney Smith, the s-wom foe to humbugs generally, patronised 
 the Hamiltonian humbug in tbe Edinburgh Review, 1826.
 
 270 MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 such headlong precipitancy, that we have heard he had nearly 
 plunged into one of the wet docks. 
 
 Shepherd. Is that maitter o' fact, or metaphorical ? 
 
 North. Metaphorical. Two clever scribes, Verbeiensis and 
 Cantabrigiensis, smashed him in argument all to shivers — 
 showed up his utter ignorance and destitution of all scholar- 
 ship — and hung round his neck a label inscribed with large 
 letters — Humbug. 
 
 Tickler. I have the pamphlet in which the impostor is seen 
 stripped, and flagellated, and writliing in the most ludicrous 
 distortion of face and figure, without a leg to stand on, his 
 tongue struck dumb in his cheek, and the vomitory of vocife- 
 ration hermetically sealed. It would furnish material for a 
 good article. Eh ? ^ 
 
 North. James, what were you going to say about Madame 
 de Stael ? 
 
 Shepherd. That there were some things about her that I 
 could not approve. But she was, nevertheless, what I would 
 ca' a fine speerit, and her name will be enrolled, on account 
 of her rare and surpassing genius, often nobly employed, 
 among the great benefactors o' her specie. 
 
 North. Agreed. She was in many many things a noble 
 creature. As for a certain gang of strumpets, they and their 
 correspondence have escaped infamy in this noble island of 
 ours, by di-opping, with other outlandish filth and carrion, 
 into the cess-pool of oblivion. Much was said, indeed, a few 
 years ago, by writers ambitious of a reputation for acquain- 
 tance with the literature of modern France, about their wit, 
 and their elegance, and other accomplislaments of those more 
 than demireps ; and their meretricious charms, it was hinted, 
 might even, if too fondly contemplated, have the power to 
 eclipse the soberer lustre of the character of our British female 
 worthies. 
 
 Tickler. Whereas their dulness was nearly equal to their 
 profligacy ; and the learned lovers. Presidents of Philosophical 
 Societies, and so forth, whom their insatiable licentiousness 
 disgusted, their wearisome stupidity sent asleep. 
 
 ^ The Hamiltonian method of teaching languages by means of interlinear 
 translations — the most irrational cluirlatanerie ever devised to obstruct the 
 progress of education — has not found, for many years, a single advocate in 
 its favour.
 
 ENGLISH STARS. 271 
 
 North. Eternal contempt, Tickler, in spite of all the fulsome 
 eulogies by their friends on this side of the Channel, must 
 pursue the memory of the few philosophers who are not 
 aheady forgotten, that were not ashamed to submit their 
 scientific speculations — ay, their moral reflections on con- 
 science, and their inquiries into the origin of evil, and their 
 conjectures on the mysteries of God's Providence, to the 
 feelings, and opinions, and judgments of weak and wicked 
 women, whose last favours were lavished with a profusion, in 
 which freedom of choice was lost on their parts, and freedom 
 of rejection on that of their favourites, on an endless series of 
 grinning and grimacing Abbes, and Esprits Forts, and Acade- 
 micians, all mutteihig, and mowing, and chattering, and 
 scraping, and bowing, and shrugging their shoulders compla- 
 cently to one another, with hatred and jealousy, and envy, 
 and rage, and revenge, boihng or rankUng in their hearts ! 
 
 Shepherd. Order — order — chair — chair ! Tickler, tak North 
 through hauns. 
 
 Tickler. What? James! 
 
 Shepherd. Ae flash o' your ee sets me richt. Oh, sirs ! 
 what a glorious galaxy o' female genius and virtue have we 
 to gaze on, with admiration pure and unreproved, in our 
 native hemisphere. There — that star is the large and lustrous 
 star o' Joanna Bailhe ; and there are the stars o' Hamilton — 
 and Edgeworth — and Grant — and Austen — and Tighe — and 
 Mitford — and Hemans ! Beautifid and beloved in all the 
 relations of Christian life, these are the Women, Mr Noi-th, 
 maids, wives, or widows, whom the reHgious spirit of this 
 Protestant land will venerate as long as the holy fires of a 
 pure faith burn upon her altars. These are the Ladies, Mr 
 Tickler — and thank God we have many Uke them, although 
 less conspicuous — whom to guard from insult of look, wliisper, 
 or touch, what man, English, Scotch, or Irish, but would bare 
 his breast to death ? And why ? Because the union o' 
 genius, and virtue, and religion, and morality, and gentleness, 
 and purity, is a soul-uplifting sight, and ratifies the great bond 
 of Nature, by which we are made heirs of the immortal sky. 
 
 North. Timothy, you and I had really better be mum till 
 
 mommg. 
 
 Tickler. He beats us both at our own weapons — and I begin 
 to tliink I stutter.
 
 272 OYSTERS. 
 
 (Mr Ambrose enters.) 
 
 Shepherd. As sure's death, there's the oysters. man, 
 Awrorose, but you've the pleasantest face o' ony man o' a' my 
 acquaintance. Here's ane as braid's a musln'oom. This is 
 Saturday nicht, and they've a' gotten their bairds shaved. 
 There's a wee ane awa down my wrang throat ; but deil a 
 fears, it'll find its way into the stamach. A waught^ o' that 
 porter gars the drums o' ane's lugs crack and play dirl. 
 
 Tickler. They are in truth precious powldowdies. More 
 boards, Ambrose, more boards. 
 
 Shepherd. Yonner are half-a-dizzen fresh boards on the 
 side-tables. But more porter, Awmrose — more porter. Canna 
 ye manage mair than twa pots at a time, man, in ilka haun ? 
 For twunty years, Mr North, I used aye to blaw afi" the froth, 
 or cut it smack-smooth across wi' the edge o' my loof ; but 
 for the last ten or thereabouts, indeed ever since the Magazine, 
 I hae sooked in froth and a', nor cared about diving my nose 
 in't. Faith, I'm thinkin that maun be what they ca' Broon 
 Stoot ; for Mr Pitt and Mr Fox are nearing ane anither on 
 the wa' there, as gin they were gaun to fecht ; and either the 
 roofs rising, or the floor fa'in, or I'm hafflins fou ! 
 
 Tickler. Mr Pitt and Mr Fox ! — why, James, you are dream- 
 ing. This is not the Blue Parlour 1 
 
 North. A Psychological Curiosity ! 
 
 Shepherd. Faith it is curious aneuch, and shows the power 
 o' habit in producing a sort o' delusion on the ocular spectrum. 
 I wad hae sworn I saw the lang, thin, lank feegur, and 
 cocked-up nose o' Pitt, wi' his hand pressed down wi' an 
 authoritative nieve, on a heap o' Parliamentary papers ; and 
 the big, clumsy carcass, arched een, and jolly chops o' Fox, 
 mair like a master coal-merchant than an orator or a states- 
 man ; — but they've vanished away, far aff, and wee, wee like 
 atomies, and this is not the Blue Parlour sure aneuch. 
 
 North. To think of one of the Noctes Ambrosianae passing 
 away without ever a single song ! 
 
 Shepherd. It hasna past awa yet, Mr North. It's no eleven, 
 man ; and to hinner twal frae strikin untimeously, — and on a 
 Saturday nicht I hate the sound o't — Mr Awmrose, do you 
 put back, ae round, the lang hand o' the knock. Yese hae a 
 
 1 W(M(ght- -a large draught.
 
 THE CLOCK PUT BACK, 273 
 
 sang or twa afore we part, Mr North ; but, even without 
 music, hasna this been a pleasant nicht ? I sail begin noo wi' 
 pepper, vinegar, and mustard, for the oysters by theirsels 
 are getting a wee saut. By the tramping on the stairs I 
 jalouse the playhouse is scaHn. Whisht, Mr North ! keep a 
 calm sugh, or ODoherty will be in on us, and gar us break the 
 Sabbath morning. Noo, let's draw in our chairs to the fire- 
 side, and, when a's settled in the tither parlours, I'll sing you 
 a sang. 
 
 [^Curtain falls. 
 
 vol- I.
 
 XI. 
 
 (JANUARY 1827.) 
 Scene, — Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlour. 
 
 North and the Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. Wliat a fire ! That mixtur o' Englisli and Scotch 
 coal makes a winter nicht glorious. Staun yont, Mr North, 
 sir, till wi' tliis twa-haundecl poker I smash the centre lump, 
 as Mordecai Mullion has smashed the os frontis o' M'CuUoch/ 
 
 North. James, you cannot imagine what a noble figiu'e you 
 reflect in the mirror. 1 should like vastly to have your 
 portrait taken in that very attitude. 
 
 Shepherd. Mercy on us ! there's a tongue o' flame loupt out 
 upon the carpet. Whare's the shool? Nae shool — nae shool! 
 Let's up wi't in my twa loofs. Whew, whew, whew ! That's 
 gude for frost-bitten fingers. There the Turkey's no a whit 
 singed. Do you fin' the smell o' burnin, sir ? 
 
 North. Look at year right hand, my dear Shepherd ! 
 
 Shepherd. It's a' lowin. Whew — whew — whew ! — That 
 comes o' haein hairy hauns. Belyve^ the blisters '11 be risin like 
 foam-bells ; but deil may care. Oh, sir ! but I'm real happy 
 to see you out again ; and to think that we're to hae a twa- 
 handed crack, without Tickler or ony o' the rest kennin that 
 
 1 Under the name of " Mordecai Mullion" Professor Wilson published a 
 pamphlet, in which the eminent jjolitical economist referred to in the text was 
 attacked, chiefly on the ground that, in his different publications, he was in 
 the habit of repeating the same opinions, disguised in a slightly varied phrase- 
 ology. Mr M'Culloch might perhaps have found a sufficient defence in the 
 plea that the topics of which he treated rendered such iteration almost 
 unavoidable. ^ Belyve — soon.
 
 A KECEIPT FOR TODDY. SHEPHERD'S REGIMEN. 275 
 
 we're at Awmrose's. Gie's your haun again, my dear sir. 
 Noo, what shall we hae ? 
 
 North. A single jug, James, of Glenlivet — not very strong, 
 if you please ; for 
 
 Shepherd. A single jug o' Glenleevit — no very Strang ! My 
 dear sir, hae you lost your judgment ? You ken my recate 
 for toddy, and ye never saw't fail yet. In wi' a'" the sugar, 
 and a' the whusky, whatever they chance to be, intil the jug 
 about half fu' o' water — just say thi-ee minutes to get aff the 
 boil — and then the King's health in a bumper. 
 
 North. You can twist the old man, like a silk tlii-ead, round 
 your finger, James. But remember, I'm on a regimen. 
 
 Shepherd. Sae am I — five shaves o' toasted butter and 
 bread — twa eggs — a pound o' kipper sea-trout or saumon, be 
 it mair or less — and three o' the big cups o' tea to breakfast ; 
 ae platefu' o' corned beef, and potatoes and greens — the leg 
 and the wing o' a how-towdy — wi' some tongue or ham — a cut 
 o' ploom-puddin, and cheese and bread, to denner — and ony 
 wee trifle afore bedtime. That's the regimen, sii", that I'm 
 on the noo, as far as regards the victualling department ; and 
 I canna but say, that, moderate as it is, I thrive on't decently 
 aneuch, and haena fun' mj^sel stouter or stranger, either in 
 mind or body, sin' the King's visit to Scotland. I hae made 
 nae change on my lickor sin' the Queen's Wake, and the time 
 you first dined wi' me in Anne Street — only I hae gien up 
 porter, wlaich is swallin drinlc, and lays on naething but fat 
 and foziness. 
 
 North. I forget if you are a great dreamer, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Sleepin or waukin ? 
 
 North. Sleeping — and on a hea^^ supper. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh! sir, I not only pity but despise the coof, 
 that alf wi' his claes, on wi' his nichtcap, into the sheets, doun 
 wi' liis head on the bowster, and then afore anither man could 
 hae weel taken aft" his breeks, snorin awa wi' a great open 
 mouth, without a single dream ever traveUin through his 
 fancy ! What wad be the harm o' pittin him to death ? 
 
 North. What ! murder a man for not dreaming, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na — but for no dreaming, and for snorin at the 
 same time. What for blaw a trumpet through the haill house 
 at the dead o' nicht, just to teU that you've lost your soul
 
 276 SNORING. — A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 and youi" senses, and become a breatliin clod ? What a blow 
 it maun be to a man to marry a snorin woman ! Think o' her 
 during the haill hinnymoon, resting her head, with a long 
 gurgling snorting snore, on her husband's bosom ! 
 
 North. Snoring runs in families ; and, Hke other hereditary 
 complaints, occasionally leaps over one generation, and de- 
 scends on the next. But my son, I have no doubt, will snore 
 like a trooper. 
 
 Shepherd. Your son ? ! Try the toddy, sir. Your son ? ! 
 
 North. The jug is a most excellent one, James. Edinburgh 
 is supplied with very fine water. 
 
 Shepherd. Gie me the real Glenleevit — such as Awmrose aye 
 has in the hoose — and I weel believe that I could mak drink- 
 able toddy out o' sea-water. The human mind never tires 
 o' Glenleevit, ony mair than o' cauler^ air. If a body could just 
 find out the exac proper proportion o' quantity that ought to 
 be drank every day, and keep to that, I verily trow that he 
 micht leeve for ever, without dying at a', and that doctors and 
 kirkyards would go out of fashion. 
 
 North. Have you had any snow yet, James, in the Forest ? 
 
 Shepherd. Only some skirrin^ sleets — no aneuch to track a 
 hare. But, safe us a' ! what a storm was yon, thus early in 
 the season too, in the Highlands ! I wush I had been in 
 TamantowP that nicht. No a wilder region for a snow- 
 storm on a' the yearth. Let the wun' come frae what airt it 
 likes, richt doun Glen Aven, or up frae Grantown, or across 
 frae the woods o' Abernethy, or far aff frae the forests at the 
 Head o' Dee, you wad think that it was the Deevil himsel howUn 
 wi' a' his legions. A black thunder-storm's no half sae fear- 
 some to me as a white snaw ane. There is an ocular grandeur 
 in it, wi' the opening heavens sending forth the flashes o' 
 lichtnin, that brings out the burnished woods frae the distance 
 close upon you where you staun, a' the time the hills rattling 
 like stanes on the roof o' a hoose, and the rain either descend- 
 ing in a universal deluge, or here and there pouring down in 
 straths^ till tlie thunder can scarcely quell the roar o' a thou- 
 sand cataracts. 
 
 North. Poussin — Poussin — Poussin ! 
 
 Shepherd. The heart quakes, but the imagination even in 
 its awe is elevated. You still have a hold on the external 
 
 i Cauler — fresh. ^ Skirrin — flying. ^ ^ village in Banffshire.
 
 A BRACE OF BAGMEN. 277 
 
 world, and a lurid beauty mixes with the magnificence till 
 there is an austere joy in terror. 
 
 North. Burke — Burke — Burke — Edmund Burke ! 
 
 Shepherd. But in a nicht snaw-storm the ragin world o' 
 elements is at war with life. Witliin twenty yards o' a 
 human dwelling, you may be remote from succour as at the 
 Pole. The drilt is the drift of death. Your eyes are extin- 
 guished in your head — your ears frozen — your tongue dumb. 
 Mountains and glens are all alike — so is the middle air eddy- 
 ing with flakes and the glimmerin heavens. An army would 
 be stopt on its march — and what then is the tread o' ae puir 
 solitary wretch, man or woman, struggling on by theii'sel, or 
 sittin doun, ower despairing even to pray, and fast congealin, 
 in a sort o' dwam^ o' delirious stupefaction, into a lump o' icy 
 and rustling snaw ! Wae's me, wae's me ! for that auld 
 woman and her wee granddauchter, the bonniest lamb, folk 
 said, in a' the Highlands, that left Tamantowl that nicht, 
 after the merry Strathspeys were over, and were never seen 
 again till after the snaw, lying no five hunder yards out o' the 
 town, the baun wrapt round and round in the crone's plaid as 
 weel as in her ain, but for a' that, dead as a flower- stalk that 
 has been forgotten to be taken into the house at nicht, and in 
 the mornin brittle as glass in its beauty, although, till you 
 come to touch it, it would seem to be alive ! 
 
 North. With what very difierent feelings one would read an 
 account of the death of a brace of Bagmen^ in the snow ! How 
 is that to be explained, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. You see the imagination pictures the twa Bag- 
 men as Cockneys. As the snaw was getting dour at them, 
 and giein them sair flaffs and dads on their faces, spittin in 
 their verra een, ruggin their noses, and blawin upon their 
 blubbery lips, till they blistered, the Cockneys wad be waxing 
 half feared and half angry, and dammin the " Heelans," as the 
 cursedest kintra that ever was kittled. But wait awee, my 
 gentlemen, and you '11 keep a lowner sugh or you get half-way 
 from Dalnacardoch to Dalwhinnie.' 
 
 North. A wild district, for ever whirring, even in mist snow, 
 Avith the gorcock's wing. 
 
 Shepherd. Whisht — baud your tongue, till I finish the 
 
 - Dwam — swoon. ^ Commercial travellers. 
 
 3 In the Highlands of Perthshire.
 
 278 LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 account o' the death of the twa Bagmen in the snaw. Ane o' 
 then" horses — for the cretiirs are no ill mounted — sUdders awa 
 doun a bank, and gets jammed into a snaw-stall, where there's 
 no room for tumin. The other horse grows obstinate wi' the 
 sharp stour in his face, and proposes retreating to Dalnacar- 
 doch, tail foremost ; but no being sae weel up to the walMn 
 or the trottin backwards, as that English chiel To^\Tisend, the 
 pedestrian, he cloits^ doun first on liis hurdles, and then on 
 his tae side, the girths burst, and the saddle hangs only by a 
 tack to the crupper. 
 
 North. Do you know, James, that though you are mani- 
 festly drawing a picture intended to be ludicrous, it is to me 
 extremely pathetic ? 
 
 Shepherd. The twa Cockneys are now forced to act as dis- 
 mounted cavalry through the rest of the campaign, and sit 
 doun and cry — pretty babes o' the wood — in each ither's arms ! 
 John Frost decks their noses and their ears with icicles — and 
 each vulgar physiognomy partakes of the pathetic character of 
 a turrup, making an appeal to the feelings on Halloween. — 
 Dinna sneeze that way when ane's speakin, sir ! 
 
 North. You ought rather to have cried, " God bless you." 
 
 Shepherd. A' this while neither the snaw nor the wund has 
 been idle — and baith Cockneys are sitting up to the middle, 
 poor creturs, no that verra cauld, for driftin snaw sune begins 
 to fin' warm and comfortable, but, wae's me ! unco, xmco 
 sleepy — ^and not a word do they speak ! — and now the snaw is 
 up to their verra chins, and the bit bonny, braw, stiff, fause 
 shirt - collars that they were sae proud o' sticking at their 
 chafts, are as hard as airn, for they've gotten a sair Scotch 
 starchin, — and the fierce North cares naething for their towsy 
 hair a' smellin wi' Kalydor and Macassar, no it indeed, but 
 twurls it a' into ravelled hanks, till the frozen mops bear nae 
 earthly resemblance to the ordinary heads o' Cockneys ; — and 
 hoo indeed shordd they, lying in sic an unnatural and out-o'- 
 the-way place for them, as the moors atween Dalnacardoch 
 and Dalwhinnie ? 
 
 North. Oh James — say not they perished ! 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, sir, they perished ; under such circumstances, 
 it would have been too much to expect of the vital spark that 
 it should not have fled. It did so — and a pair of more inter- 
 
 1 Cloits — falls heavily.
 
 BIRDS OF PREY. 279 
 
 esting Bagmen never slept the sleep of death. Gie me the 
 lend o' your handkercher, sir, for I agree wi' you that the 
 picture's verra pathetic. 
 
 North. Did you read, James, in one of Maga's Leading 
 Articles, called " Glance over Selby's Ornithology," an account 
 of the Bed Tarn Kaven Club devouring the corpse of a Quaker 
 on the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn?^ 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, — what about it? I could hae dune't as 
 weel mysel. 
 
 North. Do you know, James, that it gave great offence ? 
 
 Shepherd. I hae nae doubt that the birds o' prey, that keep 
 gorging themsels for weeks after a gi-eat battle, gie great 
 oifence to thousands o' the wounded, — picking out their een, 
 and itherwise hurting their feelings. Here a bluidy straight 
 beak tweakin a general officer by the nose, and there a no less 
 bluidy crooked ane tearing aff the ee-broos o' a di'ummer, and 
 happin aff to eat them on the hollow round o' liis ain drum, — 
 on which never will tattoo be beaten ony mair, for a musket- 
 ball has gone through the parchment, and the " stormy music," 
 as Cammel ca's it, is hushed for ever. What need a descrip- 
 tion o' the dreadfu' field, when it has been crappit and fallowed 
 year after year, gie offence to ony rational reader ? Surely no ; 
 and, therefore, why shudder at a joke about the death o' ae 
 Quaker ? — Tuts, tuts, it's a' nonsense. 
 
 North. Drinking, dancing, swearing, and quarrelling, going 
 on all the time in Tomantoul, James, for a fair there is a wild 
 rendezvous, as we both know, summer or winter ; and thither 
 flock the wildest spirits of the wildest clans — old soldiers, 
 poachers, outlaws, bankrupt tradesmen from small towns, and 
 bankrupt farmers from large farms, horse-coupers, cattle- 
 dealers, sticket ministers, schoolmasters without scholars, 
 land-measurers, supervisors and excisemen, tinkers, trampers, 
 sportsmen, stray poets, contributors to Magazines — perhaps 
 an editor — people of no profession, and men literally without a 
 name, except it be recorded in the Hue and Cry, all imprisoned 
 in a snow-storm, James ! T\Tiat matter if the whole body of 
 them were dug out dead in the moiTiing from the drift, a 
 hundred feet hio-h ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ma faith, North, you've taen the word out o' my 
 mouth ; but hooly, hooly — let's get back frae Tamantowl to 
 1 See the Recreations of Christopher North, vol. iii. p. 81.
 
 280 PORTUGAL. — CANNING. 
 
 Embro'. Onything gude in leeterature, sir, sin' Lammas 
 Fair? 
 
 North. Why, my dear James, I live so entirely out of the 
 world now, that you could not apply, for information of that 
 kind, to a person less likely to afford it. I live on the Past. 
 
 Shepherd. Eather spare diet, sir, and apt to get musty. I 
 prefer the Present — na, even the verra Future itsel — to the 
 Past. But the Three a' mixed thegither, like rumbledethumps, 
 makes a gran' head -dish at denner, or sooper either ; and I 
 never eat it onywhere in sic perfection as at Mr Awmrose's. 
 
 North. Have you heard, James, that we are absolutely go- 
 ing to have some war again ? A furious Army of Eefugees 
 have invaded Portugal, and threaten to overthrow the Con- 
 stitution. 
 
 Shepherd. I fear the plook o' war'U no come to a head. 
 There's a want o' maitter. Leave the Portugals to fecht the 
 colly shangie * out by theirsels, and there may be some cracked 
 crowns. But twa-three regiments o' our red-coats '11 put out 
 the fire o' civil war afore it's weel kindled — whilk'll be a 
 great pity. Isna there something rather ridiculous -like in 
 the soun' o' an Ai-my o' Refugees ? It's only next best to an 
 Army o' Runaways. 
 
 North. Britain, James, and France — what tliink you of a 
 war between them, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. For Godsake, dinna let us begin wi' poHtics, for 
 under them I aye fin' my nature stupified within me — as if I 
 were taukin no frae my ain thochts, but out o' a newspaper. 
 A' I say is, that the times are wersh^ without bloodshed. 
 
 North. Did you read Canning's speech ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na ; but I'm gaun up to London in Feberwar, to 
 hear him in the House o' Commons. Think ye that the best 
 discourse "by Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured," 
 of old, to a congregation of Covenanters, in a sky-roofed kirk 
 o' cliffs in the wilderness, would have done to be read in 
 Awmrose's here, wi' twa caunels on the table, and twa on 
 the brace-piece helpin the fire to illuminate a board o' oysters, 
 or ashet* o' rizzered baddies, or a trencher o' toasted cheese ? 
 Nae doubt the discourse wad hae been a gude discourse ony- 
 where — but where the hands uplifted to heaven, the hair of 
 
 ^ Collyshangie — squabble. 2 Wersh — insipid. 
 
 3 Ashet — dish; obviously a corruption of the French Aasiette.
 
 JOSEPH HUME. 281 
 
 the preacher streaming in the wind, his eyes penetrating the 
 clouds, the awful sound o' one voice, and one voice only, 
 heard in the hush o' the desert? — where the fixed faces o' the 
 congregation, intent as if but one soul animated the whole 
 mass, a' armed even on the Sabbath-day, and forgettin when 
 hearkenin to the tidings o' salvation, o' the soun' o' the hoofs 
 o' bluidy Claverse's dragoons ? — Just sae in their ain way wi' 
 Cannin's orations. You maun see the man himsel — and they 
 say he has a' the outward powers and graces o' a great 
 speaker ; and as for his inwards, there can be nae doubt that 
 his brain has a harP o' strong bricht thochts Uke fire-flaughts 
 enlichtenin, or, as needs be, witherin and consumin a' oppo- 
 sition, like chaff, or stubble, or heather a-bleeze on the hill. 
 
 North. You wOl also have an opportunity, James, of hear- 
 ing Hume.^ 
 
 Shepherd. man ! but he maun be an impident cretur that 
 Hume, to lowse his tinkler jaw in the Hoose, afore three 
 hunder British and Eerish gentlemen, wi' the sum of fifty- 
 four punds seven shillings and eightpence three farthings one 
 doit, in his breeches pocket, diddled in interest fi-ae the fun's 
 o' the Greek Pawtiiots, fechtin in their poverty for the free- 
 dom o' their native land.^ 
 
 North. He offered to refer the afiair to arbitration, you 
 know, James. 
 
 Shepherd. And what for didna he fix on three arbitrawtors ? 
 Does he think folk are to come forward o' their ain accord ? 
 He seems to think it a great feather in his cap that he didna 
 commit evendoun cheatery and thievery on the Greeks. 
 Grant that, which is mair than doubtful, hasna he proved 
 himsel a greedy greedy fallow, and fonder far to hear the 
 clink o' his ain cash than the shouts o' liberty frae that ance 
 glorious country, whare genius and valour were native to the 
 soil, and whare yet they are not dead but sleepin, and may — 
 ay, will aiise frae the bluidy dust, and tear out the Turkish 
 crescent from the sky, ance mair free to the silver feet of their 
 ain Diana ! 
 
 North. He is a poor creature, in mind, soul, and heart 
 
 ^ Harl — abundance. 
 
 2 Joseph Hume, for many j'ears the leading Radical reformer in the House 
 of Commons. He died in 1855, aged 78. 
 
 3 See ante, p. 228-9, note.
 
 282 BROUGHAM ON HUME. 
 
 alike — and wears the interest of his scrip in his very face, in 
 the hardness and hue of brass. How else durst he have risen 
 from liis breech after Canning — and hke a turkey-cock, that 
 is a bubbly-jock, James, have given vent to his vile gobble, 
 ere the House had ceased to hear the cry, and view the flight, 
 of the Eagle ? 
 
 Shepherd. " An honest man's the noblest work of God !" 
 
 North. The man's mind has so long busied itself with 
 pounds, shilHngs, pence, halfpence, fartlaings, and doits, 
 James, that it has utterly lost all perception of the liigher 
 interests to which they may be made subservient — and for 
 which alone they can have any value in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Shepherd. I wad hate to dine wi' liim at a tavern — for he 
 wad aye be for threepin doun^ the bill ; and oh ! but he wad 
 be shabby — shabby to the waiter. He wad never gie ony 
 waiter' — even if she was a lassie — mair than tippence — and 
 aiblins ane o' the bawbees o' an obsolete sort, that wadna 
 gang nowadays — what they ca' an Eerish rap, or ane 
 issued lang syne by some cotton -spinner in Manchester. 
 We'll hear o' nae mair pubhc denners to sic a meeser. 
 
 North. There is no saying, James. Whom will not party 
 spirit in these days set up as an idol, basely bow down, and 
 crawling worship it ? Mr Brougham gave the scrub a hard 
 hit on the kidneys, and it must have made him wince. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoo was that ? 
 
 North. Mr Brougham, in allusion to Hume's speech, de- 
 clared himself incapable of " listening to the arithmetic of the 
 Honourable Member for Aberdeen. There were circum- 
 stances," he said, " in which countries — as well as individuals 
 — might be placed, in which to compute cost was impossible, 
 frivolous, disgraceful alike to the country and to the indi- 
 vidual!^^ 
 
 Shepherd. Weel dune, Hairy. That was capital. 
 
 North. But before Hume had recovered from that well- 
 delivered hit, Mr Brougham put in a facer that broke the 
 brass like an egg-shell, " To those upon whom such topics " 
 (national faith and national honour, James) '' are thrown away, 
 however, and to whom the expense which any of their prepa- 
 rations might cost, was so considerable an object, and to how 
 much it might mount up by the loss of the interest (loud 
 ^ Threepin doun — beating down.
 
 THE EBB AND FLOW OF POETRY. 283 
 
 laughter) upon it, and of interest upon that interest (loud 
 laughter), he could put it to all such reasoners," &c. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel dune. Hairy, — weel dune, Haiiy. You're 
 an ambitious duel yoursel, and wad do muckle to gain the 
 object of your ambition ; but you never were avaricious — you 
 have a sowl aboon that, — and I could forgie ye a' your sins 
 for that noble disdain of the meanest member of the legisla- 
 tive body. He can never hand up the head o' him after that. 
 Weel dune, Hairy. Mr North, let's drink Mr Bnimm's 
 health in a cauker. 
 
 North. Here he goes. — Heavens ! James, is that a brilliant 
 among the hair of your little finger ? 
 
 Shepherd. 0' the first water. But you've seen't afore a 
 thousand and. a thousand times. I got it frae his Grace the 
 late Duke of Buccleuch. 
 
 North. Are you not afraid of losing it, my dear Shepherd ? 
 
 Shepherd. Faith, there's nae fear o' that ; for it has indented 
 itsel intil my finger sae deep, that naebody can steal't frae 
 me unless they saw or file't aff. It is indeed " a gem of purest 
 ray serene ; " and mony a mirk nicht hae I seen my way 
 hame by its wee clear star o' lustre. The fairies ken't when 
 they see't far aff twinkling tlu-ough the mist, and the Shepherd 
 hears the soun' o' their wings wavering roun' his head sae 
 near, that he often thinks he could grup ane o' the creturs by 
 her grass-green cymar. But the air-woven garment is impal- 
 pable to the touch ; and, wi' sweet shrill laughter, the Aerials 
 fade, chiming away outower the hills down by the towers o' 
 Newark to holy Melrose, and the auld Abbey o' Dryburgh. 
 
 North. Oh why, my dearest James, why is thy mountain- 
 lyre mute? 
 
 Shepherd. You're a bonny fellow to ask that question ; you 
 that's aye abusing poetry, and wunna leave ony ane o' a' the 
 Nine Muses the likeness o' a dowg ! 
 
 North. The sea of song hath its ebbs and flows ; and now, 
 methinks, there is a wide shore of sand. 
 
 Shepherd. Alang which you see, noo and then, a straggling 
 poetaster picking iip a few shells — mere buckles ! 
 
 North. Sinkuig in treacherous quicksands, — or swallowed 
 up when the flow of tide returns from the ocean. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae nae wnsh either to be drowned, or picked 
 up by some critical cobble a' drookin wat, wi' sand in my
 
 284 MAKTIN THE PAINTER. — SCOTT's NAPOLEON. 
 
 hail-, and seaweed and barnacles stickin to my hurdles, like 
 the keel o' a veshel wi' Sir Humphrey Davy's preservers 
 against the dry-rot. Better to remain inland, — a silly shep- 
 herd piping to his flock. 
 
 North. I was glad to see some fine lines of yours, James, 
 in Mr "Watts' Souvenir. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, sir, but yen's a bonny byuck ! What for 
 didna ye notice the Prent o' Martin's Alexander and Diogenes? 
 That Martin, to my fancy, 's the greatest painter o' them a', 
 and has a maist magnificent imagination. I'm nae great 
 classical scholar ; but aibhns I ken as muckle aboiit Alex- 
 ander the Great, his character and his conquests, as mony 
 bred in a College. What a glorious gloom and glitter o' 
 battlements hanging ower the crested head o' the Macedonian 
 monarch, marcliing afore his body-guard, while a' the laigh 
 distance is a forest o' spears and lances ! And then Diogenes, 
 like a tinkler at the door o' his bit blanket-tent, geein a 
 lesson, wlxich he was weel able to do, to the son o' Jupiter 
 Ammon. The Tent's far better than a tub — for liistorical 
 truth canna be said to be wranged, when it is sacrificed to the 
 principles of a lofty art. A fountain playing close at hand in 
 the shade — and the builder's and the sculptor's skill beauti- 
 fying every quiet place with pensive images ! My copy, wi' 
 Mr Watts' respectful compliments, in large paper, wi' proof im- 
 pressions ; and I wadna sell't for five guineas, even although 
 I had coft it mysel for twal shillings. 
 
 North. Jozey Hume would not scruple to sell, at a profit, 
 a presentation-copy of a work of Sir Walter's. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoot, you sumph ! — Beg pardon, sir, — Hoo do 
 you think that a presentation-copy frae Sir Walter could ever 
 get into such slippery hauns ? But, gin ane coidd suppose sic 
 a supposition, nae doubt Joe wadna be lang o' sellin't ; for ye 
 ken he doesna like to see interest on siller losing itsel, and it's 
 very expensive keeping byucks lying idle, even although they 
 dinna eat muckle in their shelfs. I wadna sell a presentation- 
 copy o' the warst o' Sir Walter's warks, if it were to keep me 
 and mine frae starvation. — When's his Napoleon to be out ? 
 
 North. In a month or two,^ I hear. It is a noble perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Shepherd. You dinna say that you've seen't. 
 
 ^ Scott's Life of Napoleon was published in June 1827.
 
 Cunningham's paul jones, 285 
 
 North. Hem ! — Mum, James. His other works are Tales ; 
 bill this is a History, and a History worthy both the Men. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna doubt it. He's up to onything. — Oh, 
 sir, but it's sickening to hear the anticipatoiy criticism o' the 
 WlngKngs on the Life of Napoleon. Wull Sir Walter, they 
 ask, do justice to his character — wuU he not show his politics ? 
 What for no ? — Whan did he ever deny glory to a great man ? 
 Never. 
 
 North. Mere malice. Why, James, the Whigs used formerly 
 to say, and even now they hint as much, that Wellington is 
 not a great General. Neither is Scott a great Author. 
 
 Shepherd. I can thole a hantle o' nonsense — for I like to 
 speak nonsense mysel — but heartless, malignant, envious 
 nonsense, I never cotdd thole ; and were ony ass to point his 
 ears with a bray at Sir Walter, in my sicht, or hearing, I 
 would just get up, even if it was at a board o' oysters, when 
 ODoherty was clearin a' before him, and kick the donkey 
 down stairs. 
 
 North. Have you seen Allan Cunningham's^ Paul Jones? 
 
 Shepherd. No me. It '11 no be verra gude. 
 
 North. What, James ! Don't you think Allan a man of 
 genius ? 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, sir, I do think him a man of genius. But 
 mayna a man of genius \\Tite a byuck that's no verra gude ? 
 Eead ye ever a Eomauce ca'd the Three Perils o' Man? 
 
 North. Bravo, my dear Shepherd. Paul Jones, James, is an 
 amusing, an interesting Tale, and will, on the whole, raise 
 Allan's reputation. It is full of talent. 
 
 Shepherd. Let's hear it's chief merits first, and then 
 its chief defects. They'll be geyan equally balanced, I 
 jalouse. 
 
 North. Even so. There are many bold and striking inci- 
 dents and situations ; many picturesque and poetical descrip- 
 tions ; many reflections that prove Allan to be a man of an 
 original, vigorous, and sagacious mind. 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna doubt it. Say away. 
 
 North. The character of Paul Jones is, I think, well con- 
 ceived. 
 
 Shepherd. But is't weel executed ? That's everything. 
 
 1 Author of Lives of British Painters, and some very spirited poems. He 
 was the secretary and foreman of Chantrey the sculptor. See ante, p. 204.
 
 286 PKONOUNCED A FAILURE. 
 
 North. No, James, that's not eveiytliing. Much may be 
 forgiven in imperfect execution to good conception. In 
 bringing out his idea of Paul Jones, Allan has not always 
 been successful. The delineation wants light and shade; 
 there is frequent daubing — great — or rather gross exaggera- 
 tion, and continual effort after effect, that sometimes totally 
 defeats its purpose. On the whole, the interest we take in 
 the Pirate is but languid. But the worst fault of the book is 
 that it smells not of the ocean. There are waves — waves — 
 waves — but never a sea, — battle on battle, but as of ships in 
 a painted panorama, where we feel aU is the mockery of 
 imitation — and almost grudge our half-crown at each new 
 ineffectual broadside and crash of music from a band borrowed 
 from a caravan of wild beasts. 
 
 Shepherd. If I had said all that, you would have set it down 
 to jealousy o' Kinnigham's genius. 
 
 North. It is evident that Allan never made a cruise in a 
 frigate or line-of-battle ship. He dares not venture on nautical 
 terms — and the land-lubber is in every line. Paul Jones's 
 face is perpetually painted with blood and gunpowder, and 
 his person spattered with brains. The description of the 
 battle between the Shannon and the Chesapeake, in James's 
 Naval History, is worth, ten thousand times over, all the 
 descriptions in Allan's three volumes. Sadly inferior, indeed, 
 is he to Mr Cooper, the tnily naval author of the Piloty who 
 writes like a Hero. 
 
 Shepherd. As a tale of the sea, then, Paul Jones is a 
 failure ? 
 
 North. A most decided one. StiU a bright genius like 
 AUan's will show itself tln-ough darkest ignorance — and there 
 are occasional flashes of war poetry in Paul Jones. But he 
 manoeuvres a Ship as if she were on wheels, and on dry land. 
 AU the glory of the power of sail and helm is gone — and the 
 reader longs for an old number of The Naval Chronicle., for a 
 Gazette letter from the Admiralty, from Lord Exmouth, or 
 Lord Cockrane, or Sir Richard Strachan, or Keates, or MyLne, 
 or Seymour, or Brisbane. But as I shall probably review 
 Allan's book, you will see my opinion of its beauties and its 
 deformities at great length in an early number. The article 
 shall be a good one, depend on't — perhaps a leading one ; for 
 it is delightful to have to do with a man of genius ; and our
 
 ANKLES m BLUE STOCKINGS. 287 
 
 readers will rise from its perusal with a far higher opinion of 
 Allan's powers, than from any base and paid-for panegyric in 
 any rmprincipled Edinburgh radical newspaper, where the 
 fear or the hope of a few advertisements withheld or bestowed, 
 will prompt a panegyric fulsome as the smell of rankest ewes 
 or nanny-goats, that, to the nostrils of a proud Peasant, like 
 Allan Cunningham, must be sufficient, James, to make his 
 stomach "just perfectly scunner." By the way, I cannot 
 say, James, that I feel that disgust towards literary ladies 
 that you used to express so strongly by that excellent word 
 scunner. To my aged eyes a neat ankle is set off attrac- 
 tively by a slight shade of cerulean — and 
 
 Shepherd. A nate ankil ! Saw ye ever in a' your born 
 days a nate ankil in a blue stockin ? A' the leddies o' my 
 acquaintance that wi-ite byucks hae gotten a touch o' the 
 elephanteasis in their legs. If they grow thicker and thicker 
 
 a' the way up, safe us ! but they maim 
 
 North. Stop, James. Some of om- most justly poptilar 
 female authors are very handsome women. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll just thank ye to name twa or three o' the 
 handsomest — and I'U. bet you what you Uke that I'se produce 
 a lassie frae Yarrow or Ettrick, in worsted buggers,^ that just 
 kens her letters and nae mair, that'U. measure sma'er roun' the 
 ankil R than your picked madam in the blue stockins, although 
 she may hae written volumm upon volumm baith in prose 
 and metre, and aibhns dedicated them, with a " She" in 
 great big capitals, to his Majesty the King. 
 
 North. Stuff, James, stuff. Of aU the huge, hullrv-, bulky, 
 red, distempered ankles, that ever petiified my astonished 
 gaze, the most hideous have I seen wading the tributary 
 streams of the Tweed. In humble Ufe, no such thing exists 
 as a neat ankle. 
 
 Shepherd. Puu- chiel, I pity you. 
 
 North. The term Literary Ladies (who, by the by, are 
 charming Literary Souvenirs) is uniformly used by the dregs 
 of both sexes — and only by the di-egs. For my own part, I 
 never yet felt or understood the full beauty of any pathetic 
 passage in a poem, till I had heard it read, or recited, or 
 breathed of by lady's lips — or wept or smiled over by lady's 
 eyes — God bless them! They are celestial critics — and I 
 
 ^ Hvggers — stockings without feet.
 
 288 A SLIM ROTUNDITY COMMENDED, 
 
 could often kiss the sweet creatures, so silvery sweet the 
 music of their tongues ! Believe it not, James — ^believe it 
 not, James, that their ankles are ever one hau-'s-breadth in 
 circumference more than he could wish them to be, when 
 kneeling lover makes obeisance to their feet. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, weel, then — I daursay I'm wrang. I'm 
 wullin to beheve, in spite o' the evidences of my senses, that 
 the leddy I saw the day comin intil a circulation leebrary to 
 ax for the Secrets o' Sensibility, in four volumes, had ankles 
 nae thicker than my wrist-bane, although at the time I could 
 hae taen my bible oath that they were about the thickness of 
 my cawve. 
 
 North. Besides, James, it is altogether a mistake to think 
 that thinness is necessarily neatness in an ankle. An ankle 
 ought not on any account to be either thick or thin, but of a 
 moderate roundness ; any approach to the bony — or what you 
 would call the " skranky," is death to my devoirs. Many 
 elderly-young ladies are partial to short petticoats, on the 
 score of their thin, bony, skranlry ankles, wliich they stick out 
 upon the public like sheep's trotters. Commend me, James, 
 to a slim rotundity which long-fingered Jack could span — 
 and scarcely span. Such an ankle, in the words of Bums, 
 betrays fair proportion. The skranky ankle bespeaks skranky 
 neck and bosom, James, and 
 
 Shepherd. There's nae endurin them — I alloc that lassies 
 should aye be something sonsie. 
 
 North. So with waists. Women are not wasps. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm no just quite sae sure about that, sir ; but I 
 agree wi' you in dislikin the wasp-waist. You wunner what 
 they do wi' their vittals. They canna be healthy — and 
 you'll generally observe, that siclike hae gey yellow faces, 
 as if something were wrang wi' their stamach. There should 
 be moderation in a' things. A waist's for puttin your arm 
 round, and no for spannin wi' your hauns — except it be some 
 fairy o' a cretur that's no made to be married, but just to 
 wonder at, and aibhns admire, as you wud a bonny she-dwarf 
 at a show. There should aye be some teer and weer about a 
 lassie that's meant for domestic life. 
 
 North. With regard to dress, I am willing to allow consider- 
 able latitude. The bosom is the blessed seat of innocence as 
 well as love.
 
 THE CHARM OF APPROPRIATENESS. 289 
 
 Shepherd. That it is, Mr North ; and nae man that feels and 
 thinks as a man, need pretend to be angry \vi' a glimpse — na, 
 wi' mair than a glimpse — o' a sicht that soothes the thoughts 
 and feehngs into a delightful cawm, and brings into his heart 
 a silent bennison on the Virgin, whose wakin and sleepin 
 dreams are a' as pure as the snaw-drift o' her heaving breast ! 
 It's nane but your sanctimonious sinners that gloom as they 
 glower on such a heaven. 
 
 North. I often wish that there was not such uniformity in 
 fashion. How much better if every maiden and every matron 
 would dress according to her own peculiar taste and genius — 
 each guiding herself, at the same time, by some understood 
 Standard, from which there was to be no wide deviation. Thus 
 we should have " variety in uniformity," " simihtude in dissimili- 
 tude," which, according to Lord Shaftesbury and MrWordsworth, 
 and a thousand others, is one of the prime principles of beauty. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a capital remark, Tak, for example, 
 floonces, Whiat's mair ridiculous than sax tier o' floonces on 
 the tail o' the gown o' a bit fat, dumpy cretur, wi' unco ^ short 
 legs, and stickin out geyan sair,^ baith before and behin', 
 beside a tall, straught, elegant lassie, wha bears alang her 
 floonces as gloriously as the rising moming trails her clouds 
 tlirough amang the dews on the mountain- taps ! 
 
 North. Poetry in every word. 
 
 Shepherd. Without sic paraphernaHa, Dumpy micht has 
 been quite a Divinity. But the floonces gar you forget your 
 gude manners, till you can scarce help laughing. 
 
 North. Oh, James, what a charm in appropriateness ! 
 
 Shepherd. It's the same thing wi' men. Some look best in 
 ticht pantaloons — some in lowse troosers — some in knee- 
 breeks — and some in kilts. Instead o' that, when tichts are 
 the fashion, a' maun pit on tichts — and what a figure does 
 yon body mak o' himsel in tichts, wi' legs and thees a' o' 
 ue thickness, frae cute* to cleft, excep at the knees, which stick 
 out on the insides wi' knots like neeps,^ the verra hicht o' 
 vulgarity in a dra\^ing-room o' leddies. 
 
 North. 0, for the restoration of the Eoman Toga ! 
 
 Shepherd. Then should the Shepherd appear in the charac- 
 ter of a Eoman Consul, 
 
 ^ Unco — ^uncommon. 3 Qeyan sair — somewhat immoderately. 
 
 3 Ticht— iighi. 4 Cttie— ankle. s iV«epi— turnips. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 290 STAGES OF SOCIETY. 
 
 North. Hail, Cincimiatus — Cinciimatus, hail ! 
 
 Shepherd. I thocht lie liad been a ploughman — no a 
 shepherd. 
 
 North. Pray, James, do you think the pastoral preceded 
 the agricultural state ? 
 
 Shepherd. The horticultural preceded them baith — and 
 that's the reason why I became a member o' the Horticultural 
 Society, though it costs me twa guineas a-year. Now, there 
 could be nae delvin without spades, and nae drillin without 
 hows, and nae dibblin without dibbles — sae you see the 
 agricultural state, as you ca't, naturally succeeded to the 
 horticultural. Further, wama gardens made o' yirth ? and 
 what signifies it, in the pheelosophy o' the maitter, when the 
 saft garden was changed for the hard glebe, as was the case, 
 waes me — when the flaming sword drove our first parents — 
 puir creturs — out o' the gates of Paradise ! Therefore, strictly 
 speakin, the first state o' man was agricultural. 
 
 North. Jolm Millar, in his Distinctions of RanTcs^^ thought 
 other-wise. 
 
 Shepherd. And wha's John Millar? Was he a brother o' 
 Joe's ? But to proceed wi' an answer to your question. The 
 pastoral state grew out o' the agricultural, for when corn was 
 raised, what was to become o' the straw ? Cattle were col- 
 lected and tamed, and fattened and ate. Further, tliink you 
 that men wad hae been sic evendoun idiots as to have lived 
 on cattle, without potawtoes and bread ? Or on potawtoes 
 and bread without cattle ? They werena sic sumphs. 
 Therefore, Cain was a ploughman — and Abel was a shepherd 
 — just as Adam had been a gardener. And think you Eve 
 and her daughters were long contented with fig-leaves ? — no 
 they indeed. Thus manufactures aiose. As new families were 
 begotten, villages and towns arose, and hence trade and 
 commerce. So that horticulture was the original state — and 
 thus the agricultural and the pastoral and the manufacturing 
 and the commercial state arose contemporaneously, or nearly 
 sae, a' round and about the bonny borders o' Paradise — for 
 the borders were bonny, and weel watered wi' many large 
 rivers, although the fiery sword o' the Angel o' the Lord often 
 smote the soil wi' drought as with a curse — and 
 
 1 The Origin of the Distinctions of Raril-s. By John Millar, Esq., Professor of 
 Law in the University of Glasgow. Third edition : 1781.
 
 COLONEL HAWKER. 291 
 
 North. But you have forgot the fisliing and the hunting 
 states. 
 
 Shepherd. I've dune nae sic tiling — Come out to Altrive/ and 
 yoix will see them baith in a' their pristine gloiy. But never 
 tell me that a nation o' fishers ever turned into a nation o' 
 hunters, or veece versa. Indeed I hae my doubts gin ever 
 there was sic a thing as a nation o' fishers — except ye ca' twa 
 or three hunder sliiverin forlorn wretches on the shores o' 
 Terra del Fuego, or ony itlier sichke dreary and disconsolate 
 shore, a nation — which would be a great abuse o' language. 
 How the devil the human race ever got there, is no for me 
 to say, nor yon neither. But I gang no to John Millar, but 
 to Moses, for my pheelosophy o' man and man's dispersion ; 
 and even supposing, for the sake o' theory and liippothesis, that 
 the abeelities o' the twa writers were about upon a par, Moses, 
 ye'll allow, had a great advantage, in leevin some thousans o' 
 years nearer the time o' the creation than John Millar. Sae 
 I shall continue to prefer his account to ony ither speculation 
 sui' the invention o' prentin. 
 
 North. James, you are a good shot. 
 
 Shepherd. I seldom miss a haystack, or a barn-door, stand- 
 ing, at twenty yards ; but war they to tak wings to them- 
 selves and flee away, I should be shy o' takin on ony big bet 
 that I should bring them down — especially wi' a single 
 barrel. 
 
 North. That thick brown octavo, lying by itself, immediately 
 beyond the rizzered baddies, is one of the best and most 
 business-like books on shooting that we sportsmen have : it 
 is a fifth edition of my friend Colonel Hawker. 
 
 Shepherd. Commend me to an auld sodger for shootin. Let 
 me put on my specks — ae sentence in a book 's quite aneuch 
 to judge a' the lave by — and I see the Colonel's a clever 
 fallow. Plates, too, Mr North ; you maun just gie me a 
 present o' this copy — and it Avill aye be ready for perusal 
 when you come out to Altrive. 
 
 North. Take it, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Nane o' your pigeon-killers for me, waitin in 
 cool blood till the bonny burdies, that should ne'er be shot at 
 a', excep when they're on the corn-stooks, flee out o' a trap 
 
 ^ A small farm on the Yarrow, where Hogg resided after he left Mount 
 Benger.
 
 292 WILD DUCKS AND WHAUPS, 
 
 wi' a flutter and a whirr, and tlien prouder men are they nor 
 the Duke o' Wellington, when they knock down, wi' pinions 
 ower purple, the bright birds o' Venus, tumbling, as if hawk- 
 stnick, within boun's, or carrying aneath the down o' their 
 bonny bosoms some cruel draps, that ere nightfall will gar 
 them moan out their lives amang the cover o' suburban 
 groves. 
 
 North. So you have no pity, James, for any other birds 
 but the birds of Venus ? 
 
 Shepherd. I canna say that I hae muckle pity for mony o' 
 the ithers — mair especially wild-dyucks and whaups. It's a 
 trial that Job would never hae come through, without swearin 
 — after wading haK the day through marsh and fen, some- 
 times up to the houghs, and sometimes to the oxters, to 
 see a dizzen or a score o' wild-dyucks a' risin thegither, 
 about a quarter o' a mile aff, wi' their outstretched bills and 
 droopin doups, maist unmercifully ill-made, as ane might 
 mistake it, for fleeing, and then makin a circle half a mile 
 ayont the reach o' slug, gradually fa'in intil a mathematical 
 figure in Euclid's Elements, and vanishin, wi' the speed o' 
 aigles, in the weather-gleam,^ as if they were aff for ever to Nor- 
 way, or to the North Pole. Dang their web-footed soles 
 
 North. James — James, remember where you are, and with 
 whom — time, place, and person. No maledictions to-night on 
 any part o' the creation, feathered or unfeathered. During 
 Christmas holidays, I would rather err on the side of undue 
 humanity. What are whaups ? 
 
 Shepherd. That's a gude ane ! Ma faith, you pruved that 
 you kent weel aneuch what were whaups that day at Yarrow- 
 Ford, when you devoored twa, stoop and roop,*^ to the astonish- 
 ment o' the Tailor,^ wha begood to fear that you would niest^ 
 eat his guse for a second coorse. The English ca' whaups 
 curl-loos — the maist nonsensicalest name for a whaup ever I 
 heard — but the English hae little or nae imagination. 
 
 North. My memory is not so good as it used to be, James 
 — ^but I remember it now — "Most prime picking is the whaup." 
 
 Shepherd. In wunter they're aff to the sea — but a' simmer 
 and liairst they haunt the wide, heathy, or rushy and boggy 
 moors. Ye may discover the whaup' s lang nose half a mile 
 
 ^ Weather-gleam — horizon. 2 Stoop and roop — stump and rump. 
 
 3 The flying tailor of Ettrick, an eccentric character, celebrated for his 
 agility. * Mest— next.
 
 SOLITUDE. AUDUBON S EXHIBITION. 293 
 
 aff, as the gleg-eed cretur keeps a watch ower the wilder- 
 ness, wi' baith sicht and smell. 
 
 North. Did you shoot the whaups alluded to above, James 
 — or the Tailor himself? 
 
 Shepherd. Him — no me. But mony and aft's the time that 
 I hae lain for hours aliint some auld turf-dyke, that aiblins 
 had ance enclosed a bit bonny kailyard belanging to a housie 
 noo soopt frae the face of the yearth, — every noo and than 
 keekin ower the grassy rampart to see gif the whaups, thinkin 
 themselves alane, were takin their walk in the sohtude ; and 
 gif nane were there, layin mysel doun a' my length on my 
 grufe * and elbow, and reading an auncient ballant, or maybe 
 tryin to croon a bit sang o' my ain, inspired by the lown and 
 lanesome spat, — for oh, sir ! haena ye aften felt that the 
 farther we are in body irae human dwellings, the nearer are 
 we to their ingles in sowl ? 
 
 North. Often, James — often. In a crowd I am apt to be 
 sullen or ferocious. In solitude I am the most benevolent of 
 men. To understand my character, you must see me alone — 
 converse with me — meditate on what I then say — and behold 
 my character in all its original brightness. 
 
 Shepherd. The dearest thocht and feeHngs o' auld lang syne 
 come crowd — crowding back again into the heart whenever 
 there's an hour o' perfect silence, just like so many swallows 
 coming a-wing frae God knows where, when winter is ower 
 and gane, to the self- same range o' auld clay biggins, aneath 
 the thatch o' house, or the slate o' ha' — unforgetfu' they o' 
 the place whare they were bom, and first hunted the insect- 
 people through shadow or sunshine I 
 
 North. What a pity, James, that you were not in Edin- 
 burgh in time to see my friend Audubon's Exhibition ! 
 
 Shepherd. An Exhibition o' what ? 
 
 North. Of birds painted to the life. Almost the whole 
 American Ornithology, true to nature, as if the creatures 
 were in their native haunts in the forests, or on the sea-shores. 
 Not stiff and staring like stuffed specimens — but in every 
 imaginable characteristic attitude, perched, wading, or a-wing, 
 — not a feather, smooth or ruffled, out of its place, — every song, 
 chirp, chatter, or cry, made audible by the power of genius. 
 
 Shepherd. Whare got he sae weel acquaint wi' a' the tribes 
 — for do they not herd in swamps and woods whare man's 
 
 1 Grufe — belly.
 
 294 NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 foot intrades not — and the wilderness is guarded by the rat- 
 tlesnake, fearsome watchman, wi' nae ither bouets ^ than his 
 ain fiery eyne ? 
 
 North. For upwards of twenty years the enthusiastic 
 Audubon lived in the remotest woods, journeying to and fro 
 on foot thousands of miles — or sailing on great rivers, " great 
 as any seas," with his unerring rifle, slaughtering only to 
 embalm his prey by an art of his own, in form and hue 
 unchanged, unchangeable — and now, for the sum of one 
 shilling, may anybody that chooses it, behold the images of 
 almost all the splendid and gorgeous birds of that Continent. 
 
 Shepherd. Whare's the Exhibition now ? 
 
 North. At Glasgow, I believe — where I have no doubt it 
 will attract thousands of delighted spectators. I must get 
 the friend who gave " A Glance over Selby's Ornithology," ^ 
 to tell the world at large more of Audubon.^ He is the 
 greatest artist in his own walk that ever lived, and cannot 
 fail to reap the reward of his genius and perseverance and 
 adventurous zeal in his own beautiful branch of natural 
 history, both in fame and fortune. The Man himself — whom 
 I have had the pleasure of frequently meeting — is just what 
 you would expect from liis works, — full of fine enthusiasm 
 and intelligence — most interesting in looks and manners — a 
 perfect gentleman — and esteemed by all who know him for 
 the simplicity and frankness of his nature. I wish you had 
 seen him, James ; you would have taken to each other very 
 kindly, for you, James, are yourself a natm-aUst, although 
 sometimes, it must be confessed, you deal a little in the 
 miraculous, when biographically inclined about sheep, dogs, 
 eagles, and salmon. 
 
 Shepherd. The ways o' the creatures o' the inferior creation, 
 as we choose to ca' birds and beasts, are a' miraculous the- 
 gither — nor would they be less so if we understood better 
 than we do their several instincts. Natural History is just 
 anither name for Natural Theology — and the sang o' the 
 laverock, and the plumage o' the goldfinch — do they not alike 
 remind us o' God ? 
 
 ^ Bouet — a hand-lanthom. 
 
 2 In Blackwood's Magazine for November 1826, written by Professor Wilson. 
 
 3 Audubon' s Ornilhologiral Biograiihu was reviewed by Professor Wilson in 
 Blackwood! s Magazine for July and August 1831.
 
 ORIENTAL COSTUME. 295 
 
 North. I never Imew a Naturalist wlio was not a good man. 
 Buffon was a strange devil, but not a bad fellow on the whole 
 — with all his vanity and sensualism. Cuvier is a most 
 amiable character, and we need not go far from Edinburgh to 
 find the best of men, and of Naturalists, united in one whom 
 it is needless to name.^ 
 
 Shepherd. That's a tnith — What thin Folio's yon sprawling 
 on the side-table ? 
 
 North. Scenery, costume, and architecture, chiefly on the 
 western side of India, by Captain Robert Melville Grindlay — 
 a beautiful and a splendid work. — Just look at the frontis- 
 piece, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Eh, man ! but she's a bonny Frontispiece, indeed ! 
 An Indian Maiden, orientally arrayed in a flowing garment, 
 veil, shawl, plaid, gown, and trouser-lookin petticoats, all 
 gracefully confused into one indistinguishable drapery, from 
 dark-haired forehead down to ringed ankles and sma' naked 
 feet ! These pure, smooth, glossy, arms o' hers — hoo saftly 
 and hoo sweetly wad they enfauld a lover stealing into them 
 at gloamin, below the shadow o' these lofty Pahn-Trees ! 
 
 North. Turn over, James, and admire the shaking Minarets 
 at Ahmedabad. It is the great Mosque erected by Sultan 
 Ahmed early in the fifteenth centmy. His remains, with those 
 of his family, are deposited within, in a splendid Mausoleum. 
 The tombs are still covered. Captain Grindlay tells us, with 
 rich tissues of silk and gold, suiTOunded with lamps continu- 
 ally burning, and guarded by Mahommedans of the religious 
 orders, aided by innumerable devotees of the fair sex. It is, 
 like all the other mosques and religious buildings of stone in 
 the city and environs of Ahmedabad, ornamented with the 
 most elaborate sculpture, and evidently copied from the 
 remains of Hindoo architecture of very remote antiquity. 
 
 Shepherd. It is a splendid structure ; and can naebody tell 
 why the Minarets shake ? But I canna get the image o' that 
 Indian maiden out o' the ee o' my mind — let me look at her 
 again. Oh ! the bonny brown cretur, but she wad mak a 
 pleasant companion in the way o' wife I 
 
 1 James Wilson, Esq. of Woodville, near Edinburgh, brother of Professor 
 Wilson, author of the article "Entomology" in the Encijclo2)cedia Britannica, 
 "Voyage Round Scotland, 1842," &c., and one of the most scientific naturalists 
 in Europe.
 
 296 ORIENTAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 North. There, James, is an Ancient Temple at Malmud, on 
 the Peninsula of Guzerat, wliich was the scene of the chief 
 exploits, and finally of the death of Krishna, the Indian 
 Apollo, and still contains arcliitectural remains of the highest 
 antiquity, and of extraordinary richness and beauty. 
 
 Shepherd. Od, it's sae lang sin' you were in India, I 
 wonner hoo ye can remember so distinctly a' the architecture, 
 and 
 
 North. Captain Grindlay's admirable Representations bring 
 back a thousand dreams to my mind. Beautiful Peninsula of 
 Guzerat ! True indeed it is, my dear Grindlay, that every 
 hill is consecrated by some mythological event, and every 
 stream has its poetical Name and classical Fiction. 
 
 Shepherd. There's no sic a Buildin's that in a' Embro', The 
 Register Office, forsooth ! 
 
 North. Like the ancients, James, you see they adorn the 
 Approach to their Cities with monumental buildings, from 
 the splendid pillared dome of the chieftain, to the simple slab 
 of the vassal, on which is sculptured the figure, on a horse or 
 camel, or on foot, according to the circumstances under which 
 the deceased met his fate. Intermingled with these warlike 
 memorials, on the more affecting records of devotion, are the 
 widows who have immolated themselves on the funeral piles 
 of their lords, distinguished by a sculptured funeral Urn, 
 ornamented with bracelets and amulets ; and the number of 
 this latter description proves the great and extensive preval- 
 ence of a practice which all the humane efforts of the British 
 Court have hitherto failed to suppress. 
 
 Shepherd. Isna that a lassie in the foreground? 
 
 North. Yes, James, that mass of Masomy in the foreground 
 is a Well, to which the female is descending by a flight of 
 steps. These subterraneous reservoirs present, throughout 
 Guzerat, some of the most splendid specimens of architecture, 
 combining utility with unbounded riches of sculpture, and 
 containing, in many instances, chambers and galleries for 
 retreat during the oppressive heat of mid-day. 
 
 Shepherd. Confound me, ye auld cunning warlock, gin ye 
 haena been readin a' this time ower my shouther frae Cap- 
 tain Grindlay's ain letterpress, and passin't aff as your ain 
 description ! 
 
 North. Why, James, your imagination has been so occupied
 
 PHRENOLOGY — JEFFREY VERSUS COMBE. 297 
 
 by that Oriental Damsel, that you never observed me putting 
 on my Specks. I have been assuredly quoting the Captain, 
 who writes as well as he draws. Pen, pencil, or sword, come 
 aUke to the hand of an accomplished British officer. 
 
 Shepherd. There maun be thousan's o' leebraries in Britain, 
 private and pubhc, that ought to hae sic a wark. 
 
 North. It must succeed. — But take care, James, that you 
 don't soil it ; — it shall have an article to itself soon. There, 
 lay it down gently. 
 
 Shepherd. Whether had Mr Jeffrey or Mr Combe the best 
 in that tussle about Plu-enology, think ye, sir?^ 
 
 North. Mr Jeffrey. — What a difference between the Men ! — 
 Now and then Mr Jeffrey laid himself open to knock-do^vn 
 blows ; but Mr Combe, although he coidd not but see the 
 opening and the unguarded part, knew not how to avail him- 
 self of the advantage given by his skilful, but occasionally 
 unwary opponent. With open hand he sprawled on to the 
 attack, admioistered punislmient, and finally got knocked out 
 of the ring, among acclamations justly raised to his con- 
 queror. 
 
 Shepherd. What you say's just perfectly surprising ; for the 
 Phrenologers tell me that Combe did not leave Jeffrey a leg 
 to stand on ; and that the Science, as they ca't, noo stands 
 like a Pyramid o' Egypt, wi' a broad base, and a apex point- 
 ing to the sky. I'm thinking ye'll be rather prejudiced, — a 
 wee bigotted or sae, — and no a fit judge atween the twa com- 
 batants. Combe's a clever chiel — let me tell you that, sir. 
 
 North. And a very arrogant one too, else had he not flung 
 back in Mr Jeffrey's face the compliment that gentleman 
 rather unnecessarily paid to his talents. 
 
 Shepherd. Jeffrey was jokdn ! 
 
 North. Very like, James, — very like. I am a bit of a bigot, 
 I confess. Most — indeed all men are so in one respect or 
 another ; but if Phrenology be a Fact in Nature, as Mr Combe 
 and his adherents say — why — " Facts are chiels that wunna 
 ding;"^ and, with the exception of the high authorities cited 
 by Mr Combe, all the way up to the Philosophical Editor of 
 the Chirurgical Journal^ down to the worthy Dundee mechanic, 
 
 1 Jeflfrey attacked Phrenology in a clever and humorous article in The Edin- 
 burgh Review, No. Lxxxviii., for Sept. 1826. Mr Combe published a rejoinder. 
 
 2 Wunna ding — will not yield.
 
 298 THE PHEENOLOGISTS. 
 
 AvLo procured, from the generosity of its author, a copy of 
 Combe's Phrenology at the trade price, through the instru- 
 mentality of the guard of tlie Champion coach, mankind will 
 look very foolish on the establishment of the Fact, and nobody 
 will be able to hold up their heads but the Members of the 
 various Phi-enological Societies. Won't that be exceedingly 
 hard, James? 
 
 Shepherd. Eather sae — ^but I'm determined to baud up my 
 head, whether Pkrenology's true or false. I ken a gude heap 
 o' Phrenologers, but maist o' them's geyan stupid and wi-ang- 
 headed ; — no them a', but the greater feck o' them, — and I 
 wadna just wish dunces to be discoverers. 
 
 North. The Phrenologers occupy a most distinguished rank 
 as men of letters in Europe, James. I confess that to be " a 
 Fact in Nature." Independently of their own science, they 
 have produced many celebrated works on life, manners, morals, 
 politics, and history. 
 
 Shepherd. What's their names? 
 
 North. Hark I the Calabrian hai-pers. Ring the bell, James, 
 and we shall have them up-stairs for half an hour. 
 
 Shepherd {rings). Awmrose — Awmrose — bring my fiddle. 
 I'll accompany the Calawbrians wi' voice and thairm.
 
 XII. 
 
 (MARCH 1827.) 
 
 Scene, — Amlrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlour. 
 North and the Shepherd. 
 
 North. How do you account, my dearest Shepherd, for the 
 steadiness and perseverance of my affection for thee, seeing 
 that I am naturally and artificially the most wayward, fickle, 
 and capricious of all God's creatures ? Not a fiiend but your- 
 self, James, with whom I have not frequently and bitterly 
 quaiTclled, often to the utter extinction of mutual regard — 
 but towards my incomprehensible Brownie my heart ever 
 vearns 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your leein tongue, ye tyke, you've quaiTel- 
 led wi' me mony thousan' times, and I've borne at your hands 
 mair ill-usage than I wad hae taen frae ony ither mortal man 
 in his Majesty's dominions. Yet I weel believe that only the 
 shears o' Fate will ever cut the cords o' our friendship. I fancy 
 it's just the same wi' you as wi' me, we maun like ane anither 
 whether we wull or no — and that's the sort o' freendsliip for 
 me — for it flourishes, Kke a mountain flower, in all weathers — 
 braid and bricht in the sunshine, and just faulded up a wee in 
 the sleet, sae that it micht maist be thocht dead, but fu' o' life 
 in its cozy bield^ ahint tlie mossy stane, and peering out again 
 in a' its beauty, at the sang o' the rising laverock. 
 
 North. This world's friendships, James — — • 
 
 Shepherd. Are as cheap as crockery, and as easily broken 
 by a fa'. They seldom can bide a clash, without fleein intil 
 flinders.^ 0, sir, but maist men's hearts, and women's too, are 
 ^ Cozy bield — snug shelter. 2 Flinders — shivers.
 
 300 FRIENDSHIP. — THE GRAVE. 
 
 like toom nits' — nae kernel, and a splutter o' fusliionless dust. 
 I sometimes canna help tliinkin that there's nae future state. 
 
 North. Fie, fie, James, leave all such dark scepticism to a 
 Byron — it is unworthy of the Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. What for should sae mony puir, peevish, selfish, 
 stupid, mean, and malignant creatures no just lie still in the 
 mools among the ither worms, aneath their bits o' inscribed 
 tomb-stones, aiblins railed in, and a' their nettles, wi' painted 
 airn-rails, in a nook o' the kirkyard that's their ain property, 
 and naebody's wushin to tak it frae them — What for, I say, 
 shouldna they lie quate in skeleton for a thousand years, and 
 then crummle, crummle, crummle awa intil the yearth o' which 
 Time is made, and ne'er be reimmatterialeezed into Eternity? 
 
 North. This is not like your usual gracious and benign philo- 
 sophy, James ; but, believe me, my friend, that within the spirit 
 of the most degraded wretch that ever grovelled earthward from 
 caudle-day to corpse-day, there has been some slumbering 
 spark divine, inextinguishable by the death-damps of the 
 cemetery 
 
 Shepherd. Gran' words, sir, gran' words, nae doubt, mair 
 especially " cemetery," which I'm fond o' usin mysel, as often's 
 the subject and the verse will alloo. But after a', is't mair 
 poetical than the "Grave"? Deevilabit. For a wee, short, 
 simple, stiff, stem, dour, and fearsome word, commend me to 
 the " Grave." 
 
 North. Let us change the channel of our discussion, James, 
 if you please 
 
 Shepherd. What ! You're no feared for death, are you, sir ? 
 
 North. I am. 
 
 Shepherd. So am I. There, only look at the cawnle^ expiring 
 — faint, feeble, flickering, and just like ane o' us puir mortal 
 human creatures, sair, sair unwilling to die I Whare's the 
 snuffers, that I may put it out o' pain. I'm tell't that twa 
 folk die every minute, or rather every moment. Isna that 
 fearsome to think o' ? 
 
 North. Ay, James, children have been made orphans, and 
 mves widows, since that wick began to fill the room with its 
 funereal odour. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae man can manage snuffers richt, unless he hae 
 been accustomed to them when he was young. In the Forest, we 
 ^ Toom nits — empty nuts, 2 Cawnle — candle.
 
 SHEPHERD ON BLACKWOOD S MAGAZINE. 301 
 
 a' use our fingers, or blaw tlie cawnles out wi' our mouths, or 
 chap the brass sticks wi' the stinkin wicks again' the ribs — 
 and gin there was a pair o' snuffers in the house, you might 
 hunt for them through a' the closets and presses for a fortnight, 
 without their ever castin up. 
 
 North. I hear that you intend to light up Mount Benger 
 with gas, James. Is that a true bill ? 
 
 Shepherd. I had thochts o't — but the gasometer, I find, comes 
 ower high — so I shall stick to the "Lang Twas." man, 
 noo that the cawnle's out, isna that fire unco heartsome ? 
 Your face, sir, looks just perfeckly niddy in the bleeze, and it 
 wad tak a pair o' poorfu' specks to spy out a single wrinkle. 
 You'll leeve yet for ither twa hundred Numbers. 
 
 North. And then, my dear Shepherd, the editorship shall 
 be thine. 
 
 Shepherd. Na. When you're dead, Maga will be dead. 
 She'll no surveeve you ae single day. Buried shall you be in 
 ae grave, and curst be he that distm-bs your banes ! Afore 
 you and her cam out, this wasna the same warld it has been 
 sin' syne. Wut and wisdom never used to be seen linkin 
 alang thegither, han'-in-han' as they are noo, frae ae end o' the 
 month to the ither ; — there wasna prented a byuck that garred 
 ye break out at ae page into grief, and at anither into a 
 guffaw; — where could ye forgather wi'^ sic a canty ^ crew o' 
 chiels as ODoherty and the rest, passin themselves aff some- 
 times for real, and sometimes for fictions characters, till the 
 puzzled public glowered as if they had flung the glamour 
 ower her ? — and oh, sir, afore you brak out, beautiful as had 
 been many thousan' thousan' milhon, billion, trillion and 
 quadrilhon nights by firesides in huts or ha's, or out-by in 
 the open air wi' the starry heavens resting on the saft hill- 
 taps, yet a' the time that the heavenly bodies were perform- 
 ing their stated revolutions — there were nae, nae Noctes 
 Ambrosian^ ! 
 
 North. I have not, I would fain hope, my dear James, 
 been altogether useless in my generation — but your partiality 
 exaggerates my merits 
 
 Shepherd. A man would require an oss magna sonaturum 
 to do that. Suffice it to say, sir, that you are the wisest and 
 wittiest of men. Dinna turn awa your face, or you'll get a 
 
 ^ Forgather wi' — fall in with. 2 Canty — lively.
 
 302 SHEPHERD WITH TWENTY THOUSAND POUNDS. 
 
 crick in your neck. There's no sic a popular man in a' 
 Britain the noo as Christopher North. Oh, sir, you'll dee as 
 rich as Croesus — for every day there's wulls makin by auld 
 leddies and young leddies, leaving you their residiatory 
 legatee, sometimes, I fear, past the heirs, male or female, o' 
 their bodies lawfully begotten. 
 
 North. No, James, I trust that none of my admirers, since 
 admirers you say the old man hath, will ever prove so unprin- 
 cipled as to leave their money away from their own kin. 
 Nothing can justify that — but hopeless and incurable vice in 
 the natural heirs. 
 
 Shepherd. I wnsh I was worth just twenty thousan' pounds. 
 I could leeve on that — but no on a farden less. In the first 
 place, I would buy three or four pair o' tap-boots — and T 
 would try to introduce into the Forest buckskin breeks. I 
 would niest, sin' naebody's gien me ane in a present, buy a 
 gold musical snuff-box, that would play times on the table. 
 
 North. Heavens ! James — at that rate you would be a ruined 
 man before the coming of Chiistmas. You would see yom- 
 name honourably mentioned in the Gazette. 
 
 Shepherd. Then a gold twisted watch-chain, sax gold seals 
 o' various sizes, frae the bigness o' my nieve amaist, doun to 
 that o' a kitty-wren's &^g. 
 
 North. Which ODoherty would chouse you out of at brag, 
 some night at his own lodgings, after the play. 
 
 Shepherd. Catch me at the cairds, unless it be a game at 
 Birky ; ' for I'm sick o' Whust itsel, I've sic desperate bad 
 hauns dealt to me noo — no an ace ance in a month, and no 
 that unseldom a haun wdthout a face-caird, made up o' deuces, 
 and trays, and fours, and fives, and be damned to them ; so that 
 to tak the verra weakest trick is entirely out o' my power, 
 except it be by main force, harling the cairds to me whether 
 the opposite side wull or no ; and then at the close o' the 
 round, threepin^ that I had twa honours — the knave and 
 anither ane. Sic bad luck hae I in a' chance games, Mr 
 North, as you ken, that were I to fling dice for my Life alang 
 wi' a haill army o' fifty thousand men, I wad be sure to be 
 shot ; for I would fling aces after some puir tramlin drummer 
 had flung deuces, and be led out into the middle o' a hollow 
 square for execution. 
 
 1 ^ Ti^^ice, Beggar-iny-neighbour. 2 r/^rec^iw— asserting pertinaciously.
 
 EXECUTION OF A MUTINEER, 303 
 
 North. James, you are very excursive this evening in your 
 conversation — nobody is thinking of shooting you, James. 
 
 Shepherd. And I'm sure that I hae nae thochts o' shootin 
 inyseL But ance — it's a lang time syne — I saw a sodger 
 8hot — dead, sir, as a door-nail, or a coffin-nail, or ony ither 
 kind o' nail. 
 
 North. Was it in battle, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. In battle? — Na, na; neither you nor me was 
 ever fond o' being in battle at ony time o' our lives. 
 
 North. I was Private Secretary to Kodney when he beat 
 Langara,^ James. 
 
 Shepherd. Hand your tongue ! — What a crowd on the Links'^ 
 that day ! But a' wi' fixed whitish faces — nae speakin — no 
 sae muckle as a whisper — a frozen dumbness that nae wechf* 
 could break ! 
 
 North. You mean the spectators, James. 
 Shepherd. Then the airmy appeared in the distance ; for 
 there were three haill regiments, a' wi' fixed beggonets ; but 
 nae music — nae music for a while at least, till a' at ance, 
 mercy on us ! we heard, like laigh sullen thunder, the soun' 
 o' the great muffled drum, aye played on, ye ken, by a black 
 man ; in this case, an African neegger, sax feet four ; and what 
 bangs he gied the bass — the whites o' his een rowin about as 
 if he was glad, atween every stroke ! 
 
 North. I remember him — the best pugilist then going, for 
 it was long before the days of Eichmond and Molineaux — and 
 nearer forty than thirty years ago, James. 
 
 Shepherd. The tread of the troops was like the step o' ae 
 giant — sae perfate was their discippleen — and afore I weel 
 kent that they were a' in the Links, three sides o' a square 
 were formed — and the soun' o' the great dram ceased, as at 
 an inaudible word of command, or wavin o' a haun, or the 
 lowerin o' a banner. It was but ae man that was about to 
 die — but for that ae man, had their awe no hindered them, 
 twenty thousan' folk wad at that moment hae broken out into 
 lamentations and rueful cries — but as yet not a tear was shed 
 — not a sigh was heaved — for had a' that vast crowd been sae 
 mony images, or corpses raised up by cantrip in their death- 
 claes, they couldna hae been man- motionless than at that 
 
 1 Off Cape St Vincent, on the 16th of January 1780. 
 
 2 Links — downs. ^ Wecht — weight.
 
 304 EXECUTION OF A MUTINEER. 
 
 minute, nor mair speechless than that multitude o' leevin 
 souls ! 
 
 North. I was myself one of the multitude, James. 
 
 Shepherd. There, a' at ance, hoo or whare he came frae 
 nane could tell — there, I say, a' at ance stood the Mutineer. 
 Some tell't me afterwards that they had seen him marchin 
 along, twa-three yards ahint his coffin, wi' his head just a 
 wee thocht inclined downwards, not in fear o' man or death, 
 but in awe o' God and judgment, keepin time wi' a military 
 step that was natxiral to him, and no unbecoming a brave 
 man on the way to the grave, and his een fixed on the green 
 that was fadin awa for ever and ever frae aneath his feet ; but 
 that was a sicht I saw not — for the first time I beheld him 
 he was standin, a' unlike the ither men, in the middle o' that 
 three-sided square, and there was a shudder through the haill 
 multitude, just as if we had been a' standin haun in haun, and 
 a natural philosopher had gien us a shock o' his electrical 
 machine. " That's him — that's him — puir, puir fallow ! Oh ! 
 but he's a pretty man!" — Such were the ejaculations frae 
 thousan's o' women, maist o' them young anes, but some o' 
 them auld, and grey-headed aneath their mutches, and no a 
 few wi' babies sookin or caterwailin at their breasts. 
 
 North. A pretty girl fainted within half-a-dozen yards of 
 where I stood. 
 
 Shepherd. His name was Lewis Mackenzie — and as fine a 
 young man he was as ever stepped on heather. The moment 
 before he knelt down on his coffin, he seemed as fu' o' life as 
 if he had stripped aff his jacket for a game at foot-ba', or to 
 fling the hammer. Ay, weel micht the women-folk gaze on 
 him wi' red weeping een, for he had lo'ed them but ower 
 weel ; and mony a time, it is said, had he let liimsel down the 
 Castle-rock at night, God knows hoo, to meet his lemans — ^but 
 a' that, a' liis sins, and a' his crimes acted and only meditated, 
 were at an end noo — puir fallow — and the platoon, wi' fixed 
 beggonets, were drawn up -within ten yards, or less, o' where 
 he stood, and he himsel havin tied a handkercliief ower his 
 een, dropped down on his knees on his coffin, wi' faulded 
 hands, and lips moving fast, fast, and white as ashes, in 
 prayer I 
 
 North. Cursed be the inexorable justice of military law 1 — 
 he might have been pardoned.
 
 THE JIUTINEER's FATHER. 305 
 
 Shepherd. Pardoned ! Hadna he disarmed liis ain captain 
 o' his sword, and ran him through the shouther — in a mutiny 
 of which he was himsel the ringleader ? King George on the 
 throne durstna hae pardoned liim — it wad hae been as much 
 as his crown was worth — for hoo could King, Kintra, and 
 Constitution thole a standing army, in wliich mutiny was not 
 punished wi' death ? 
 
 North. Six balls pierced him — through head and heart — 
 and what a shriek, James, then arose ! 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, to hae heard that shriek, you wad hae 
 thought that the women that raised it wad never hae lauched 
 again ; but in a few hours, as sxrne as nightfall darkened the 
 city, some o' them were gossipin about the shootin o' the 
 sodger to their neighbours, some dancin at hops that shall be 
 nameless, some sittin on their sweethearts' knees wi' their 
 arms roun' their necks, some swearin like troopers, some 
 doubtless sittin thoclitfu' by the fireside, or awa to bed in 
 sadness an hour sooner than usual, and then fast asleep. 
 
 North. I saw his old father, James, with my own eyes, 
 step out from the crowd, and way being made for him, he 
 walked up to his son's dead body, and embracing it, kissed his 
 bloody head, and then with clasped hands looked up to heaven. 
 
 Shepherd. A Strang and stately auld man, and ane too that 
 had been a soldier in his youth. Sorrow, not shame, some- 
 what bowed his head, and ance he reeled as if he were faint 
 on a sudden. — But what the deevil's the use o' me haveiin 
 awa this way aboot the shootin o' a sodger, thretty years sin' 
 syne, and mair too — for didna I see that auld silvery-headed 
 father o' the mutineer staggering alang the Grassmarket, the 
 verra next day after the execution, as fou as the Baltic, wi' 
 a heap o' naischievous weans hallooin after him, and him a' 
 the while in a dwam o' drink and despair, maunderin about 
 his son Lewis, then lyin a' barken'd wi' blood in his coffin, 
 six feet deep in a fine rich loam. 
 
 North. That very same afternoon I heard the drums and 
 fifes of a recruiting party, belonging to the same regiment, 
 •finding away down towards Holyrood ; and the place of 
 Lewis Mackenzie, in the line of bold sergeants with their 
 claymores, was supplied by a corporal, promoted to a triple 
 bar on his sleeve, in consequence of the death of the mutineer. 
 
 Shepherd. It was an awfu' scene, yon, sir; but there was 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 306 TOASTED CHEESE. 
 
 naetliing humiliating to liuman nature in it, — as in a liangin ; 
 and it struck a wholesome fear into the souls o' many thousan' 
 sodgers. 
 
 North. The silence and order of the troops, all the while, 
 was sublime. 
 
 Shepherd. It was sae, indeed. 
 
 North. What do you think, James, of that, by way of a 
 toasting cheese ? Ambrose calls it the Welshman's delight, 
 or Davies' darling. 
 
 Shepherd. It's rather teuch — luk, liok, hoo it pu's out, out, 
 out, and better out, into a very thread o' the unbeaten gold, 
 a' the way frae the ashet to my mouth. Saw ye ever onything 
 sae tenawcious ? I verily beHeve that I coiald walk, without 
 breakin't, intil the titlier room. Luk hoo it shines, like a 
 gossamer -filament, a' threaded wi' what Allan Kinnigham 
 would ca' dew-blobs, stretching across frae ae sweet-briar 
 bush to anither, and breaking afore the step o' the eaily lassie 
 tripping down the brae, to wash her bonny face, yet smihng 
 wi' the glimmerin licht o' love-dreams, in the bit burnie that 
 wimples awa as pure and stainless as her ain virgin life ! 
 
 North. Sentiment — divine sentiment, extracted by the 
 alchemy of genius from a Welsh-rabbit ! 
 
 Shepherd. Noo that I've gotten't intil my mouth — I wush 
 it ever may be gotten out again ! The tae^ end o' the line is 
 fastened, like a hard gedd^ (See Dr Jamieson) in the ashet — 
 and the ither end's in my stammach — and the tliin tliread o' 
 attenuated cheese gets atween my teeth, sae that I canna 
 chow't through and through. Thank ye sir, for cuttin't. Rax 
 me ower the jug. Is't yill? Here's to you, sir. 
 
 North. Peebles ale, James. It has a twang of the Tweed. 
 
 Shepherd. Tweed ! Do you ken, Mr North, that last 
 simmer* the Tweed ran dry, and has never flowed sin' syne. 
 They're speakin o' takin doun a' the brigs frae Erickstane to 
 Berwick, and changing the channel intil the turnpike road. 
 A' the materials are at haun, and it's a' to be macadameezed. 
 
 North. The Steam-Engine Mail-Coach is to run that road 
 in spring. 
 
 Shepherd. Is't ? She'll be a dangerous vehicle — ^but I'll 
 tak my place in the safety-valve. But jeestin apaiil, do you 
 
 ^ Tae — one. 2 Qedd — a pikestaff stuck into the ground. 
 
 3 The summer of 1826 was memorable for its drought.
 
 WELLS. 307 
 
 ken, sir, that mony and mony a wee well among tlae hills and 
 mountains was really dried up by the drought o' three dry- 
 simmers — and for them my heart was wae, as if they had 
 been, ance leevin things ! For werena they like leevin things, 
 aye sae calm, and clear, and bright, and sae contented, ilka 
 ane by itsel, in far-awa spats, whare the grass runkled only 
 to the shepherd's foot twa-three times a-year, and a' the rest 
 o' the sun's annual visit roun' the globe lay touched only by 
 the wandering light and shadows ! 
 
 North. Poo — poo — James — there's plenty of water in the 
 world without them. 
 
 Shepherd. Plenty o' water in the world without them ? Ay, 
 that there is, and mair than plenty — but what's that to the 
 purpose, ye auld haverel ? Gin five thousan' bonny bairns 
 were to be mawn doun by the scythe o' Death during the 
 time that I'm drinking this glass — (oh man, but this is a 
 grand jug, aiblins rather ower sweet, and rather ower strong, 
 but that's twa gude fauts) — there wad be plenty o' bairns 
 left in the warld, legitimate and illegitimate — and you nor 
 me micht never miss them. But wadna there be just sae 
 much extinguishment, or annihilation lilce, o' beauty and 
 bliss, o' licht and lauchter, o' ray-Hke ringlets, and lips that 
 war nae sweeter, for naething can be sweeter, than the half- 
 opened buds o' moss-roses, when the morning is puttin on 
 her claes, but lips that were just as sweet when openin and 
 shuttin in their balmy breath, when ilka happy bairn was 
 singing a ballant or. a psalm, baith alike pious and baith ahke 
 pensive ; for a' the airs o' Scotland (excep a gey hantle, to 
 be sure, o' wicket tunes), soun' aye to me mair melancholy 
 than mirthfu', spirit-like, and as if of heavenly origin, like the 
 bit lown musical soun's that go echoing by the ear, or rather 
 the verra soul o' the shepherd leaning on his staff at nicht, 
 when a' the earth is at rest, and looldn up, and ower, and 
 through into the verra heart o' Heaven, when the lift is a' ae 
 glorious ghtter o' cloudless stars ! You're no sleepy, sir? 
 
 North. Sleepy ! You may as weU ask the leader in a 
 tandem if he be sleepy, when performing the match of twenty- 
 eight miles in two hours, without a break. 
 
 Shepherd. Ae spring there is — in a nook known but to me 
 and anither, a bit nook greener than ony emerald — or even 
 the Queen Fairy's symar, as she disentangles it frae her feet
 
 308 THE HAUNTED WELL. — ORDINARY OBSERVERS. 
 
 in the moonlight dance, enclosed vd' laigh broomy rocks, 
 amaist like a sheep-fauld, but at the iipper end made lown in 
 a' weathers by as single stane, like the last ruin o' a tower, 
 smeUing sweet, nae doubt, at this blessed moment, wi' thyme 
 that enlivens even the winter season, — ae spring there is — 
 I say— 
 
 North. Dear me ! James — let me loosen your neckcloth — 
 you are getting black in the face. What sort of a knot is 
 this ? It would puzzle the ghost of Gordius to untie it. 
 
 Shepherd. Dinna mind the crauvat. I say, Mr North, 
 rather were my heart dried up to the last drop o' bluid, than 
 that the pulses of that spring should cease to beat in the 
 holy wilderness. 
 
 North. Your emotion is contagious, James. I feel the 
 rheum bedimming my aged eyes, albeit unused to the melt- 
 ing mood. 
 
 Shepherd. You've heard me tell the tale afore — and it's no 
 a tale I tell when I can help it — but sometimes, as at present, 
 when sittin wi' the friend I love, and respect and venerate, espe- 
 cially if, Kke you, he be maist Like a father, or at least an elder 
 brither, the past comes upon me wi' a' the power o' the pre- 
 sent, and though my heart be sair, ay, sair maist to the verra 
 breakin, yet I maun speak — for though big and great griefs 
 are dumb, griefs there are, rather piteous and profound, that 
 will shape themselves into words, even when nane are by to 
 hear, nane but the puir silly echoes that can only blab the 
 twa-three last syllables o' a secret ! 
 
 North. To look on you, James, an ordinary observer would 
 think that you had never had any serious trials in this life — 
 that Doric laugh of thine, my dear Shepherd 
 
 Shejjherd. I hate and despise ordinary observers ; and thank 
 God that they can ken naething o' me or my character. 
 The pitifu' creturs aye admire a man wi' a lang nose, hollow 
 cheeks, black een, swarthy cheeks, and creeshy hair ; and 
 tauk to ane anither about his interesting melancholy, and 
 severe misfortunes ; and hoo he had his heart weel-nigh 
 broken by the death o' twa wives, and the loss o' a thii-d 
 evangehcal miss, wha eloped, after her wedding-claes had 
 been taen aff at the haberdasher's, wi' a playactor wha had 
 ance been a gentleman — that is, attached to the commissaw-
 
 THE HAUNTED WELL. 309 
 
 riat department o' the army in the Peninsula, a dealer in 
 adulterated flour and mule-flesh sausages. 
 
 North. Interesting emigrants to Van Diemen's Land. 
 
 Shepherd. A man wi' buck-teeth and a cockit nose, like 
 me, they'll no alloo to be a martyr to melancholy; but because 
 they see and hear me lauchin as in Peter's Letters,^ scoot the 
 idea o' my ever geein way to grief, and afttimes thinkin the 
 sweet light o' heaven's blessed sunsliine darkened by a black 
 veil that flings a con-espondin shadow ower the seemingly 
 disconsolate yearth. 
 
 North. Most of the good poets of my acquaintance have 
 light- coloured hair. 
 
 Shepherd. Mine in my youth was o' a bricht yellow. 
 
 North. And a fine animal you were, James, I am told, as 
 you walked up the transe o' the kirk, with your mane flying 
 over your shoulders, confined within graceful liberty by a blue 
 ribbon, the love-gift of some bonny May, that wonned amang 
 the braes, and had yielded you the parting kiss, just as the 
 cottage clock told that now another week was past, and you 
 heard the innocent creature's heart beating in the hush o' the 
 Sabbath morn. 
 
 Shepherd. "Whisht, whisht ! 
 
 North. But we have forgotten the Tale of the Haunted 
 Well. 
 
 Shepherd. It's nae Tale — for there's naetliing that could be 
 ca'd an incident in a' that I could say about that well ! Oh 1 
 sir — she was only twa months mair than fifteen — and though 
 she had haply reached her full stature, and was somewhat 
 taller than the maist o' our Forest lassies, yet you saw at ance 
 that she was still but a bairn. Her breast, white, and warm, 
 and saft, and fragrant as the lily, whose leaves in the driest 
 weather you'll never find without an inklin o' Heaven's dew, 
 no perhaps what you would ca' a dew-drap, but a balmy 
 freshness, that ever breathes o' delight in being alive beneath 
 the fair skies, and on this fair planet, the greenest sure by far 
 o' the seven that dance around the sun ! 
 
 North. Too poetical, James, for real feeling. 
 
 Shepherd. Wha that ever saw — wha that ever touched that 
 
 1 Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, 1819. These lively sketches of Edinburgh 
 society and its celebrities, were from the pen and the pencil of Mr Lockhart.
 
 310 THE HAUNTED WELL. 
 
 breast, would not hae been made a poet by the momentary 
 bliss I Yet, as God is my judge, her mother's hand busked 
 not that maiden's bosom \vi' mair holy love than did I place 
 within it, mony and mony a time, the yellow primroses and 
 the blue violets, baith o' them wi' but single leaves, as you 
 ken, amang the braes, but baith alike bonnier far — oh — 
 bomiier, bonnier far when sometimes scarcely to be seen at 
 all atween the movings o' her breast, that when she and I 
 pu'd them frae amang the moss and tufts o' lang grass, 
 whisperin saft and dreamhke thochts, as the hiU-breezes 
 went by on a sudden, and then a' was again as lown as death. 
 
 North. My dear Theocritus 
 
 Shepherd. Whisht. I was a hantle aulder than her — and 
 as she had nae brither — I was a brither to her — neither had she 
 a father or mither, and ance on a day, when I said to her that 
 she wad find baith in me, wha loved her for her goodness and 
 her innocence, the puir britherless, sisterless, parentless orphan, 
 had her face a' in ae single instant as drenched in tears, as a 
 flower cast up on the sand at the turn o' a stream that has 
 brought it down in a spate frae the far-aff hills. 
 
 North. Her soul, James, is now in Heaven ! 
 
 Shepherd. The simmer afore she died, she didna use to come 
 o' her ain accord, and, without being asked in aneath my plaid, 
 when a skirring shower gaed by — I had to wise^ her in within 
 its faulds — and her head had to be held do\vn by an affec- 
 tionate pressure, almost like a faint force, on my breast — and 
 when I spak to her, half in earnest half in jest, o' love, she 
 had nae heart to lauch, — sae muckle as to greet ! As sure as 
 God's in heaven, the fair orphan wept. 
 
 North. One so happy and so innocent might well shed tears. 
 
 Shepherd. There, beside that wee, still, solitary well, have 
 we sat for hours that were swift as moments, and yet each o' 
 them filled fu' o' happiness that wad noo be aneuch for years ! 
 
 North. For us, and men like us, James, there is on earth no 
 such thing as happiness. Enough that we have known it. 
 
 Shepherd. I should fear noo to face sic happiness as used to 
 be there, beside that well — sic happiness would noo turn my 
 brain — but nae fear, nae fear o' its ever returnin, for that voice 
 went wavering awa up to heaven from tliis mute earth, and 
 
 1 Wise — entice.
 
 martin's paphian bower. 311 
 
 on the niclit when it was heard not, and never more was to be 
 heard, in the psahn, in my father's house, I knew that a great 
 change had been wrought within me, and that this earth, tliis 
 world, this Hfe was disenchanted for ever, and the place that 
 held her grave a Paradise no more ! 
 
 North. A fitter place of burial for such an one is not on the 
 earth's surface, than that lone hill kirkyard, where she hath 
 for years been sleeping.^ The birch shmb in the south corner 
 will now be quite a stately tree. 
 
 Shepherd. I visit the place sae regularly every May-day in 
 the morning, every Midsummer-day, the langest day in the 
 year, that is, the twenty-second o' June, in the gloaming, that 
 I see little or nae alteration on the spat, or onything that 
 belangs to it. But nae doubt, we are baith grown aulder 
 thegither ; it in that solitary region, visited by few or none — 
 except when there is a burial — and me sometimes at Mount 
 Benger, and sometimes in here at Embro', enjopn mysel at 
 Ambrose's — ^for, after a', the world's no a bad world, although 
 Mary Morison be dead — dead and buried thirty years ago, and 
 that's a lang portion o' a man's life, which is, scripturally 
 speakin, somewhere about threescore and ten. 
 
 North. Look here, my dear James, don't say that you have 
 not as exquisite a perception of beauty, and all that sort of 
 thing, now, as thirty years ago. There, my man, there is the 
 Papliian Bower, composed by Phillips, from a picture by 
 Martin; saw ye ever anything more perfectly lovely? 
 
 Shepherd. Never since the day I was bom. Dinna tell me 
 wha thae Three Female Figures are — for it's a' ane whether 
 they be the Three Muses, or Three o' the Nine Graces, or 
 Venus and twa o' her handmaids, or ony ither Three o' God's 
 fairest creatures, for whom that wee, winged, kneeUng Cupid 
 is plucMn flowers for them to wreathe round their heavenly 
 
 1 This lonely churchyard, on the shore of St Mary's Loch, is thus described 
 by Scott : — 
 
 " Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
 But well I ween the dead are near ; 
 For though, iu feudal strife, a foe 
 Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. 
 Yet still, beneath tiie hallow'd soil, 
 The peasant rests him from his toil. 
 And, dying, bids liis bones be laid 
 Where erst his simple fathers prayed." 
 
 Marmion, Introd. to Canto II.
 
 312 DRAWING AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 
 
 hair ; dinna tell me what they're doin, hae been dcin, or are 
 gaun to do, for it's delightfu' for the imagination to sink awa 
 into its ain dreams amang thae lang withdrawing glades, and 
 outower the wood-taps, if sae ane feel inclined, to flee awa to 
 yonder distant liills, and from their pinnacles to take a flight 
 up to yon pavihon-clouds, and lay a body's sel doon at full 
 length on the yielding saftness ! 
 
 North. Look at Her with the frame-enveloping veil, James, 
 and wish yourself a Pagan of the olden time, James, when 
 mortals loved immortals, and Venus herself did not disdain to 
 meet the Shepherd 
 
 Shepherd. As sure's I'm leevin there's the same three God- 
 desses, and the same bit Cupid, standin on their heads in the 
 water amang the floating liUes ! 
 
 North. Martin has a soul both for beauty and grandeur. 
 
 Shepherd. He has that — and it's a wonderfu' thing to think 
 that the same genius that saw yon subhme vision o' Bel- 
 shazzar's Feast, an endless perspective o' Babylonian build- 
 ings, should delight to wanton thus with Nature in her prime 
 — for were it no for the pillared roof o' that palace peering 
 aboon the tree-taps, ane micht beheve themselves in ane o' 
 the woodland and waterland glades o' Paradise ! 
 
 North. I don't think, James, that you do much nowadays 
 with the pencil ? 
 
 Shepherd. No me. I've gien ower the paintin noo a'the- 
 gither — for I canna please mysel in the execution. But it's 
 a fine art — and I'm geein lessons to my caUant* 
 
 North. Eight, James. Of all the accomplishments of a 
 gentleman, I do not know one superior to that of being a 
 good draughtsman. He who can use his pen and his pencil can 
 seldom or never be at a loss in this world. One half the time 
 often lost in learning to play the beautiful but pernicious 
 game of billiards, would be sufficient to give a youth mastery 
 over that other elegant and useful ait. Yet how few gentle- 
 men can draw or paint well ! 
 
 Shepherd. Sketchers are geyan apt, howsomever, to be wea- 
 risome wi' their critical cant, and even to talk o' Nature hersel, 
 as if she were only worth studying for the sake o' art. 
 
 North. Very true, James. There was a painter, some 
 twenty years ago, of the name of Havel — dead now I suppose 
 ^ i. e., "Wee Jamie." Seea«,i«, p. 175, note.
 
 HAVEL ALL OVER. 313 
 
 — who really painted with some spirit and splendour. He was 
 all an' all with an amateur friend of mine ; and I remember 
 once contemplating a glorious sunset among mountains with 
 the said amateur friend, when after a " syncope and solemn 
 pause," he exclaimed to liimself in soliloquy, " Havel all over ! 
 Havel all over ! " He complimented the sunset, James, 
 Nature's own midsummer-sunset, at the close of a thunderous 
 day, James, by likening it to, or rather identifying it with, a 
 bit of oiled canvass run over by the brush of a clever Cockney ! 
 
 Shepherd. That beats a', and is a capital illustration o' my 
 meaning. Sketchers '11 often no alloc the sun to set in his 
 ain way, nor a mountain to haud up his head as he chooses, 
 without takin baith the ane and the ither to task for their 
 clumsiness or awkward demeanour. The sea wide-rolling in 
 his verdant lustre, or a' a-foam wi' fury, that daunts not, how- 
 ever, the wing-tips o' the bonny creturs the sea-maws, that 
 think naething o' floating on and awa, Willie, on waves that 
 seem big and fierce aneuch to dash a veshel again' the rocks — 
 Sketchers, I was gaun to say, '11 criticise the old sea, without 
 ony o' that reverential awe o' which Wudsworth so finely 
 speaks — fin' faut wi' him for no being black aneuch here, 
 and white aneuch there, and purple aneuch yonner, and green 
 aneuch ower ayont, and yellow aneuch where the sunlight 
 smites, and red aneuch whare the lightning sliivers the mast 
 o' the ship skuddin under bare poles, wi' ten thousand million 
 o' white-maned waves pui'suing her, as if gaping and roaring 
 for their prey. 
 
 North. You poets are just as bad as painters. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a lee, sir; for we poets deal in general 
 sketches o' Nature — and alloc her great latitude in a' her con- 
 duct wi' the elements. We do not tie her down. Like the 
 painters, to ony set rules o' behaviom-, sae that she but behave 
 like hersel ; and we defy her to come wrang ony horn-, or in 
 ony mood, before our spirits, provided only she binna wrapt 
 up a'thegither in a vile, cauld, nizzling, mizzling, drizzling 
 Scotch mist, that utterly obliterates the creation, and reduces 
 it to warse than Naething. 
 
 North. Have you been at the Exhibition, James, tliis season ? 
 
 Shepherd. The Directors didna open't, till they knew I had 
 come to town, and they presented me wi' a pei-petual ticket, 
 that'll answer for a' this century. Let's hear your opinion,
 
 314 WATSON Gordon's portrait of wilson. 
 
 Mr North. Speak out, man, and dinna be feared for me, for 
 I'll mak allooance for your never having studied the airts o' 
 paintin and poetry, as I hae done ; and you'll be keepit frae 
 ganging verra far wrang in your judgment by your ain natui'al 
 taste and genius. 
 
 North. Landscape or Portrait ? 
 
 Shepherd. Portrait — for I canna let you think o' takin the 
 landscapes out o' my ain haun — Wha's best in the line o' 
 j)ortraits ? 
 
 North. Need you ask? — John Watson Gordon. In three 
 years more — if he goes on thus — he will be equal to Eaeburn. 
 Indeed, Eaeburn himself, although the greatest portrait-painter 
 Scotland ever produced, never painted, at John Watson's age, 
 a better picture than that artist's " Dr Hunter."^ 
 
 Shepherd. It's no in tliis Exlxibition, is't? 
 
 North. No — but Lady 
 
 Shepherd. Ay — that is a maist beautiful wark o' airt. Sae 
 composed and dignified that leddy sits — yet without ony tinc- 
 ture o' pride ; for what's rank to them that hae rank? They 
 never think about it. It's only your upstart madams that 
 hand their heads heich and haughty. 
 
 North. I have not seen any portrait of you, James, in any 
 late Exhibition ? 
 
 Shepherd. Nor me o' you, sir. What for doesna Watson 
 Gordon immortaleeze liimsel by paintin a Portrait o' Clnisto- 
 pher North ?^ But oh, sir ! but you hae gotten a kittle face — 
 your een's sae changefu' in their gleg expression, and that 
 mouth o' yours takes fifty shapes and hues every minute, 
 while, as for your broos, they're noo as smooth as those o' a 
 lassie, and noo as frownin as the broos o' a Saracen's head. 
 
 North. There is nothing uncommon in my face, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, sir, you hae indeed a kittle kittle face, and to 
 do it justice it should be painted in a Series. Ane micht ken 
 something o' your physiognomy in the coorse o' a Gallery. 
 
 North. "The Stirrup-Cup," painted by James Stewart the 
 engraver, is exceedingly clever and characteristic. I have 
 not seen an old gentleman enjoy a caulker more intensely 
 since the peep I had a few minutes ago of myself in that glass, 
 
 ^ See ante, p. 143, note 2. 
 
 2 The best portrait extant of Professor Wilson was painted by Sir John 
 Watson Gordon, in 1850, for Mr John Blackwood, in whose possession it now Ls.
 
 LANDSCAPES. 316 
 
 when turning up my little finger to Ambrose's incomparable 
 Glenlivet. 
 
 Shepherd. The powney, too, seems unwdlling to start — no 
 that he's sorry to return hame ony mair than his maister ; but 
 somehow or ither the ribs o' the rack fitted the nose o' him 
 unco snugly, and the aits^ were o' a pecuUarly fine flavour. 
 The laird's man, too, looks as if he wad fain hae anither 
 hour's conversation wi' that yellow-haired lassie, that's geein 
 him a partin keek fi-ae ahint the door-cheek ; " but fare thee 
 well, and if for ever, still for ever fare thee well!" sighs out 
 Jock, till the bubbles floatin o'er the brimmin quaich disap- 
 pear like a vapour. 
 
 North. Now, James, that you have permitted me at such 
 great length, and without any interniption, to describe to you 
 the merits of many of the best portraits, let us have your 
 opinion of the landscapes. 
 
 Shepherd. That young chiel Gibb^ hits afi" a simple scene 
 o' natiire to the runes ^ — a bit dub o' water, aiblins — a foot-path 
 — a tree — a knowe — a coo, and a bairn ; yet out o' sic slender 
 materials, the chiel contrives to gie a character to the place 
 in a way that proves him to hae the gift o' genius. 
 
 North. Mr Thomson of Duddingston* is the best landscape- 
 painter in Scotland. The man's a poet. 
 
 Sliepherd. I dinna like that picture o' his at a' o' Loch 
 Catrine frae the Gobblin's Cave. The foreground is too 
 broken, spotty, confused, and huddled — and what is worst of 
 all, it wants character. The chasm doun yonner, too, is no 
 half profotmd aneuch, and inspires neither awe nor wonder. 
 The lake itself is lost in its insignificance, and the distant 
 mountains are fau'ly beaten by the foreground, and hardly able 
 to hand up their heads. 
 
 North. There is truth in much of what you say, James — 
 but still the picture is a magnificent one. 
 
 Shepherd. I wadna gie the Bass Eock for a dizzen o't. 
 You may weel ca't a magnificent ane — and I wad wish, in 
 sic weather, to be ane o' the mony thousan' sea-birds that 
 keep wheeling unwearied in the wind, and ever and anon 
 cast anchor in the clifts. Still, soHtary, and sublime — a 
 
 1 AiU — oats. 2 This promising artist died young. 
 
 3 To the nines must mean "to the purpose ;" but what authority there is 
 for the expression I know not. * See ante, p. 69, note 1.
 
 316 THOMSON. — WILLIAMS. 
 
 sea-piece, indeed, worthy of being hung up in the Temple o' 
 Neptune. 
 
 North. Kinbane Castle is just as good — and Torthorwald 
 Castle, Dumfriesshire, is the best illustration I ever saw of 
 Gray's two fine lines — 
 
 " Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds." 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Thomson gives me the notion o' a man that 
 had loved natur afore he had studied art — loved her and kent 
 her weel, and been let intil her secrets, when nane were by 
 but their twa sels, in neuks where the wimpHn burnie plays, 
 in open spats within the woods where you see naething but 
 stems o' trees — stems o' trees — and a flicker o' broken light 
 interspersing itsel among the shadowy branches, — or without 
 ony concealment, in the middle o' some wide black moss — 
 like the moor o' Kannoch — as still as the shipless sea, when 
 tlie winds are weary — and at nightfall in the weather-gleam 
 o' the settin sun, a dim object like a ghost, stannin alane by 
 its single solitary sel — aiblins an auld tower, aiblins a rock, 
 aiblins a tree stump, aiblins a clud, aiblins a vapour, a dream, 
 a naething. 
 
 North. Yes, he worships nature, and does not paint with 
 the fear of the public before his eyes. It is a miserable mis- 
 take to paint purposely for an Exhibition. He and his friend 
 Hugh Williams^ are the glory of the Scottish landscape school. 
 
 Shepherd. It's impossible to excel Williams — in his ain 
 style — but he should leave the iles and keep to water-colours. 
 In his water-colours, so saft and hazy — sae like the aerial 
 scenery that shifts afore the half-closed een when a midsum- 
 mer dream has thrown its glamour ower a body sinkin down 
 to slumber in noonday, within a fairy-ring on the hillside — 
 no a man in Britain will get the heels o' Hugh Williams ; and 
 as for the man himsel, I like to look on him, for he's gotten 
 a gran' bald phrenological head, the face o' him's at ance 
 good-natured and intelligent ; and o' a' the painters I ken, 
 his mainners seems to me to be the maist the mainners o' a 
 gentleman and a man o' the world — if he wad but gie up 
 
 ^ Hugh Williams was celebrated for his water-coloured landscapes generally, 
 and for his Views in Greece in particular. He published Travels in Italy, 
 Greece, and the Ionian Islands, with Engravings from original Drawings. 
 2 vols. 1820.
 
 LANDSEER. 317 
 
 makin auld puns, and be rather less o' the Whig and a wee 
 
 mair o' the Tory. But here's his health 
 
 North. With perfect satisfaction. " Hugh Williams " — 
 Not Greek WiUiams — ^iiot Grecian Williams — for I suppose 
 he was somewhere about fifty years of age before he ever saw 
 Greece; — but Welsh Williams — Scotch Williams — for in 
 Wales was he born, and in Scotland was he bred, and neither 
 country need be ashamed of him. 
 
 Shepherd. As weel ca' me Greek Hogg — or Grecian Hogg, 
 because I write, as ye tell me, in the Doric dialect. But for- 
 gettin sic folly, what think you o' the Death o' the Buck, by 
 that Southron, Edwin Landseer ? Never saw I bloodthirsty 
 fierceness better depicted than in the muzzles o' thae ferocious 
 Jowlers. Lord preserve us, was that the way, think ye, that 
 the Spanish bloodhounds used to rug doun the Maroons in the 
 West Indies ? 
 
 North. There is a leetle, and but a leetle something, resem- 
 bling affectation, in the manner of the Huntsmen. 
 
 Shepherd. Come, sir, nane o' your captious criticism. That 
 black dog, wi' the red legs, and chafts and eebrees, is equal 
 to onything that ever was painted in this world ; and that 
 wliite deevil — a bick,^ I'se warrant, for bicks are aye the fleet- 
 est and the fiercest, liinging to the Buck's lug, with teeth in- 
 extricable as arsenic to the coat of the stomach, is a canine 
 leech, that if no chocked aif frae the bite, would soon let out 
 tire animal's life, and stretch him with his spreading antlers 
 on the heather. 
 
 North. Heather, James — there is no heather in the picture. 
 The scene is not peculiarly Highland — and therefore I do not 
 feel the bonnet and tartan of the Hunter. 
 
 Shepherd. I saw naething to fin' fault wi' — you see it's no 
 a red deer — but a fallow deer — frae the spots ; — and the Park, 
 as they ca't it, '11 be somewhere perhaps on the borders o' the 
 mountainous pairts o' Perthshire or Argyllshire ; — or wha kens 
 that the scene's no English — and that the painter has gien 
 the hunter something o' the di-ess o' a Highlander, frae an 
 imaginative feeling but half-understood by his ain mind, as 
 maist imaginative feelings are, but nane the waur on that 
 account either for paintin or poetry. — But what say ye to the 
 statutes, sir ? 
 
 1 Bich — ^bitch.
 
 318 MACDONALD. — THE OPPOSITION EXHIBITION". 
 
 North. Macdonald' from Eome is a statuary, James, not 
 only of promise, but of performance. Edinburgh is a consi- 
 derable village now, and there is room in it for both him and 
 Joseph, He is sure to succeed. 
 
 Shepherd. A mair innocent, mair kinder and bonnier lassie 
 than her wi' the burdie in the tae haun, and the cup o' water 
 — is't? — in the tither, wanting the cretur to tak a drink — I 
 never saw ; and the ither taller figur o' the virgin sendin aff 
 the carrier pigeon wi' a love-letter to him ayont the hills, in 
 answer to the ane she has hidden in her bosom, is a delicate 
 conception, whether new or auld I neither ken nor care, and 
 as far as I'm a judge o' sculpture and statutes, executed wi' a 
 smoothness, and I had maist said warmth, — but then marble's 
 a cauld thing in itself to the touch, — that exactly hits the 
 right point o' loveableness in the figure and posture o' a vir- 
 gin about to be married in a year or twa — but haply no to him 
 she has sent the letter to, for hoo seldom is the soul's first 
 celestial imagination o' rapture realised — hoo seldom in the 
 auld warld, as in the new, did Hymen ever light his torch to 
 consecrate the ecstasies of virgin bosoms meeting in the life- 
 deep passion of a first love ! 
 
 North. Mary Morison ! 
 
 Shepherd. Claristopher, I never see marble but I tliink o' 
 moonlicht — Hoo's that ? 
 
 North. Some one of those fine, old, solemn associations, of 
 which the poet's soul is full. In his thoughts and feelings all 
 external things lie linked together in amities and sympathies, 
 of which the worldling has no notion. Music, Marble, Melan- 
 choly, Moonlight, all begin with an M — but so do Macedon 
 and Monmouth — the Four are a Four by fine afSnities. 
 
 Shepherd. There you're going ayont my deepth — and you'll 
 sune be cot o' your ain too — if ye plump into the pool o' meta- 
 physics, and try " to pluck up drowned meaning by the locks" 
 — but hae ye been at the Opposition Exhibition — they tell me 
 it's capital — Can that be true? and what for did the painters 
 cast out among themselves, and whence a' this cabawl ? 
 
 North. It's a long story that, James, and might be tedious; 
 nor is it an affair, I confess, in which I can take much interest; 
 but the artists who were dissatisfied with the Directors of the 
 Institution, if so it were that they were dissatisfied, did right 
 
 ^ Lawrence Macdonald still resides in Rome.
 
 NICHOLSON. 319 
 
 to secede, and open an Opposition Exhibition. This is a free 
 country, James; Tories like you and I love liberty, and -u-o 
 grant to others the same rights and privileges which we our- 
 selves at all times exert and enjoy ! 
 
 Shepherd. I clap my hauns to hear sic sentiments frae your 
 mouth, for I heard some of your freens rinnin doun Nicholson, 
 and Syme, and Joseph, and Hamilton, and the lave. 
 
 North. Very right, my dear James, very right in any of my 
 friends to run down anybody they choose, at any time or 
 place, and for any reason ; but I, as you know, nin people up, 
 and run people down, of my own free will and pleasure, and 
 never allow my friends — deservedly dear to me as many dozens 
 of them are, of both sexes — to influence my opinion in the 
 slightest degree, on any one single thing in tliis world, li\dng 
 or dead, rational or irrational, monoped, biped, or quadniped. 
 The Opposition Exhibition, as you call it, James, is excellent; 
 and a true lover of the arts will go fr-om one to the other with 
 pleasure, nor will his comparisons be odious. 
 
 Shepherd. Naebody ever did a better picture o' me than 
 Nicholson, in my plaid, you ken, and wi' my celebrated dog. 
 Hector, sittin sae wiselike by my side, " in a cleugh aneath a 
 cliff," — strong likenesses o' us baith, yet nane o' us ower sair 
 flattered. ^ 
 
 North. Mr Nicholson is rather uncertain — no uncommon 
 thing with artists of original minds ; but some of his happiest 
 performances are very happy. He has a picture of a Lady 
 and Cliild in this Exhibition — that might be seen to advan- 
 tage in any Exhibition in the island. In the di-ess of the 
 mother — her arm and shoulder especially — there is something 
 rather stiffish ; but the child is nature itself — the colom-ing 
 something in the style of the old masters. 
 
 Shepherd. I like that — especially in the heads o' bairns, and 
 their shouthers. 
 
 North. Nicholson paints childi'en better than he used to do, 
 now that he's a married man. 
 
 Shepherd. A' painters should marry — it humaneezes their 
 imaginations, and gies a tenderness to the ideal creations o' 
 their genius that nae bachelor can ever infuse into his 
 canvass. 
 
 1 This picture is now in the possession of Mr John Wilson, Professor Wilson's 
 eldest son.
 
 320 HAMILTON. — A DAT OF THE MOUND. 
 
 North. Hamilton's architectural drawings are admirable 
 specimens of wonder-working art. If you wish, James, to 
 have a perfect knowledge of all the intended new Improve- 
 ments, South and West Approach, &c., and indeed a bird's- 
 eye view of all Edinburgh, go and take it at the Exhibition. 
 I always knew Hamilton to be an architect of first-rate 
 genius and skill, quite equal to Playfair and Burn, but I had 
 no notion that he was such an artist. 
 
 Shepherd. Ony gude landscapes ? 
 
 North. Not a few. Young Kidd, a pupil of Mr Thomson's 
 I believe, possesses much of the taste, feeling, and genius of 
 his great master ; and D. Mackenzie, also quite a youth, if he 
 will take my advice and give up his blue imitations, will ere 
 long be an excellent artist. Two or three of his landscapes, 
 even now (of the colour of this earth), are very beautiful. 
 
 Shepherd. In short, you think the Exliibition a gude ane — 
 so nae mair about pictui-es for ae nicht, if you please, sir. 
 
 North. Unless I am much mistaken indeed, James, you 
 introduced the subject yourself. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll bet you anither jug I did nae sic tiling. 
 
 North. Done. 
 
 Shepherd. But wha'll decide ? Let's drink the jug, though, 
 in the fii'st place. It's quite a nicht this for whusky toddy, 
 Dinna you observe that a strong frost brings out the flavour 
 o' the speerit in a maist surprising manner, and gies't a mair 
 precious smell o'er the haill room? It's the chemical action, 
 you understaun, o' the cauld and heat, the frost and fire, work- 
 ing on a' the materials o' the jug, and the verra jug itsel, frae 
 nose to doup, sae that sma'-still becomes perfect nectar, on 
 which Jupiter, or Juno either, micht hae got drunk, and Apollo, 
 after a haill nicht's screed, risen up in the morning wi' his 
 gowden hair, and not the least o' a headache, nor crap-sick as 
 he druve his chariot along the Great Turnpike Eoad o' Heaven. 
 
 North. Have you been to see the Wild Beasts, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. I took a day o' the Mound last week, sir. 
 
 North. A day o' the Mound ! 
 
 Shepherd. Aj^ a day o' the Mound. I took the haill o' the 
 Shows,^ ane after the ither, beginning wi' the Wild Beasts, 
 
 ^ In those days the caravans of itinerant showmen used to congregate on 
 "the Mound," an unreclaimed region now gorgeous with Athenian temples 
 and clothed with glittering evergreens.
 
 THE DWARFIE WOMAN AND HER FAMILY. 321 
 
 and ending with the Caravan containing the Fat Boy, and the 
 Dwarfie Woman and her tall husband, and the Malacca man, 
 the White-headed Girl — and 
 
 North. And what else ? 
 
 Shepherd. Wnll ye no let a body speak ? What else ? a 
 bairn that never was bom, in a bottle alang wi' twa creturs 
 like lizzards — a stuffed serpent wi' a gapin mouth o' red 
 worsted, to mak it look bluidy-like after devouring its prey — 
 forbye the body o' the shaven bear that was passed aff some 
 seasons since for a dog-headed Indian frae America. 
 
 North. An interesting collection indeed, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Besides them, the man that aught the caravan, 
 his mfe and six children, sleept in't — ^he telt me sae himsel — 
 a' nicht ; and yet, I'm sure, I'm witliin boun's when I aver 
 that the caravan was nae bigger in the inside than about twice 
 or three times the inside o' ane o' the coaches that rins 
 atween Embro' and Glasgow. 
 
 North. What did you admire most of the number ? 
 
 Shepherd. The wee dwarfie woman, no three feet high, wi' 
 a husband sax feet four : I never saw a happier couple. She 
 loupt intil the pouch o' his shooting-jacket, and keekit^ out 
 Hke a maukin.^ But oh ! she had a great ugly wdde mouth, 
 and her teeth were as sharp and yellow as prins. I wadna 
 hae sleepit in the same bed wi' sic a vermin for the mines o' 
 Peni, for gin she had fa'n upon a body in the middle o' the 
 nicht, and fastened on their throat like a rotten,' there wad 
 hae been nae shakin her aff — the vampire. She was in the 
 family way, sir. 
 
 North. The caravan ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm thinkin, Mr North, that ye dinna gang to 
 the kirk so regular as you micht do, for I never hear you 
 talkin about ministers. Wha do ye sit under ? 
 
 North. My pew is too near the stove, James — But would 
 you wish my talk to be of ministers ? I have no objections 
 to talk about the Theatre ; but really, James, you must 
 excuse me should I sport mum on church-going, — but, not- 
 withstanding my aversion to all public appearance, I hobbled 
 out and in to hear the Missionary Wolff.* 
 
 1 Keekit — peeped. 3 Maukin — hare. ^ Rotten — rat. 
 
 •• This celebrated traveller and indefatigable philantliropist is now (1855) the 
 Rector of Isle Brewers, Somersetshire. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 322 THE SPIRITUAL-MINDED. 
 
 Shepherd. Ance a Jew, always a Jew, sir. But I wunner 
 hoo the holy aye contrive to get married sae fast — it seems 
 odd that the spiritual-minded should be sae fond o' the flesh. 
 Catch ony o' them mai'rying an auld woman for the Christian 
 graces o' her chai'acter ; except, indeed, it be for the widow's 
 mite — they generally prefer a sonsy lass, wi' a tocher o' her 
 ain, and if, wi' a sickly only brither, far gane in a consump- 
 tion, and wi' twa thousan' a-year, sae muckle the better, — for 
 wi' sic a soum they may Christianise the heathen, and provide 
 for a' the bairns besides ; — and baii-ns they are sure to hae, 
 aiblins twins — the first never a week beyond the nine 
 months • 
 
 North. Beyond, James ! 
 
 Shepherd. In or ower, sir. 
 
 North. Better marry than biuTi, Shepherd. 
 
 Shepherd. But there's nae occasion for bumin. There's 
 him they ca'd the Sultan Katty Gheray,^ wha carried aff a 
 Scotch wife to Mount Caucasus — You'll no tell me that the 
 Sultan was likely to be burned on the frosty Caucasus. He 
 micht hae wrapt himsel in a pair o' ice sheets and snaw 
 blankets, and a sleet coverlid — and the deevU burn him if he 
 wad hae taen fire and thawed the bed-claes. 
 
 North. James, you're libellous. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm nae mair libellous nor ither folk. But just 
 answer me tliis. Didna the Missionary Wolff seem to be 
 devoted soul and body to the conversion o' the Jews, and 
 naething else in this wicked warld ? 
 
 North. Don't bother me any more, James, with " Le Loup 
 et I'Agneau." I'm sick of the whole gang. 
 
 Shepherd. Gang ye never to the Theatre ? 
 
 North. Occasionally behind the scenes. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, sirs — oh, sirs ! Hae ye come to that ? — and can 
 ye thole to see the pent on the faces o' them, the red on their 
 cheeks, and the white on their chins, and the fause curls, and 
 fauser eebrows — nae mair, they tell me, than a streak o' burned 
 cork or coom — and the paste pearls on their gowns, and a' the 
 rest o' the mak-believe frae tap to tae, where there's naething 
 but delusion a'thegither ; and the playactress that appears 
 to the people in the pit a' fidgin fain to see her sparkling in 
 spangles afore the lamps, gin she were taen and stripped 
 
 ^ The Sultan Katty Gheray married a Scotch lady of the name of Nielsen.
 
 NORTH BEHIND THE SCENES. 323 
 
 naked on the spat, wad be naetkmg but a lang rickle o' banes, 
 and aneuch. to mak a man 
 
 North. James, a man at my time of life likes to be behind 
 the scenes in any acted drama. You are mistaken in suppos- 
 ing that there is anything at all disgusting in a nearer 
 approach to the divinities of the stage. They are not a whit 
 more made up than the generality of young ladies in private 
 parties — and then, in their case, there is no deception. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae deception, say ye ? 
 
 North. None whatever ! Strip a fashionably-dressed yoimg 
 lady who is swimming through a rout, of all the cork that 
 keeps her buoyant, and you would be surprised, James, to 
 behold the goddess of your idolatry. 
 
 Shepherd. They're geyan sair made up, I fear, sir ? 
 
 North. You have seen, I dare say, a wooden young lady, a 
 doU, James, after she has undergone denuding, her legs so 
 stiff from shin to knee-pan, her most unsatisfactory waist, and 
 back as flat as a "hone " for sharpening razors 
 
 Shepherd. I'll no sit here anither minute and hear sic 
 language — no even frae you, Mr North. Ye tank o' coorse- 
 ■ ness 
 
 North. Few provincial theatres are equal to that of Edin- 
 burgh. Murray is one of the best managers and best comic 
 actors in Britain.^ 
 
 Shepherd. But oh ! man, what for do ye gang behind the 
 scenes ? It had nearly broke my heart whan I first fand out 
 that Punch and his wife warna alive — and that it was only 
 the mock deevil that carried a mock Pimch awa to a mock 
 heU 
 
 North. Whisht — whisht. 
 
 Shepherd. Would there was nae real ane, ]\Ir North ! 
 
 North. Eh? 
 
 Shepherd. Pardon me, sir, but there's nae need pretending 
 no to understaun' me — for you're as muckle interested in the 
 wush as I can possibly be — aiblins mair — as you're a hantle 
 aulder, and in your younger days 
 
 North. Don't rip up old sores, my dear Shepherd 
 
 Shepherd. Nae offence — nae offence, sir — ^but what for be 
 ganging ahint the scenes ? 
 
 1 Mr Murray, who managed the Edinburgh theatre for about forty years to 
 the entire satisfaction of the public, died at St Andrews in 1853.
 
 324 THE COCKNEYS ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 North. James, a man at my time of life, who has seen as 
 much of the world as I have done, sees everything in its real 
 hue and form, nor depends on illusory imagination. " The 
 world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players." 
 I see that — I know it — yet still I take my station behind the 
 scenes and look on, not without interest, James, at the pas- 
 sions, real or mimic, of the patients or the puppets, James — 
 for I too play my part (alas ! vrith some difficulty now, but 
 for the prompter), and how soon, James, may the curtain fall 
 on my last appearance on an earthly stage ! 
 
 Shepherd. I sometimes WTinner how the warld will gang on 
 when I'm dead. It's no vanity, or ony notion that I gar the 
 wheels o' the world work, that makes me think sae, but just 
 an incapacity to separate my life frae the rest o' creation. 
 Suns settin and risin, and me no there to glower ! Birds 
 singin, the mavis in the wood, and the laverock in the lift, 
 and me no there to list — list — listen ! Bonny lasses tripping 
 through the dew-flaughts, and nae kiss o' mine to bring the 
 blush-roses on their lilied bosoms ! Some ane, loveUer than 
 the lave, singin ane o' my ain sangs, and me in the unhearin 
 grave ! Thochts like these will come fleein into my spirit 
 during the night-watches, but they can find no resting-place 
 for the soles of their feet, ony mair than the bits o' wearied 
 sea-birds that vnll try to sit down on the riggin o' a ship at 
 sea! 
 
 North. Shepherd, you should have been a sailor. 
 
 Shepherd. But the ship, you see, although a' by hersel on 
 the great wide deep, is saiUng prosperously afore the Monsoon, 
 and her crew wunna alloc the vringed creturs to settle among 
 the cordage, sae daft vn' joy are they a' on their hameward- 
 bound voyage, while aiblins the thousan' spires o' a coral- 
 reef are right in the track o' her roaring prow, and in another 
 hour she will disappear Like a foam-bell frae the sea. 
 
 North. How the Cockneys prate about Shakespeare, James ! 
 and abuse the public for not encouraging his Dramas on the 
 stage ! 
 
 Shepherd. Poor deevils ! They had better haud their 
 tongues about Cordelia, and Juliet, and Cleopatra, and Imo- 
 gen, or I'll fasten my crook intil the nape o' their necks, and 
 liarl them out to dereesion. Whare's the playactors and 
 playactresses that can act Shakespeare's characters, noo that
 
 STEADY BOYS, — STEADY. 325 
 
 John Kammel and Mrs Siddons is baith dead ? Besides, gin 
 they were leevin, wha but a Cockney wad wush to see oltener 
 than ance or twice a-year tragedies that cause a soul-quake? 
 The creturs in their hearts wad far rather see Mother Guse. 
 
 North. I wish, James, you would write a Tragedy. 
 
 Shepherd. I hae ane in my pouch, man — "Mirk Monday."* 
 
 North. No Poet of this age has shown sufficient concentra- 
 tion of thought and style for tragedy. All the hving poets 
 are loose and lumbering writers — and I will engage to point 
 out half-a-dozen feeblenesses or faults of one kind or another 
 in any passage of six lines that you, James, will recite from 
 the best of them. 
 
 Shepherd. He's gettin fuddled noo I see, — or he wadna be 
 haverin about poetry. — Mr North, you're as sober as when 
 we begood to the saxth jug afore the ane that was the imme- 
 diate predecessor o' this jug's great-grandfather — but as for 
 me, I'm bhn' fou, and rather gizzy. I canna comprehend hoo 
 we got into this room, and still less hoo we're to get out again 
 — for I'll stake my character that there's no ae single door in 
 a' the four wa's. I shouldna care gin there was a shake-down 
 or a suttee ; but I never could sleep wi' a straught back. 
 Mercy on us ! the haill side o' the house is fa'en doon, as in 
 the great earthquake at Lisbon. Steady — sir — steady — that's 
 Mr Awmrose — you ken Mr Awmrose. (Awmrose, he's far 
 gane the nicht, and I'm feared the fresh air'U coup and 
 capsize him a'thegither.) 
 
 North. Mr Ambrose, don't mind me — give Mr Hogg your 
 arm. James, remember there are a couple of steps. There 
 now — I thought Pride would have a Fall at last, James ! 
 Now coachy ! I drive to the devil. 
 
 l^Exeunt. 
 
 '^ The sun was totally eclipsed on Monday the 24th March 1652 : hence the 
 expression Mirk Monday.
 
 XIII. 
 
 (APRIL 1827.) 
 
 Scene, — Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlour. 
 
 North, Tickler, Shepherd. 
 
 North. "Gold-headed Cane," ^ indeed ! Could I think, Tickler, 
 that this crutch of mine would have nothing better to say for 
 itself and its old master, when the world desires it to be 
 inditing about Christopher, I would break it across my knee, 
 into pieces, six inches long, thus — and send it to the nearest 
 old beggar-woman to boil her kettle with, for a dish of weak 
 tea and superannuated scandal. 
 
 Tickler. The writer had hold of some good subjects ; but 
 he is dull, heavy, pedantic, prosaic, pompous, and inane, 
 beyond the proper pitch for sleep. Not one single anecdote, 
 incident, remark, image, sentiment, or feeling, does the Stick 
 utter ; and yet he pretends to have been hand and glove with 
 Ratcliffe, Mead, Askew, Pitcairn, and Baillie ! 
 
 North. What, Tickler, if one and all of the Five were but 
 very ordinary persons ? Doctors are generally dull dogs ; and 
 nobody in tolerable health and spirits wishes to hear anything 
 about them and their quackeries. 
 
 Tickler. Their faces are indeed at all times most absurd ; 
 but more especially so when they are listening to your 
 account of yourself, and preparing to prescribe for your inside, 
 of which the chance is that they know no more than of the 
 interior of Africa. 
 
 ^ The Gold-headed Cane, 1827, said to have been written by Dr Paris, is a 
 repertory of gossip about medical matters.
 
 DOCTORS. — COURSING. 327 
 
 North. And yet, and yet, my dear Tickler, when old bucks 
 like us are out of sorts, then, like sinners with saints, we trust 
 to the sovereign eflScacy of their aid, and feel as if they stood 
 between us and death. There's out beloved Shepherd, whose 
 wrist beats with a yet unfelt pulse, 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna despise the doctors. In ordinary com- 
 plaints I help mysel out o' the box o' drogs ; and I'm never 
 mair nor three days in gettin richt again ; — the first day, for 
 the beginning o' the complaint — dull and dowie, sair gien to 
 gauntin, and the streekin out o' ane's airms, rather touchy in 
 the temper, and no easily satisfied wi' onything ane can get 
 to eat ; — the second day, in bed wi' a nicht-cap on, or a 
 worsted stockin about the chafts, sliiverin ilka half- hour 
 aneath the blankets, as if cauld water were pourin doun 
 your back ; a stamach that scunners at the very thocht o' 
 fade, and a sair sair head, amaist as if a wee deevil were sittin 
 in't knappin stanes wi' an airn hammer ; — the tliird day about 
 denner-time hungrier than a pack o' hounds, yokin to the 
 haggis afore the grace, and in imagination mair than able to 
 devour the haill jiget, as weel's the giblet-pie and the pan- 
 cakes. 
 
 North. And the fourth day, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Out wi' the grows gin it be afore the month o' 
 March, as souple and thin in the flanks as themsels — wi' as 
 gleg an ee — and lugs pricked up ready for the start o' pussie 
 frae amang the windle-straes. — Halloo — halloo — halloo ! — Oh 
 man, arena ye fond o' coorsin ? 
 
 Tickler. Of hare-soup I am — or even roasted hare — but 
 
 Shepherd. There are some things that a man never gets 
 accustomed to, and the startin o' a hare's ane o' them ; — so 
 is the whurr o' a covey o' paitricks — and aiblins so is the 
 meetin o' a bonny lassie a' by hersel amang the bloomin 
 heather, when she seems to rise up fi'ae the earth, or to hae 
 drapped doun frae heaven. — Were I to leeve ten thousan' 
 years, and gang out wi' the grews or pointers every ither day, 
 I sud never get the better o' the dear dehghtfu' diii o' a 
 fricht, when pussie starts wi' her lang horns. 
 
 North. Or the covey whin-s 
 
 Tickler. Or the bonny lassie 
 
 Shepherd. Oh man, Tickler, but your face the noo is just 
 like the face o' a satyr in a pictur-byuck, or that o' an auld
 
 328 tickler's face. — WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Btane-monk keekin frae a niclie in the comer o' an abbey-wa' 
 — the leer o' the holy and weel-fed scoonrel's een seemin 
 mair intense on the Sabbath, when the kirkyard is fu' o' inno- 
 cent young maidens, trippin ower the tombs to the House o' 
 Prayer ! Mr North, sir, only look at the face o' him ! 
 
 North. Tickler, Tickler, give over that face — it is abso- 
 lutely getting Hke Hazlitt's. 
 
 Shepherd. What's that clnel doin noo, think ye, sir? 
 
 North. Sunk into utter annihilation. 
 
 Shepherd. He had a curious power that Hazlitt, as he was 
 ca'd, o' simulatin sowl. You could hae taen your Bible oath 
 sometimes, when you were readin him, that he had a sowl — 
 a human sowl — a sowl to be saved — ^but then, heaven preserve 
 us ! in the verra middle aiblins o' a paragraph, he grew trans- 
 formed afore your verra face into something bestial, — you 
 heard a grunt that made ye grue, and there was an ill smell 
 in the room, as frae a pluff o' sulphur. — And Hazlitt's dead?^ 
 
 North. Yes, James, perfectly. 
 
 Shepherd. I wunner what the copyright o' the Modern 
 Pygmalion would sell for, noo that Hazlitt's a posthumous 
 author ? 
 
 Tickler. Who the devil introduced tliis loathsome subject ? 
 
 Shepherd. Your ain face, sir, when I was spealdn aboot the 
 bonny lasses. — You've just your ain face to blame for't, sir. — 
 Fine him in a bumper, Mr North, for suggestin sic a sooterkin.^ 
 
 North. We will, if you please, James, take each a glass — all 
 round — of Glenlivet — to prevent infection. 
 
 Shepherd. Wi' a' my heart,. — Sic a change in the expression 
 o' your twa faces, sirs I Mr North, you look like a man that 
 has just received a vote o' thanks for ha'in been the instru- 
 ment o' some great national deliverance. Isna that wunnerfu' 
 whisky ? As for you, Mr Tickler, — your een's just like twa 
 jaspers — pree'd ye ever the like o't ? 
 
 North. Never, so help me Heaven! — never, since I was 
 born! 
 
 Shepherd. Wordsworth tells the world, in ane of his pre- 
 faces, that he is a water-drinker — and it's weel seen on him. — 
 There was a sair want of speerit through the haill o' yon lang 
 " ExcTirsion." If he had just made the paragraphs about ae 
 half shorter, and at the end of every ane taen a caulker, like 
 
 J Hazlitt died in 1830. ^ Sooterkin — abortion.
 
 THE shepherd's DEFENCE. 329 
 
 ony ither man engaged in geyan sair and heavy wark, think 
 na ye that his " Excursion " would hae been far less fatigue- 
 some? 
 
 Tickler. It could not at least well have been more so, James, 
 — and I devoutly hope that that cursed old Pedlar is defunct. 
 Indeed, such a trio as the poet himself, the packman, and the 
 half-witted annuitant 
 
 North. My friend Wordsworth has genius, but he has no 
 invention of character — no constructiveness, as we phrenologists 
 say. 
 
 Shepherd. He, and ither folk like him, wi gude posts and 
 pensions, may talk o' drinkin water as muckle's they choose 
 — and may abuse me and the like o' me for prefenin speerits 
 —but 
 
 North. Nobody is abusing you, my dear Shepherd- 
 
 Shepherd. Haud your tongue, Mr North — for I'm geyan 
 angry the noo — and I canna thole being inten-upted when 
 I'm angry, — sae haud yotir tongue, and hear me speak, — and 
 faith, gin some folk were here, they should be made to 
 hear on the deafest side o' their heads. 
 
 North. Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez I 
 
 Shepherd. Well then, gentlemen, it cannot be unknown to 
 you that the water-drinking part of the community have not 
 scrapled to bestow on our meetings here, on the Noctes Am- 
 brosianae, the scunilous epithet of Orgies ; and that I, the 
 Shepherd, have come in for the chief part of the abuse. I 
 therefore call on you, Mr North, to vindicate my character to 
 the public, to speak truth and shame the devil — and to declare 
 in Maga, whether or not you ever saw me once the worse of 
 liquor during the course of your career ? 
 
 North. Is it possible, my dearest friend, that you can trouble 
 your head one moment about so pitiful a crew ? That jug, 
 James, with its nose fixed upon yours, is expressing its sur- 
 prise that 
 
 Tickler. Hogg, Hogg, this is a weakness which I could not 
 have expected from you — Have you forgotten how the Spec- 
 tator, and Sir Eoger de Coverley, and others, were accused of 
 wine-bibbing, and other enormities, by the dunces of those 
 days? 
 
 Shepherd. Confound their back-biting malignity ! Is there 
 a steadier hand than that in a' Scotland ? — see how the liquid
 
 330 SHEPHERD S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 quivers to the brim, and not a drop overflowing — Is my nose 
 red ? my broo blotched ? my een red and rheumy ? my shanks 
 shrunk ? my knees, do they totter ? or does my voice come 
 from my heart in a crinkly cough, as if the lungs were rotten? 
 Bring ony ane o' the base water-drinkers here, and set him 
 doun afore me, and let us discuss ony subject he likes, and 
 see whase head's the clearest, and whase tongue wags wi' 
 maist unfalterin freedom ! 
 
 North. The first thing, James, the water-drinker would do, 
 would be to get drunk, and make a beast of himself. 
 
 Shepherd. My life, Mr North, as you ken, has been ane of 
 some vicissitudes, and even now I do not eat the bread of idle- 
 ness. For ae third o' the twenty -four hours, tak ae day wi' 
 anither throughout the year, I'm i' the open air, wi' heaven's 
 wind and rain perhaps, or its hail and sleet, and they are 
 blessed by the hand that sends them, blashing against me on 
 the hill : — For anither third, I am at my byucks — no mony o' 
 them to be sure in the house — ^but the few that are no the 
 wark o' dunces, ye may believe that ; or aiblins doin my best 
 to write a byuck o' my ain, or if no a byuck, siccan a harm- 
 less composition as ane o' my bitso' " Shepherd's Calendars," 
 or the like ; — or, if study hae nae charms, playin wi the bairns, 
 or hearin them their lessons, or crackin wi' a neighbour, or 
 sittin happy wi' the mistress by our ain twa sels, sayin little, 
 but thinldn a hantle, and feelin mair. For the remaining 
 third, frae ten at nicht to sax in the morning, enjoyin that 
 sweet sound sleep that is the lot o' a gude conscience, and out 
 o' which I come as regular at the verra same minute as if an 
 angel gently lifted my head frae the pillow, and touched my 
 eyelids with awakening liclit, — no forgettin, as yoursel kens, 
 Mr North, either evening or morning prayers, no verra lang 
 anes to be sure, except on the Sabbath ; but as I hope for 
 mercy, humble and sincere, as the prayers o' us sinfa' beings 
 should ever be — sinfu', and at a' times, sleepin or waukin, aye 
 on the brink o' death ! Can there be ony great harm, Mr 
 North, in a life that — saving and excepting always the corrupt 
 thochts o' a man's ain heart, which has been wisely said to be 
 desperately wicked — even when it micht think itsel, in its 
 pride, the verra perfection o' "vdrtue 
 
 North. I never left Altrive or Mount Benger, James, with- 
 out feeling myself a better and a wiser man.
 
 HIS TEMPERANCE. 331 
 
 Shepherd. Nae man shall ever stop a niclit in my house, 
 without partakin o' the best that's in't, be't meat or drink ; 
 and if the coof^ canna drink three or four tummlers or jugs o' 
 toddy, he has nae business in the Forest. But if he do nae 
 rnair than follow the example I'se set him, he'll rise in the 
 morning without a headache, and fa' to breakfast, no wi' that 
 fause appeteet that your drunkards yoke on to the butter and 
 bread wi', and the eggs, and the ham and baddies, as if they had 
 been shipwrecked in their sleep, and scoured wi' the salt-water, 
 — but wi' that calm, sane, and steady appeteet, that speaks an 
 inside sound in a' its operations as clockwork, and gives assur- 
 ance o' a lang and usefu' life, and a large family o' children. 
 
 North. Replenish the dolphin, James. 
 
 Shepherd. She's no toom,^ yet. — Now, sir, I ca' that no an 
 abstemious life — for why should ony man be abstemious ? — 
 but I ca't a temperate life, and o' a' the virtues, there's nane 
 mair friendly to man than Temperance. 
 
 Tickler. That is an admirable distinction, James. 
 
 Shepherd. I've seen you forget it sir, howsomever, in prac- 
 tice— especially in eatin. Oh, but you're far frae a temperate 
 eater, Mr Tickler. You're ower fond o' a great heap o' different 
 dishes at denner. I'm within boun's when I say I hae seen 
 you devour a dizzen. For me, sufficient is the Eule of Three. 
 I care little for soop — unless kail, or cocky-leeky, or hare-soop, 
 or mock-turtle, which is really, considerin it's only mock, a 
 pleasant platefu' ; or hedge - podge, or potawto - broth, wi' 
 plenty o' mutton-banes, and weel peppered ; but your white 
 soops, and your broon soops, and your vermisilly, I think nae- 
 thing o', and they only serve to spoil, without satisfjdn a 
 gude appeteet, of which nae man o' sense will ever tak aff the 
 edge afore he attacks a dish that is in itself a denner. I like 
 to bring the haill power o' my stamach to bear on vittles that's 
 worthy o't, and no to fritter't awa on side dishes, sic as pates, 
 and trash o' that sort, only fit for boardin- school misses, wi' 
 wee shrimpit mouths, no able to eat muckle, and ashamed to 
 eat even that : a' covered wi' blushes, puir things, if ye but 
 offer to help oniy'thing ontil their plates, or to tell them no 
 to mind folk starin, but to mak a gude denner, for that it will 
 do them nae harm, but, on the contrary, mingle roses with the 
 lilies of their delicate beauty. 
 
 ^ Goof — ninny. 3 Toom — empty.
 
 332 shepherd's tolerance. 
 
 Tickler. Every man, James, is the best judge of what he 
 
 ought to eat, nor is one man entitled to interfere 
 
 Shepherd. Between another man and his own stomach 1 — 
 Do you mean to say that? Why, sir, that is even more absurd 
 than to say that no man has a right to interfere between 
 
 another and his own conscience, or his 
 
 Tickler, And is that absurd ? 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, it is absurd— although it has, somehow or 
 other, become an apothegm. — Is it not the duty of all men, to 
 the best o' their abihties, to enlighten ane anither's under- 
 standings ? And if I see my brethren o' mankind fa' into a' 
 sorts o' sin and superstition, is't nae business o' mine, think 
 ye, to endeavour to set them right, and enable them to act 
 according to the dictates o' reason and nature ? 
 Tickler. And what then, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Why, then, sir, it may be often our duty to inter- 
 fere between a man and his conscience, when that conscience 
 is weak, or dark, or perverted — ^between a man and his reli- 
 gion, when that religion is fu' o' falsehood and idolatry. The 
 opposite doctrine that holds that every man's religion is a 
 matter solely between his own soul and his Maker, is, in my 
 behef, a pernicious doctrine, and one that countenances all 
 enormities of faith. There is surely such a thing as Truth— 
 and such a thing as Falsehood — and for my ain part, I shall 
 never leave ony freen' o' mine in undistui'bed enjoyment o' 
 falsehood, even if that falsehood relate to his God. 
 
 North. We are getting on difficult, on dangerous ground, 
 
 my dear Shepherd 
 
 Shepherd. Yes ; but we maun a' tread difficult and danger- 
 ous ground, Mr North, every day in our lives, — even the 
 simplest and the maist sincere, — and we are a' o' us bound to 
 contribute to ane anither's security, amang the pitfalls and 
 quagmires o' hfe. I hae nae notion of that creed that tells 
 me to leave a dour, doited devil to go daunderin on, wi' his 
 een shut, his ain way to perditicn. 
 
 North. Would you, like Missionary Wolff, challenge the 
 Pope to battle, and call his religion a He ? 
 
 Shepherd. No, sir, — I wad never sae far forget mysel as to 
 cease being a gentleman,— for then, so far, I should cease 
 being a Christian. But gin I thocht Papistry a fause thing, 
 which I do, I wadna scruple to say sae, in sic terms as were 
 consistent wi' gude manners, and wi' charity and humility of
 
 CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION. 333 
 
 heart, — and back my opinion vn' sic arguments as I had 
 learned out of that book which the Pope, I fancy, wadna allow 
 a poor lay-creature like me to read at nicht, afore gaun to-bed, 
 and just after I had seen the bairns a' soim' asleep in theirs, 
 wi' their quiet smiling faces hushed to peace, under the pro- 
 tecting love o' Him wha had wrapt the innocent things in the 
 heaven o' happy dreams. Still, I wadna ca' the Pope a leear, 
 like Mr Wolff; for nae man's a leear, unless he kens that he 
 is ane ; and his Holiness, for onything I ken to the contrar, 
 may be, in his delusion, a lover of the Truth. 
 
 North. You would not, if in Parliament, James, vote for 
 what is called Catholic Emancipation ? 
 
 Shepherd. I scarcely think I would, — at least I would be 
 what Mr Canning says he is not, a security grinder. 
 
 Tickler. And I, James. 
 
 North. And I, James. 
 
 Shepherd. And, thank heaven ! the majority of the British 
 Parliament, and thi-ee-fourths of the British people, Mr North. 
 
 North. Have you read Dr PhiUpotts' ^ Letter, Tickler ? 
 
 Tickler. I have, with delight. One of the ablest productions of 
 modem days — bold, fearless, manly, gentlemanly, Protestant. 
 
 North. And yet the Whigs all call it personal — nay, Kbellous 
 — although Dr PhiUpotts expresses towards Mr Canning, to 
 whom it is addressed, the greatest respect for his character, 
 and the highest admiration of his talents. Not thus, Tickler, 
 did they speak and wiite of that illustrious person a few short 
 years ago. 
 
 Tickler. I have made out a paper on that point, — but it is 
 too long, I fear, for the Magazine — it would occupy three 
 sheets — of malignity, stupidity, and abuse incredible, but 
 from the tongues and fingers of Whigs. Even now, they hate 
 Mr Canning. We, on the contrary, always loved him — then 
 as now — but 
 
 Shepherd. What noise is that in that press ? Is't a mooss 
 getting its neck into a trap? Let's see — 
 
 l^Opens the press, and out steps a person, shabby genteel, 
 in black or brownish apparel. 
 
 ^ Afterwards the Bishop of Exeter. In the letter referred to, and in other 
 publications, he argued agjtinst the Catholic Emancipation Act. But when 
 that measure was brought before Parliament by the Duke of Wellington and 
 Sir Robert Peel, he preserved an entire silence, which was generally construed 
 as consent.
 
 334 A GENTLEMAN OF THE PKESS. 
 
 Wha are ye, my man, that's here hearkenin to a conversation 
 that I'm thinking, fra the face o' you, you're no very able to 
 understand the drift o'? — wha are ye, my man, wi' cheeks 
 like potty, and tautied hair, and a coat sae desperate short 
 in the sleeves ? But dinna be sae feared, I'm no gaun to put 
 ye to death, only what was ye chrissend ? or are you a Pagan 
 wi' some outlandish name, and a mother-tongue unintelligible 
 in this quarter o' the habitable globe? I'll baud ye, sir, by 
 the cuff o' the neck, till ye speak — Ai-e ye dumb, sir ? 
 
 North. James, James — my dear Shepherd, relax your hold, 
 he is a short-hand writer. 
 
 Shepherd. A short-hand writer ! a short-hand writer ! and 
 that's the way o't — that's the way o't — that the Noctes Am- 
 brosiange are gotten up for that Magazine o' yours, Mr North!!! 
 How durst you, sir, sit in that press takin down my words ? 
 A pretty gentleman o' the press, indeed ! Gude faith ! a wee 
 tiling would mak me fling you out o' the window ! There's 
 anither shake for you, sir, to mak your blood circulate. 
 
 North. Mr Gurney, don't mind the Shepherd, it is his way. 
 — James, James, he is not one of the enemy — and as worthy 
 a fellow as lives : moderate your fury, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Now the cat's out o' the bag. Never could I 
 comprehend how a haill night's conversation, on to the sma' 
 hours, could get itsel a' prented word for word in the Maga- 
 zine, doun to my verra spellin, afore — and there, for thae sax 
 years past, hae ye been writin in the press, my man, takin doun 
 the conversation in hierogl3rphics, and at hame extendin your 
 notes, as they ca't, ower your sooens^ and sma' beer afore 
 gaun to sleep on caff.^ 
 
 Tickler. Come, James, you are getting personal and abusive. 
 Mr Gurney is a most excellent feUow — a man of education, 
 and a small private fortune of his own on the death of his 
 grandmother. 
 
 North. Sit down, Mr Gurney, and take a glass of toddy. 
 
 Shepherd. What for will you no speak, sir? Open your 
 mouth and speak. 
 
 North. Mr Gurney, James, is no speaker. 
 
 Shepherd. What, is he dumb ? 
 
 North. Rather so. Shepherd. It would be a long story to 
 teU you how he lost his tongue early in life in Persia. 
 ^ Sooens—a, sort of flummery made of the dust of oatmeal. 3 Caff — chaff.
 
 A COLLOQUIAL LUMINARY. 335 
 
 Shepherd. He's aff — he's a£f — out at the door like a shot. 
 He may be a short-haun writer, but he's a lang-legged ane. 
 See, yonner he's jinkin round the corner o' Union Place 
 already, never doutin that I'm at his tails ! There's no 
 anither gentleman o' the press, is there, in ahint that ither 
 door, on the richt cheek o' the fire ? 
 
 Tickler. Well, the world must just content itself without 
 any record of this meeting. Nor does it much matter, for I 
 have seen the Shepherd much brighter. 
 
 Shepherd. I hate to see ony man ower bricht, as it is ca'd, 
 in company. Commend me to the man that's just like a star 
 amang ither stars — only noos and thans a wee thocht brichter 
 than the luminaries around him, as if something internal 
 glanced out frae within his venu core, and after a few fitfu' 
 flashes, let him relapse back again into his former sober 
 radiance. 
 
 Tickler. A new image, James, or something like it — Go on 
 —I'll foUow thee. 
 
 Shepherd. Or haply, sir, not that he was ony brichter than 
 afore — but that the rest had grown somewhat dimmer, or mair 
 obscure, as a cloud, or the shadow o' a cloud, had tamed their 
 lustre, and made some o' them indeed amaist disappear frae 
 the heavens a'thegither ! 
 
 North. ! better and better, James. You speak like an 
 absolute Coleridge. 
 
 Shepherd. Or suppose we liken a man, that in company is 
 just what he ought to be, to a good fire — made o' Scotch 
 coals, wi' a sprinklin o' EngHsh — no bleezin as if soot had 
 fa' en doun the chimley, and then flingin out reek amaist to 
 chock you, and also to blear your een, at the same time makin 
 the room so insufferably hot that water would pabble in a 
 dish ; but a calm, composed fire, bold as the sun, yet mild 
 almost as the moon, shinin and warmin all, it looks upon with a 
 summery spirit, till all our feelings expand in the glow Hke 
 flowers, and the circle o' humanity round it becomes, in the 
 best sense o' the word. Christianised by the gracious light ! 
 
 North. That man. Tickler, flings away as much poetiy in 
 the coui'se of an afternoon's crack, as would serve the Pet 
 Poet of a Cockney coterie all his lifetime. 
 
 Shepherd. What's that you were sayin, sir, to Mr Tickler ? 
 I'm rather deafish. It's maist a pity the short-haun writer
 
 336 CRUELTY TO AXIMALS. 
 
 ran afif ; but aiblins he's gotten intil the press again through 
 a back-door ; — and if sae, I shanna disturb him ; for I carena, 
 for my ain pairt, although every single syllable that ever was 
 uttered by me within these four wa's was prented in capitals, 
 and circulated to the remotest comers o' the Earth. 
 
 North. Did you go t'other day, James, to hear Mr Somer- 
 ville of Currie's^ sermon against cruelty to animals ? I don't 
 remember seeing youx face in the throng. It was an elegant 
 discourse. 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna doubt that, for he's a clever chiel — 
 and as gude a man and as humane as ever used a double- 
 barrelled gian. 
 
 Tickler. What ! Is he a sportsman, and yet preaches about 
 cnielty to animals ? 
 
 North. Did not you know, Tickler, that Mr SomerviUe 
 invented a gun-lock, for which he ought to have got a patent ? 
 
 Tickler. In that case he ought just to have allowed a brother 
 clergyman to preach the Gibsonian Sermon. — For although, for 
 my own part, I see no cruelty in field-sports, no man in the 
 pulpit can possibly defend them ; and if he omits all mention 
 of them, he leaves his argument incomplete — and when the 
 preacher is a notorious good shot, slaughtering right and left, 
 to a dead certainty, there is room for the scoffers to treat the 
 entire sermon with derision. 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna see that ava. Eeal cruelty to animals 
 canna be defined, but everybody kens what it is — for ex- 
 ample, thumpin wi' a rung a piiir auld, tremblin, staggerin, 
 worn-out, starved horse, reesting at a steep pull in the trams 
 aneath a ton o' coals, a' the time the carter swearing like 
 Cloots — that's cruelty, and should be preached against, and 
 also punished by Act o' Parliament, 
 
 Tickler. But there is no cruelty, you think, James, in the 
 Rev, Mr SomerviUe shooting at a hare on her form, who 
 carries off into the brake her poor wounded withers full of 
 No. 34 or 35, and there continues dying by inches all through 
 the week — expiring, perhaps, within the tinkle of the Sabbath 
 bell of Currie kirk ? 
 
 Shepherd. It's just a' a dounricht sophism, Mr Tickler, and 
 you ken it is — but I hate a' argling and hargarbargling o' 
 argument ower ane's toddy — or indeed onywhere else, except 
 ^ Currie is a village near Edinburgh.
 
 SIR JOHN MALCOLM. — BOADEN. 337 
 
 at the Bar when Jeffrey or Cobmn's spealdng — and there, to 
 be sure, it's a treat to hear the tane threeping and the tither 
 threeping, as if not only their verra Kves depended on't, but 
 the haill creation ; whereas the dispute was only about some 
 abstract consideration o' a point o' law in the way o' prelimi- 
 nary form anent the regulation o' the Court, kittle enough to 
 be understood, nae doubt, sin' the introduction o' the new 
 system ; but as to the real intrinsic maitter o' equity and 
 justice, nae mair than a preliminary that might hae been gien 
 against either the ae party or the ither, without detriment to 
 the patrimonial interests either o' the plaintiff or defendant, 
 the respondent or appellant, in sic a cause no easy o' being 
 discriminated by a hearer like me, no verra deeply versed 
 in the laws. 
 
 North. An Annual Sermon against any one particular vice, 
 — and none more odious than cruelty of disposition, — is a 
 foolish Institution. Let people go regularly to church, and 
 hear good sermons, of which there is no lack either in the 
 city or the country, — and they will be merciful to their beasts, 
 I hope, through the spirit of Christianity thus fanned and 
 fostered in their hearts. 
 
 Shepherd. That is verra true. — Cruelty to animals is no a 
 gude subject for a haill sermon, — and it's only clever men, like 
 Chalmers and Somerville, that can prevent it from becoming 
 even absurd in the pulpit, when formally treated of, and at 
 great length — whereas 
 
 North. Put these two little volumes, James, in your pocket, 
 that you are ogling on the side-table. — Sketches of Persia^ — 
 a few pages of it is a cheering recreation for a leisure hour. 
 Sir John ^ tells a story admirably, and is a man of keen and 
 incessant observation. I had no idea he could have written 
 anything so light and vivacious, — so elegant even, and so full 
 of character. The volumes must be popular, and I hope he 
 will give us more of them, — a couple more at the least. 
 Murray has published nothing so good of the kind for years. 
 
 Shepherd. Hae ye read Boaden's Life o' Siddons, sii' ? 
 
 North. I have, James — and I respect Mr Boaden for his 
 intelligent criticism. He is rather prosy occasionally — but 
 why not ? God knows, he cannot be more prosy than I am 
 
 1 Sir John Malcolm, G.C.B., for some time envoy at the court of Persia, 
 died in 1833. 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 338 SARAH SIDDONS. 
 
 now at this blessed moment — yet what good man, were he 
 present now, would be severe upon old Christopher for haver- 
 ing away about this, that, or t'other thing, so long as there 
 was heart in all he said, and nothing contra honos mores f 
 Sarah was a glorious creature. Metliinks I see her now in 
 the sleep-walking scene ! 
 
 Shepherd. As Leddy Macbeth! Her gran' high straicht- 
 nosed face, whiter than ashes ! Fixed een, no like the een o' 
 the dead, yet hardly mair like them o' the leevin ; dim, and 
 yet licht wi' an obscure lustre through which the tormented 
 sowl looked in the chains o' sleep and dreams wi' a' the dis- 
 traction o' remorse and despair, — and oh ! sic an expanse o' 
 forehead for a warld o' dreadfu' thochts, aneath the braided 
 blackness o' her hair, that had nevertheless been put up wi' a 
 steady and nae uncarefu' haun before the troubled Leddy had 
 lain doun, for it behoved ane so high-born as she, in the 
 middle o' her ruefu' trouble, no to neglect what she owed to 
 her stately beauty, and to the head that lay on the couch of 
 ane o' Scotland's Thanes — noo, likewise about to be, during 
 the short space o' the passing o' a thunder- cloud, her bluidy 
 and usurping King. 
 
 North. Whisht — Tickler — whisht — no coughing. 
 
 Shepherd. Onwards she used to come — no Sarah Siddons — 
 but just Leddy Macbeth hersel — though through that melan- 
 choly masquerade o' passion, the spectator aye had a confused 
 glimmerin apprehension o' the great actress — glidin wi' the 
 ghostlike motion o' nicht-wanderin unrest, unconscious o' 
 surroundin objects, — for oh ! how could the glazed, yet 
 gleamin een, see aught in tliis material world ? — yet, by some 
 mysterious power o' instinct, never touchin ane o' the impedi- 
 ments that the furniture o' the auld castle micht hae opposed 
 to her haunted footsteps, — on she came, wring, wringin her 
 hauns, as if washin them in the cleansin dews fi-ae the blouts 
 o' blood, — but wae's me for the murderess, out they wad no 
 be, ony mair than the stains on the spat o' the floor where 
 some midnicht-slain Christian has groaned out his soul aneath 
 the dagger's stroke, when the sleepin hoose heard not the 
 shriek o' departing life. 
 
 Tickler. North, look at James's face. Confound me, under 
 the inspiration of the moment, if it is not like John Kemble's ! 
 
 Shepherd. Whether a' this, sirs, was natural or not, ye see I
 
 THEATRICAL FUND DENTTER. 339 
 
 dinna ken, because I never beheld ony woman, either gentle 
 or semple, walkin in her sleep after having committed mnrder. 
 But, Lord safe us ! that hollow, broken-hearted voice, " Out, 
 damned spot," was o' itsel aneuch to tell to a' that heard it, 
 that crimes done in the iiesh during time will needs be 
 punished in the spirit during eternity. It was a dreadfu' 
 homily yon, sirs ; and wha that saw't would ever ask whether 
 tragedy or the stage was moral, purging the soul, as she did, 
 wi' pity and wi' terror ? 
 
 Tickler. Ha, ha, ha ! — James, w^as you at the Theatrical 
 Fund Dinner,^ my boy ? and what sort of an affair was it ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, you may lauch ; but you did sae merely to 
 conceal your emotion ; for I saw your lips quiver at my picture 
 o' the Siddons, as James Ballantyne used to ca' her in the 
 Journal. He's the best theatrical creetic in Embro' though, 
 notwithstanding rather ower pompous a style o' panegyric. 
 But that's the way o' a' your creetics — high and low — rich 
 and poor — Grosvenor Square and Grub Street — Eoyal Circus 
 and Lawnmarket — you're a' upon stilts, and wi' speakin-trum- 
 pets, and talk o' the stage as if playactors and playactresses 
 were onything mair than puppets, and could hae ony serious 
 or permanent influence on the affairs o' this world. Whew, 
 whew ! 
 
 North. Would you believe it, James, that many modem 
 Athenians assisted at the dinner you speak of, and did not 
 subscribe a farthing ; some not more than a penny, wrapped 
 up in a bit of brown paper, as if it had been the Holy Alliance 
 of Sovereigns ? 
 
 Tickler. I think little about that — ^but do you know, James, 
 that there are absolutely gentlemen in Edinburgh that are 
 opposing, and going to appeal to Parliament, against the 
 new improvements of the City — ^the South and the West 
 approaches, and all because they may be taxed some ten or 
 twenty shiUings a-year? 
 
 North. They use two arguments — ^first, that the South and 
 West approaches are local, and therefore ought not to cost those 
 people anything who live in another part of the town. 
 
 Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw ! So there's nae sic thing as a 
 
 ^ At this dinner, which took place on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter 
 Scott, who was chairman, avowed himself, for the first time, as the author of 
 the Waverley Novels.
 
 340 IMPROVEMENTS OF THE CITY. 
 
 City ! According to that rule, every bit dirty close maun tak 
 care o' itsel, and there maun be nae general pervadin spirit, 
 like the verra spirit o' life in modern Athens. What sumphs 
 and meesers ! 
 
 North. The second argument is, that every new improve- 
 ment in one part of a city deteriorates property in some other 
 part — and that if there be a fine couple of approaches to Edin- 
 burgh from the West and the South, the northern part of the 
 New Town, especially the Eoyal Circus, will be ruined, and 
 the houses sell for nothing. 
 
 Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw ! Hip, hip, hip, hurraw ! What 
 sumphs I 
 
 Tickler. Then the Oppositionists have " opened at Budge's 
 a subscription for receiving donations !" 
 
 Shepherd. That's desperate bad English surely — bit what 
 for dinna ye publish the names o' the Opposition, sir ? 
 
 North. Because I hate all personality, James, and besides, 
 the names, with some two or three exceptions, are so obscure 
 that nobody would believe them to be real names, such as 
 Smith, Taylor, Thomson, &c. &c. 
 
 Shepherd. And anonymous names o' that sort — weel, weel. 
 I see the cretiu-s, in this ill-written manifesto o' theirs, sir, 
 that you hae gien me to glance at, object to the improvements, 
 because they're to cost some twa or three hundred thousan' 
 pounds. That's the verra reason I wad agree to them — for it 
 shows they're on a gran' and magnificent scale, and I like a' 
 things tliat's gran' and magnificent. Then, isna Embro' said 
 to be a City of Palaces ? 
 
 North. James, you're very high on your chair to-night — 
 you're surely sitting on something. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay — the last month's Magazines and Eeviews. 
 They're a' but indifferent nuiiibers this last month — and your 
 ain, sir, no muck?:-, better than the lave — though it maintains 
 a sort o' superiority. 
 
 North. I can afford^ now and then, to be stupid. Wait till 
 May -day, my dear Shepherd, and you shall see glorious 
 
 TWINS. 
 
 Tickler. The Monthly Review is a creditable work ; and you 
 surprise me. North, by telling me that it does not sell. The 
 articles are heavy indeed, and anything but brilliant ; but 
 there is a sort of sober, steady stupidity about many of them,
 
 MAGAZINES AND REVIEWS. 341 
 
 that I should have thought would have been popular among 
 a certain set. 
 
 North. It sells pretty well — about six hundred T understand. 
 That number will pay a few pounds, occasionally, to a crack 
 contributor, and the common run of its writers are not persons 
 who can expect to be paid any other remuneration than a 
 tavern supper once a-quarter, which costs Mr Knight but 
 little — and he is too generous a fellow, we all know, to care 
 about such a trifle. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna thole't. The Editor, I fear, 's a guse — 
 and he maun aye be kecklin himsel, after layin a big muckle 
 clumsy Qg^ amang the nettles, and then hissin at you, as if 
 you were gaun to gie him a kick — haudin his doup up in the 
 air in triumph, as if he were about to fire a royal salute. A 
 guse is a lang-leeved bird, but that's only when he leads a 
 quate life, in or about some auld ha' or castle, and has 
 naetliing to distnrb him — but a guse, though slow in under- 
 standin, is a bird o' quick feelings, and allow him to harass 
 himsel wi' passengers and passers-by, and he will get lean in 
 a twelvemonth, dwine away in perfect vexation, and waddling 
 a' by himsel, like a rejected lover, into some obscure nook, 
 expire the victim o' sensibility. 
 
 Tickler. North, do you know anything about this Journal 
 of Foreign Literature about to be published in London ? 
 
 North. Something. I have heard some great, and many 
 respectable, names spoken of in connection with it, and if not 
 started till the plan is matured, and regular contributors 
 engaged, it will certainly succeed — otherwise, as certainly 
 fail. It is, I hear, to be published by an eminent German 
 house in London, and is intended to give the spirit of Conti- 
 nental literature and philosophy. 
 
 Tickler. A fine field undoubtedly — and I am happy to hear 
 the plan is not to be confined to the literatui-e and philosophy 
 of Germany. 
 
 Shepherd. So am I — ^for the German authors are like pigs — 
 great cry and httle wool. I hae read about some thretty 
 volumms o' translations frae the German this last year, 
 chiefly tales, and deevil tak me if there be a first-rate tale 
 in the haill lot. 
 
 North. A first-rate tale, James, is rather a rarity. I can't 
 say that I ever read one. The Crusaders of Sii* Walter Scott
 
 342 SCOTT S NOVELS. — PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 comes pretty near my notion of one, but not quite up to it — 
 there being somewhat too much changing of dresses, and too 
 much legerdemain. Eedgauntlet, by the same writer, is some- 
 where, I opine, about a tenth-rate tale — Peveril of the Peak a 
 fourth-rate one — Quentin Durward a third-rate — Waverley a 
 second — The Pirate a third — Ivanhoe and Kenilworth 
 
 Shepherd. Let's see a tale o' your ain, sir, afore ye speak 
 sae bauldly o' your betters. 
 
 North. Jeffrey and I never write anything original. It's 
 porter's work. 
 
 Shepherd. Because ye canna. Ye're only creetics, and 
 writin a review's ae thing, and writin a byuck's anither, let 
 me tell you that, sir; and yet I dinna ken, Mr North, 
 although I hae nae howps o' Mr Jaffray, oh 1 man, but I do 
 think that you, that wrote the " Birds," and " Streams," and 
 " Cottages," and " Hints for the HoUdays," and " Selby's 
 Ornithology," and other Leading Articles, last year, micht 
 write a byuck to shame us a', gin ye wad only let yersel 
 lowse on a subject, and pour yersel out wi' a' your birr ower 
 four volumms, hke a spate carrying everything afore you on 
 to Finis, and drownin the catastrophe in a flood of tears. 
 
 North. James, I'U tell you a kind of composition that would 
 tell. 
 
 Shepherd. What is't, man ? Let's hear't. 
 
 North. Pastoral Dramatic Poetry, partly prose and partly 
 verse — like the " Winter's Tale," or, " As You Like It," or 
 " The Tempest," or " The Midsummer-Night's Dream." 
 
 Shepherd. You're just the man for that, Mr North, sir, — only 
 you're rather auld. 
 
 North. I have four such dramas, James, in my escritoire. 
 
 Shepherd. Out wi' them, and let's see whether they'll be 
 damned or no. Oh, sir, but you're hated by the Cockneys ! 
 
 North. I — I — James — hated by the Cockneys? What 
 harm did I ever to the nation ? 
 
 Shepherd. Extirpated them — that's a' — dethroned their 
 king, and drove him into exile, — reduced the Eoyal Family 
 to beggars — taught the Nobihty to speU themselves wi' the 
 letter M, — and rendered Little Britain desolate. 
 
 Tickler. Dramas of which the scenes are laid in the country 
 cannot be good, for the people have no character. 
 
 Shepherd. Nae character's better than a bad ane, Mr
 
 PASSIONS IN THE TOWN, AND IN THE COUNTRY. 343 
 
 Tickler ; — ^bxit you see, sir, you're just perfectly ignorant o' 
 what you're talldn about — for it's only kintra-folk that has 
 ony character ava, — and to^vn's-bodies seem to be a' in a 
 slump. Hoo the street rins wi' leevin creatures, like a stream 
 rinnin wi' foam-bells ! What maitter if they a' break as they 
 gang by? For anither shoal succeeds o' the same empty race ! 
 
 North. The passions in the country, methinks, James, are 
 stronger and bolder, and more distinguishable from each other, 
 than in towns ? 
 
 Shepherd. Deevil a passion's in the town, but envy, and 
 back-biting, and conceitedness. As for friendship, or loYe, 
 or hate, or revenge — ye never meet wi' them where men and 
 women are a' jumbled throughither, in what is ca'd ceevileezed 
 society. In solitary places, the sicht o' a human face aye 
 brings wi't a corresponding feeling o' some kind or ither, — 
 there can be nae sic thing as indifference in habitations 
 stannin here and there, in woods and glens, and on hill-sides, 
 and the shores o' lochs or the sea. 
 
 Tickler. Ai'e no robberies, murders, and adulteries, perpe- 
 trated in toTvms, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Plenty — and because there are nae passions to 
 guard frae guilt. What man wi' a sowl glowin wi' the free 
 feelings o' nature, and made thereby happy and contented, 
 ^Ad' liis plaid across his breast, would condescend to be a high- 
 way robber, or by habit and repute a tliief? What man, 
 whose heart loupt to his mouth whenever he forgathered wi' 
 his ain lassie, and never preed her bonny mou' but wi' a 
 whispered benediction in her ear, wad at ance damn and 
 demean himsel by breakin the seventh commandment? As 
 for committin murder, leave that to the like o' Thurtell and 
 Probert,^ and the like, wha seem to have had nae passions o' 
 ony kind, but a passion for pork chops and porter, drivin in 
 gigs, wearin rough big-coats wi' a dizzen necks, and cufifin 
 ane anither's heads wi' boxin-gloves on thefr nieves, — but 
 nae real South kintra shepherd ever was known to commit 
 murder, for they're ower fond o' fechtin at fafrs, and kirns, and 
 the like, to tak the trouble o' puttin ye to death in cool blood 
 
 Tickler. James, would you seriously have North to ^vrite 
 dramas about the loves of the lower orders — men in corduroy 
 
 breeches, and women in linsey-woollen petticoats 
 
 1 See ante, p. 81, note.
 
 344 SHEPHERD ON THE LOWER ORDERS. 
 
 Shepherd. Wlia are ye, sir, to speak o' the lower orders ? 
 Look up to the sky, sir, on a starry nicht, and piiir, ignorant, 
 thochtless, "upsettin cretur you'll be, gin you dinna feel far 
 within and deep doun your ain sowl, that you are, in good 
 truth, ane o' the lower orders — no perhaps o' men, but o' 
 intelligences ! and that it requires some di-eadfu' mystery far 
 beyond your comprehension, to mak you worthy o' ever in 
 after life becoming a dweller among those celestial mansions. 
 Yet, think ye, sir, that thousan's and tens o' thousan's o' 
 millions, since the time when first God's WTath smote the 
 earth's soil with the curse o' barrenness, and human creatures 
 had to earn their bread wi' sweat and dust, haena lived and 
 toiled, and laughed and sighed, and groaned and grat, o' the 
 lower orders., that are noo in eternal bliss, and shall sit above 
 you and Mr North, and ithers o' the best o' the clan, in the 
 realms o' heaven ! 
 
 Tickler. 'Pon my soul, James, I said nothing to justify tliis 
 tirade. 
 
 Shepherd. You did, though. Hearken till me, sir. If there 
 be no agonies that wring the hearts of men and women lowly 
 born, why should they ever read the Bible ? If there be no 
 heavy griefs makin aftentimes the burden o' life hard to bear, 
 what means that sweet voice callin on them to " come unto 
 me, for I will give them rest?" If love, strong as death, 
 adhere not to yon auld vndow's heart, while sairly bowed 
 down, till her dim een canna see the lift, but only the grass 
 aneath her feet, hoo else would she or could she totter every 
 Sabbath to kirk, and wi' her broken, feeble, and quiverin 
 voice, and withered hands clasped together on her breast, 
 join, a happy and a hopefu' thing, in the holy Psalm? If 
 
 Tickler. James, you affect me, but less by the pictures you 
 di-aw, than by the suspicion — nay, more than the suspicion — 
 you intimate that I am insensible to these things 
 
 Shepherd. I refer to you, Mr North, if he didna mean, by 
 what he said about corduroy breeks and linsey-woollen petti- 
 coats, to throw ridicule on all that wore them, and to assert 
 that nae men o' genius, like you or me, ought to regard them 
 as worthy o' being charactereezed in prose or rhyme ? 
 
 North. My dear James, you have put the argument ou 
 an immovable basis. Poor, lonely, humble people, who live
 
 byron's bust. 345 
 
 in shielings, and huts, and cottages, and farmhouses, have 
 souls worthy of being saved, and therefore not unworthy of 
 being written about by such authors as have also souls to be 
 saved ; among whom you and I, and Tickler himself 
 
 Shepherd. Yes, yes — Tickler himself, sure aneuch. Gie's 
 your haun, Mr Tickler, gie's your haun — we're baith in the 
 right ; for I agree wi' you, that nae hero o' tragedy or a Yepic 
 should be brought forrit ostentatiously in corduroy breeks, and 
 that, I suppose, is a' you intended to say. 
 
 Tickler. It is indeed, James ; I meant to say no more. 
 
 North. James, you would make a fine Bust. 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna like busts, except o' ideal characters, sic 
 as water-nymphs, and diyads, and fawns, and Venuses, and 
 Jupiters. A man o' real life, aibUns, Mr Tickler, wi' cordui'oy 
 breeks, or at the best velveteens, has naething to do wi' a 
 bust ; and then you maun be represented without your neck- 
 cloth, and your breast bare — and wi' only head and shouthers, 
 perhaps— sittin a daft-Hke image on a pedestal. I dinna Like 
 busts. 
 
 Tickler. Byron's Bust, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, I hke it — for he had a beautiful face, like as 
 o' ApoUo, — high birth too, — a genius rare aneath the skies ; 
 and he died young, and far aff in a foreign land — the land, 
 too, o' busts, and o' immortal song. I'se warrant that his een 
 took a thousand expressions in the course o' ae single hour, 
 but in those serene marble orbs there is but one — an expres- 
 sion o' uninterrupted and eternal peace. His lip, they said, 
 was apt to curl into scorn — and nae wunner, for it was a tryin 
 tiling, wi' a' his fauts, to be used as he was used by those 
 that micht hae forgien ; but in the bust I saw, his mouth was 
 mild as that o' a man in a dreamless sleep, — and yet some- 
 thing there was about it, too, that tauld the leevin lips it 
 imaged mxist have been eloquent to express all the noblest, 
 best emotions o' a great poet's soul ! Byron was entitled to 
 a breathin bust — a cold, still, marble image, peacefully divine ; 
 but I, sirs, am weel contented wi' my picture in body-colours 
 by Nicholson, and so should you too, Mr Tickler — while as to 
 Mr North, I hae some diffeeculty in determining — yet, on the 
 whole, I'm disposed to think he should be sculptured by 
 Chantrey
 
 346 THE NAVY. — ALMACK'S. — CROCKFORD-HOUSE. 
 
 Tickler. And placed on the Half- Moon Battery,^ James, 
 beside the statue of our most gracious King I 
 
 North. Cease your fooling, lads. James, I intend com- 
 mencing a series of articles on the British Navy. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! do, sir — do, sir — do, sk. It's a gran' topic, 
 and you're just the man to do't, wi' your naval knowledge and 
 national enthusiasm. 
 
 North. All the Fleet-fights, James, all the actions of single 
 ships — all boat-affairs, such as cuttings - out, storming of 
 batteries, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Shepherd. The whole sailor's life at sea, my boys. If you'll 
 promise, sir, aye to read my Shepherd's Calendar, I'll promise 
 aye to read your Naval Chronicle. 
 
 North. A bargain, James, Pray, James, by the way, have 
 you read Almack's ? " 
 
 Shepherd. The author sent me a copy — for he's a chiel 
 that I used to ken when he was a clerk in the coach-office o' 
 the Star Inn, Princes Street, and he had aye a turn for what 
 he ca'd high life. He used to get into that sort of society in 
 Embro' by pretending to be a flunkey, and stannin ahint 
 chairs at great parties — and he's naturally a genteel lad, and 
 no that stupid — so that, noo that he fills a situation something 
 similar, as I have heard, in London, he gets access to Lords 
 and Leddies by flimkeyin't ; which is, however, a species of 
 forgin, and sometimes subjects a lad to being sair kickit — 
 whilk has, mair than ance or twice either, happened until the 
 author o' Almack's. But a clour on the head's waur than a 
 kick on the bottom. 
 
 North. What's the fellow's name ? 
 
 Shepherd. That's surprising ! You've just driven his name 
 out o' my head by askin for it, I canna remember't — but it's a 
 very common name, and o' nae repute, except among the 
 mechanical tredds. 
 
 Tickler. What is Crockford-house, Mr North ? 
 • North. A clever satire of Luttrel's, on one of the Devils of 
 one of the London Hells. You know Luttrel,^ I presume, sir ? 
 
 Tickler. Know him — that I do — and one of the most 
 accomplished men in aU England — a wit and a scholar. 
 
 ^ Of Edinburgh Castle. ^ One of the trashy fashionable novels of the day. 
 3 A London wit, a friend of Thomas Moore's, and author of a poem entitled 
 Advice to Julia.
 
 WITS m GENERAL. — FISHING. 347 
 
 Shepherd. I tliink verra little in general o' your wits and 
 your scholars, and your most accomplished men in all England. 
 They may be very clever and agreeable duels in company and 
 conversation, but clap a pen into their hand, and bid them 
 wiite sometliing, and, oh ! but their expressions are sairly 
 deficient in point, their love-sangs cauld and clear as the drap 
 at a man's nose on a frosty momin; — as for their charauds, 
 even after you've been tauld them, there's nae findin them 
 out ; and, hech, sirs ! but their prologues and their epilogues 
 are, twenty yawns to the line, soporifics that neither watchman 
 nor sick-nurse could support. 
 
 Tickler. The Honourable William Spencer, although a wit 
 and a scholar, is, like my friend Luttrel, an exception to jour 
 general rule, James. 
 
 Shepherd. Is that him that wrote " Bedgelert, or the Grave o' 
 the Greyhound" ? Faith, that chiel's a poet. Thae verses hae 
 muckle o' the auld ballant pathos and simplicity ; — and then 
 he translated "Leonora," too, didna he? That's anither fea- 
 ther in his cap that Time's hand '11 no plook frae't. — What for 
 did ye no send me out to Altrive Hood's " National Tales" ? 
 Yon "Whims and Oddities" o' his were maist ingenious and 
 divertin. Are the " National Tales" gude ? 
 
 North. Some of them are excellent, and few are without the 
 impress of originality. I am glad to see that they are pub- 
 lished by Mr Ainsworth,^ to whom I wish all success in his 
 new profession. He is himself a young gentleman of talents, 
 and his " Sir John Chiverton" is a spirited and romantic per- 
 formance. 
 
 Shepherd. Surely, Mr North, you'll no allow anither Spring 
 to gang by without comin out to the fishing ? I dinna under- 
 staun' your aye gaun up to the Ciiiick-Inn in Tweedsmuir. 
 The Yarrow Trouts are far better eatin — and they mak far 
 better sport too — loupin out the linns in somersets like tum- 
 blers frae a spring-brod, head-ower-heels, — and gin your pirn 
 doesna rin free, snappin afi" your tackle, and doun wi' a plunge 
 four fathom deep i' the pool, or awa Hke the shadow o' a 
 hawk's wing alang the shallows. 
 
 North. Would you believe it, my dear Shepherd, that my 
 piscatoiy passions are almost dead within me ; and I like now 
 
 ^ Mr "W. H. Ainsworth has since contributed very largely to the popular 
 Uterature of the day.
 
 348 BISHOP HEBER. 
 
 to saunter along the banks and braes, eyeing the younkers 
 anghng, or to lay me down on some sunny spot, and with my 
 face up to heaven, watch the slow-changing clouds ! 
 
 Shepherd. I'll no believe that, sir, till I see't, — and scarcely 
 then, — for a bluidier-minded fisher nor Christopher North never 
 threw a hackle. Your creel fu', — your shootin-bag fu', — your 
 jacket-pouches fu', — the pouches o' your verra breeks fu', — 
 half-a-dozen wee anes in your waistcoat, no to forget them in 
 the croon o' your hat, — and, last o' a', when there's nae place 
 to stow awa ony mair o' them, a willow- wand, drawn through 
 the gills of some great big anes like them ither folk woidd 
 grup wi' the worm or the mennon — but a' gruppit wi' the flee 
 — Phin's* delight, as you ca't, — a kiUin inseck, — and on gut 
 that's no easily broken, — witness yon four-pounder aneath 
 EKbank wood, where your line, sir, got entangled wi' the auld 
 oak-root, and yet at last ye landed him on the bank, wi' a' his 
 crosses and his stars glitterin like gold and silver amang the 
 gravel ! I confess, sir, you're the king o' anglers. But dinna 
 tell me that you have lost your passion for the art ; for we 
 never lose our passion for ony pastime at which we continue 
 to excel. 
 
 Tickler. Now that you two have begun upon angling, I 
 shall ring the bell for my nightcap. 
 
 Shepherd. What ! do you sleep wi' a nichtcap ? 
 
 Tickler. Yes, I do, James — and also with a nightshirt — 
 extraordinary as such conduct may appear to some people. I 
 am a singular character, James, and do many odd things, 
 which, if known to the public, would make the old lady turn 
 up the whites of her eyes in astonishment. 
 
 Shepherd. Howsomever that be, sir, dinna ring for a nicht- 
 cap, for we're no gaun to talk ony mair about angling ! We 
 baith hae our weakness, Mr North and me ; — ^but there's Mr 
 Awmrose — {Enter Mr Ambrose) — bring supper, Mr Awmrose 
 — Verra weel, sir, I thank ye — hoo hae you been yoursel, and 
 hoo's a' wi' the -wife and weans ? — Whenever you like, sir ; 
 the sooner the better, [^Exit Mr Ambrose. 
 
 North. You knew Bishop Heber,'^ Mr Tickler, I think? He 
 was a noble creature — 
 
 ^ Phin was an approved artificer of fishing-tackle. The shop still exists, and 
 sustains its ancient reputation. 
 2 Reginald Heber, Bishop of Calcutta, died in the East Indies in 1826.
 
 SOUTHEY. — COLERIDGE. 349 
 
 Tickler. He was so. Why did not the writer of that most 
 excellent article about him in the Quarterly^ give us a quota- 
 tion from Sir Charles Grey's^ beautiful funeral oration over his 
 illustrious friend ? 
 
 North. That is a question I cannot answer ; but such an 
 omission was most unpardonable. Neither could it have been 
 from ignorance — it must have been intentional. 
 
 Tickler. Perhaps he feared that Sir Charles Grey's pathetic 
 oration would have made his own eulogy seem dull. 
 
 North. He need not have feared that — for they would have 
 naturally set off each other — the reviewer, whoever he may 
 be, being a man of fine talents, and a forcible writer. 
 
 Tickler. For all that, he may be capable of 
 
 Shepherd. Mr Soothey's the author o' that article, in my 
 opinion ; and Mr Soothey's no capable o' onything that's no 
 just perfectly richt. There's no a man leevin that I think 
 mair o' than Mr Soothey — and if ever I forget his kindness to 
 me at Keswick, may I die in a strait-waistcoat. 
 
 Tickler. What an idea ! 
 
 Shepherd. Tak Mr Soothey in prose and verse, I ken nane 
 but ane that's his equal. 
 
 North. Who's that ? 
 
 Shepherd. No you, sir — ^for you canna write verse. — As for 
 your prose, nane bangs it, serious or comic, ludicrous or 
 shublime — ^but wliat can be the maitter wi' thae eisters ? Mr 
 Gurney ! are you there again, sir, ye gentleman o' the press ? 
 For if you be, you may step out, now that the Noctes is 
 drawin to a close, and partake o' the eisters. 
 
 North. James, you don't know S. T. Coleridge — do you ? 
 He writes but indifferent books, begging his pardon ; witness 
 his " Friend," his " Lay Sermons," and, latterly, his "Aids to 
 Eefiection ;" but he becomes inspired by the sound of his own 
 silver voice, and pours out wisdom like a sea. Had he a 
 domestic Gurney, he might publish a Moral Essay, or a 
 Theological Discourse, or a Metaphysical Disquisition, or a 
 Political Harangue, every morning throughout the year dur- 
 ing his lifetime. 
 
 Tickler. Mr Coleridge does not seem to be aware that he 
 
 1 Sir Charles Grey was Chief Justice in Bengal, and afterwards Governor of 
 Jamaica. He was a fellow- student and intimate associate of Professor Wilson's 
 at Magdalen College, Oxford.
 
 350 A SECRET. 
 
 cannot widte a book, but opines that lie absolutely has written 
 several, and set many questions at rest. There's a want of 
 some kind or another in his mind ; but perhaps when he 
 awakes out of his dream, he may get rational and sober- 
 witted, like other men, Avho are not always asleep. 
 
 Shepherd. The author o' " Christabel," and the " Auncient 
 Mariner," had better just continue to see visions, and to dream 
 dreams — for he's no fit for the wakin world. 
 
 North. All men should be suffered to take their own swing 
 — ^for, divert them from their natm-al course, and you extin- 
 guish genius, never to be rekindled. 
 
 Shepherd. Are thae eisters never gaun to come ben ! 
 
 North. James, who do you think will be the First Lord of 
 the Treasury ? 
 
 Shepherd. Come here, sir, and lay your lug close to mine — 
 but swear you won't blab it. {Whispers.) 
 
 North. Eight, James, you have hit it. — He is to be the 
 Man.' 
 
 Tickler. Wlio? Canning, or Peel, or Robinson, or Bathurst, 
 or Wellington — or 
 
 Shepherd. I'll communicate the secret, vivd voce, to nae 
 ither man but Mr North ; but if you like, I'll write the name 
 doun wi' my keelivine pen, and seal up the paper wi' wauz, 
 no to be opened tiU after the nation has been informed o' the 
 King's choice. 
 
 Tickler. Whew ! what care I who's Prime Minister ? The 
 countiy has got into a way of going on by and of itself, just 
 as comfortably without as with a ministry. A government's 
 a mere matter of form. 
 
 North. Just so with Maga. On she goes, and on she would 
 go, if editor and contributors were all asleep, nay, all dead 
 and buried. 
 
 Tickler. No yawning, James, — a barn-door's a joke to 
 such jaws. 
 
 North. Give us a song, my dear Shepherd — " Paddy o' 
 Rafferty," or "Low doun i' the Broom," or "0 Jeanie, there's 
 naething to fear ye," or " Love's like a Dizziness," or " Rule 
 Britannia," or " Aiken Drum," or 
 
 Tickler. Beethoven, they say, is starving in his native 
 
 ^ Canning was the man. He was Premier from February 1827 until his 
 death on the 8th of August 1827.
 
 ENTEK THE OYSTERS. 351 
 
 country, and the Philharmonic Society of London, or some 
 other association with music in their souls, have sent him a 
 hundred pounds to keep him alive — he is deaf, destitute, and 
 a paralytic. — Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Shepherd. Whisht! I hear Mr Awmrose's tread in the transe! 
 
 " His veiTa foot has music in't 
 As he comes up the stair." 
 
 [Enter Mr Ambrose and Assistants.) 
 Hoo mony hunder eisters are there on the brod, Mr Awm- 
 rose ? — Oh ! ho ! Three brods ! — One for each o' us ! — A 
 month without an R has nae richt being in the year. Noo, 
 gentlemen, let naebody speak to me for the niest half-hour. 
 Mr Awmrose, we'll ring when we want the rizzers — and the 
 tested cheese — and the deevil'd turkey — Hae the kettle on 
 the boil, and put back the lang haun o' the clock, for I fear 
 this is Saturday nicht, and nane o' us are folk to break in on 
 the Sabbath. Help Mr North to butter and bread, — and there, 
 sir, — there's the vinnekar cruet. Pepper awa, gents.
 
 XIV. 
 
 (JUNE 1827.) 
 
 Scene I. — Porch of Buchanan Lodge. Time, — Evening. 
 
 Mrs Gentle, Miss Gentle/ North, Shepherd, Colonel 
 Cyril Thornton,^ Tickler. 
 
 Shepherd. I just ca' this perfec' Paradise. Oh ! Mem ! but 
 that's the natest knitting ever blessed the een o' man. Is't 
 for a veil to your dochter's bonny face? I'm glad it's no 
 ower deep, sae that it vpinna hide it a'thegither — for sure 
 amang sic a party o' freens as this, the young leddy '11 forgie 
 me for saying at ance, that there's no a mair beautifu' cretur 
 in a' Scotland. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. See, Mr Hogg, how you have made poor Mary 
 hang down her head — but you Poets — 
 
 Shepherd. Breathe and hae our beings in love, and delight 
 in the fair and innocent things o' this creation. Forgie me, 
 Miss Gentle, for bringing the blush to your broo — like sun- 
 light on snaw — for I'm but a simple shepherd, and whiles 
 says things I sudna say, out o' the very fulness of my heart. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Mary, fetch my smaller shuttle from the 
 parlour — it is lying, I believe, on one of the cushions of the 
 yellow sofa. [Miss Gentle retires. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! Mem ! that my ain dochter may grow up, 
 
 ^ Mrs and Miss Gentle are purely fictitious characters. 
 
 2 Captain Thomas Hamilton, an early contributor to BlachwootP s Magazine, 
 and author of the admirable novel The Youth and Manhood of Cyril Thornton, 
 was the younger brother of Sir William Hamilton, Bart., Professor of Logic 
 and Metaphysics in the University of Edinburgh. His other works are Men 
 and Manners in America, and Annals of the Peninsular Campaigtis. He 
 died at Florence in 1842.
 
 A LADY TO THE RESCUE. 353 
 
 under the blessing o' God, sic a flower ! I've often heard tell 
 o' you and her — and o' Mr North's freenship o' auld for her 
 father — 
 
 North. Hallo, James — there's a wasp running along your 
 shoulder in the direction of your ear. 
 
 Shepherd. A wasp — say ye ? Whilk shouther ? Ding't 
 aff, some o' ye. Wull nane o' ye either speak or stir ? Whilk 
 shouther, I say ? Confoun' ye. Tickler — ye great heigh neerdo- 
 weel, wunna ye say whilk shouther ? Is't aff? 
 
 Tickler. Off ! No, James, that it isn't. How it is pricking 
 along, Uke an armed knight, up the creases of your neckcloth. 
 Left chin — Shepherd. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Allow me, Mr Hogg, to remove the unwelcome 
 visitor. (Mrs Gentle rises and scares the wasp with her 
 handkerchief.) 
 
 Shepherd. That's like a leddy, as you are. There's nae 
 kindness Hke kindness frae the haun o' a woman. 
 
 Tickler. He was within an inch o' your ear, Hogg, and had 
 made good his entrance, but for the entanglement of the dusty 
 whisker. 
 
 Shepherd. That's no a word, sir, to speak afore a leddy. It's 
 coorse. But you're wrang again, sir, for the wasp cudna hae 
 made gude his entrance by that avenue, for my left lug's 
 stuffed wi' cotton. 
 
 North. How happens it, my dear James, that, on coming to 
 town, you are never without a cold ? That country will kill 
 you — we shall be losing you, James, some day, of a brain- 
 fever. 
 
 Shepherd. A verra proper death for a poet. But it's just your 
 ain vile, vapoury, thick, dull, yellow, brown, dead, drizzhng, 
 damned (beg your pardon, Mem) easterly haur o' Embro' that 
 gies me the rheumatics. In the kintra I think naething o' 
 daunderin awa to the holms, without my bannet, or ony thing 
 round my chafts — even though it sud be raining — and the 
 weather has nae ither effec' than to gar my hair grow. 
 
 North. You must have been daundering about a good deal 
 lately then, my dear James, for I never saw jom with such a 
 crop of hair in my life. 
 
 Shepherd. It's verra weel for you that's bald to tank about a 
 crap o' hair. But the mair hair a man has on liis head the 
 better, as lang's it's touzy — and no in candle-wick fashion. 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 354 MACASSAR. — MUSIC. 
 
 What say ye, Corrnall? for, judging frae your ain pow, you're 
 o' my opinion. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I see, Mr Hogg, that we both patronise 
 Macassar. 
 
 Shepherd. What ? Macawser ile ? Deevil a drap o't ever 
 wat my weeg — nor never sail. It's stinkin stuff — as are a' the 
 iles — and gies an unwholesome and unnatural greasy glimmer 
 to ane's hair, just like sae muckle creesh. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Ton my honour, my dear Mr Hogg, I 
 never suspected you of a wig. 
 
 Shepherd. Hoots, man, I was metaphorical. It's a weeg o' 
 nature's weavin. [Re-enter Miss Gentle, with a small ivory 
 shuttle in her hand.) Come awa — come awa, Mem — here's an 
 empty seat near me. (Miss Gentle sits down beside the Shep- 
 herd.) And I'll no praise your beauty ony mair, for I ken 
 that maidens dinna like blushing, bonny as it makes them ; 
 but dinna tliink it was ony flattery — for gif it was the last 
 word I was ever to speak in this warld, it was God's truth, 
 but no the half o' the truth ; and when ye gaed ben the house, 
 I cudna help saying to your Leddy Mother, hoo happy and 
 mair than happy would I be had I sic a dochter. 
 
 North. Would you like, James, that Miss Gentle should 
 give us a few tunes on the piano ? 
 
 Shepherd. Na, sir — I canna say that I should. Just let the 
 young leddy sit still. Yet I'm just desperate fond o' music. 
 Miss Gentle — and nae doubt, nae doubt, but thae wee, white, 
 slender fingers, when they touch the spinnet, would wauken 
 the notes, just as the rays o' licht wauken the flowers. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. My daughter has just had a dozen finishing 
 lessons from Miss Yaniewicz — and I assure you does no dis- 
 credit to her teacher. 
 
 Shepherd. I'll answer for her, that she disna do discredit to 
 ony leevin soul on the face o' this earth 
 
 North. You play the piano yourself a little, James, if I 
 remember? 
 
 Shepherd. I used to do sae — but I'U defy the fingers o' ony 
 man breathin to hae twa touches — ane for bane and the tither 
 for thairm. The piawno and the fiddle are no compawtible. 
 You've had some lessons, Mem, I think your mother was say- 
 ing, frae Miss Yaniewicz ? 
 
 Miss Gentle. Yes, sir. 
 
 Shepherd. My dear young leddy — I wush you wouldna gie
 
 A MIDGE-VEILED EDITOR. 355 
 
 sic short answers — for you needna be feared o' onybody tiring 
 o' that voice. Yet I dinna ken — for at times, after a' the ither 
 birds hae been busy in the woods, amaist unlieard by me as I 
 lay in my plaid on a knowe, and singin as they aye do, bonnily, 
 bonnily — my heart has gien a sudden stoun' o' uncommuni- 
 cable delicht, just to hear but twa laigh, sweet, half-mournfu' 
 notes o' the lintwhite in the broom, as if the sweet bird was 
 afraid to hear its ain voice, yet couldna help sae expressin its 
 happiness in that o' rejoicin natture. But tell me, Mrs Gentle, 
 is that a wliite lace veil ? 
 
 Mrs Gentle. — It is, Mr Hogg — ^but can you guess for whom? 
 Mary shall work such another for yourself, if you be successful. 
 
 Shepherd. Me wi' a white lace veil on ! My buck-teeth, as 
 that impudent chiel Tickler ca's them, would cut a fearsome 
 figure through a white lace veil. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. I see you cannot guess for whom, Mr Hogg — 
 so I must tell you — It is for Mr North. 
 
 Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw ! 
 
 Mrs Gentle {with dignity). I really envy you your high 
 spirits, sir — it is a Midge-veil for Mr North, sir. 
 
 Shepherd. I ask your forgiveness, my dear madam — I ken 
 lauchin's unco vulgar — but I canna aye help it — a Midge-veil 
 for Mr North ! 
 
 Mrs Gentle. You see it's little more than half finished — but 
 if Mr North will permit me to show you how well it becomes 
 
 him 
 
 [Mrs Gentle rises, and drops the midge-veil over Mr 
 North's head and face. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, sic a contrivance! Much as I hae suffered 
 in my day under midges, I never had genius for that dis- 
 covery or invention ! Mr North, sir, vmll you let me tak the 
 midge-veil intil my ain haun ? I'll neither tear nor runkle 't. 
 
 Tickler. Don't intnist anything so perishable into such 
 paws. North — are you mad ? 
 
 Shepherd. That's geyan insultin — ^but oh, man, I only pity 
 ye. Something's been gaun wrang at hame, and you're no 
 yoursel. Let me see — this is the time for changing servants, 
 and his kyuck^ '11 be leavin him 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Take the veil from my hand, Mr Hogg. 
 
 Shepherd. Tliank you, Mem — everything you say, every 
 step you tak, your sittin down, and your risin up 's a' sae like 
 
 ^ Kyuck — cook.
 
 356 THE VEIL TRANSFERRED. 
 
 a leddy. There, Mem, liing't on my thoomb. Noo, let's see 
 hoo't '11 look on aiiither kind o' Lead a'thegither. — [Drops it 
 with the utmost delicacy and tenderness over the auburn ringlets 
 o/Miss Gentle.) — There ! You hae a' o' ye seen aWhite Lily 
 bending to the morning sunlicht, no tlu'ough weakness or 
 because its stalk is bruised or broken, but because it is the 
 nature o' the flower sae ever to recUne, when meekly haudin 
 up its head to heaven — you hae a' o' ye seen a White Lily, I 
 say, wi' a veil o' dewdraps let doun on its sweet-scented hair 
 by the invisible hauns o' the wliispering dawn — dewdrap after 
 dewdrap melting away, till the day has at last left on its lustre 
 but a reviving freshness — and the Flower, whom we poets 
 call the Fair-and-well-Beloved, breathes and brightens afore 
 our een but in its ain virgin innocence ; — sic and siclike is the 
 lady noo in presence — and may never heavier pressure be on 
 her forehead than this airy veil, or that ane motionless and 
 diamond-dropt, that, amang the singing o' birds, and the 
 murmuring o' streams, and the glintin o' liclits, and the sail- 
 ing o' shadows, fa's down on her silken snood, unfelt by the 
 ringlets it embraces, when, in the sweet hour of prime, she 
 gangs out a' by hersel into the tender calm, and gazes in de- 
 lichted wonder on the woods and the waters and the mountains, 
 a' giving glory for anither day o' time to their almichty Maker ! 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Mr Hogg, Mr North requested me to take charge 
 of the making of liis primrose- wine this season, and I used the free- 
 dom of setting aside a dozenbottlesforyourgoodladyatAltrive. 
 
 Shepherd. Did ye do sae indeed, Mem ? I'm sure that was 
 being maist kind and thochtfu'. I never kent, wad you believe 
 me, till Mr North sent me out your letter last spring, geein 
 instructions hoo to pu' and preserve them unfaded, that wine 
 could be made o' primroses. Ony gift frae the like o' ane 
 like you, Mem, wull be maist acceptable ; and nane but prime 
 favourites saR ever pree't, and them only leddies that kens 
 hoo to value the mistress ; but, for my ain pairt, you'll pardon 
 me for sayin't, but, as sure's death, I'll no like it. 
 
 North. Will you try a glass of it now, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. I'm ea-sy. ButMiss Gentle '11 pree't. Primrose-wine 
 is just fit for siccan lips. My dear lassie — na, that's being ower 
 familiar — my lovely leddy, wull I ca' Peter to bring a bottle ? 
 
 Miss Gentle. It is, I think, sir, the pleasantest of all our 
 home-made wines, and I shall be glad to drink a glass of it 
 with you, Mr Hogg.
 
 HOME-MADE WINE. 357 
 
 Shepherd. Peter — Peter — Peter — Pate — I say, Pate ! — is the 
 man deaf? But I'll gang and tell him mysel. Is the 
 kitchen to the right or the left haun ? I forgot, he'U be in 
 his ain bit neuk o' a butler's pantry. 
 
 Tickler, Heavens ! Hogg, you have roared the thrush out 
 of its nest. 
 
 Shepherd. Is there a mavis's nest amang the honeysuckles ? 
 
 Miss Gentle. In the Virgin's Bower, sir. 
 
 Shepherd. Virgin's Bower, indeed — thou maist innocent o' 
 God's creturs ! But has't young anes, or is she only sittin ? 
 {Enter Peter.) Peter, my braw man, Mr North is ordering 
 you to bring but^ a bottle o' primrose-T\4ne. [Exit Peter.) 
 Waes me, Mr North, but I think Peter's lookin auld-like. 
 
 North. Like master like man. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Nay, nay, sir — I see Little or no change 
 on you since I sold out, and that, as you know, was the year 
 in which the allied armies were in Paris. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel — I declare, CorrnaU, that I'm glad to hear 
 your voice again — for, as far as I ken you on ower short an 
 acquaintance, I wush it had been langer — but plenty o' hfe, 
 let us howp, is yet afore us. You hae but only ae faut — and 
 that's no a common ane — ^you dinna speak half aneuch as 
 muckle's your freens could desire. Half aneuch did I say — na, 
 no a fourth pairt — but put a pen intil your haun, and you 
 ding the best o' us. man ! but your Memoirs o' your Youth 
 and Manhood's maist intereestin. I'm no speaking as a critic, 
 and hate phrasin onybody — but yon's no a whit inferior, as a 
 whole, to my ain " Perils."^ 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Allow me to assure you, Mr Hogg, that I 
 am fully sensible both of the value and the delicacy of the com- 
 pliment. Many faults in style and composition your practised 
 and gifted eye could not fail to detect, or I ought rather, in 
 all humihty to say, many such faults must have forced them- 
 selves upon it ; but I know weU, at the same time, that the 
 genius which dehghts the whole world by its own creations, 
 is ever indulgent to the crudities of an ordinary mind, inlierit- 
 ing but feeble powers fi-om nature, and those, as you know, 
 httle indebted to art, during an active hfe that afforded but 
 too few opportunities for their cultivation. . 
 
 Shepherd. Feeble poo'rs ! Ma faith, Cormall, there's nae 
 
 1 Bring hut is bring out, as bring hen is bring in. See ante, p. 222, note 2. 
 
 2 The Three Perils of Man: 3 vols. The Three Perils of Woman : 3 vols.
 
 358 CYRIL THORNTON. 
 
 symptoms o' feeble poo'rs yonner — you're a strong-thinkin, 
 strong-feelin, strong- writin, strong-actin, and let me add, not- 
 withstandin the want o' that airm that's missin, strong-looHn 
 man as is in a' liis Majesty's dominions — either in the ceevil or 
 military depairtment — and the cleverest fallow in a' Britain 
 michtbe proud to father yon three volumms. Phrasin's no my 
 faut — it lies rather the ither way. They're just perfeckly capi- 
 tal — and what I never saw afore in a' my born days, and never 
 howp to see again, as sure as ocht,^ the thrid volumm's the 
 best o' the three, — the story, instead o' dwinin awa intil a 
 consumption, as is the case wi' maist lang stories that are 
 seen gaun backwarts and forrits, no kennin what to do wi' 
 themsels, and losin their gate, as sune as it gets dark — grows 
 stouter and baulder, and mair confident in itsel as it proceeds, 
 
 Veerace aqueerit yeundo,' 
 
 till at last it soums up a' its haill poo'rs for a satisfactoiy catas- 
 trophe and gangs aff victoriously into the land o' Finis in a soun' 
 like distant thunner, or, to make use o' a martial simile, sin' I'm 
 speakin to a sodger, like that o' a discharge o' the great guns o' 
 artillery roaring thanks to the welkin for twa great simultawn- 
 eous victories bath by sea and land, on ane and the same day. 
 
 North. James, allow me, in the name of Colonel Thornton, 
 to return you his very best thanks for your speech. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay — ay — Mr North — my man — ye needna, 
 after that, sir, try to review it in Blackwood ; or gin you do, 
 hae the gi'ace to avow that I gied ye the germ o' the article, 
 and sen' out to Altiive in a letter the twenty guineas a-sheet. 
 
 North. It shall be done^ — James. 
 
 Shepherd. Or rather suppose — to save yourself the trouble o' 
 writin, wlaich I ken you detest, and me the postage — you just 
 tak out your red-turkey* the noo, and fling me ower a twenty- 
 pun' Bank post bill — and, for the sake o' auld lang syne, you 
 may keep the shillins to yoursel. 
 
 North. The evening is beginning to get rather cold — and I 
 feel the air, from the draught of that door, in that painful 
 crick of my neck 
 
 Shepherd. That's a' a flam. Ye hae nae crick o' your neck. 
 sir, you're growin unco hard — just a verra Joseph Hume. 
 
 1 Ocht — aught, anything. 2 Vires acquirit eundo. 
 
 ' Cyril Thornton was reviewed by Professor Wilson in Blackwood's Magazine, 
 No. cxxvii. 4 Pocket-book.
 
 NOKTH AND THE WIDOW. 359 
 
 Speak o' siller, that's to say o' the payin o't awa, and you're 
 as deaf s a nit; but be there but a whusper o' payin't intil 
 your haun, and you're as gleg o' hearin as a mowdiewarp.^ 
 Isna that true ? 
 
 North. Too true, James — I feel that I am the victim of 
 a disease — and of a disease, too, my Shepherd, that can only 
 be cured by death — old-age — we septuagenarians are all 
 misers. 
 
 Shepherd. struggle against it, sir ! As you love me — 
 struggle against it ! Dinna let your imagination settle on the 
 stocks. Pass the fauldin-doors o' the Royal Bank wi' your 
 een shut — sayin a prayer. — Dear me ! — dear me ! what's the 
 maitter wi' Mrs Gentle ? Greetin, I declare, and wipin her een 
 wi' Mr North's ain Bandana ! — What for are ye greetin, Mrs 
 Gentle ? Hae ye gotten a sudden pain in your head ? If sae, 
 ye had better gang up-stairs, and lie doun. 
 
 Mrs Gentle [in tears, and with a faint sob). Mr Hogg — you 
 know not that man's — that noble — generous — glorious man's 
 heart. But for him, what, where, how might I now have 
 been — and my poor orphan daughter there at your side ? 
 Orphan I may well call her — for when her brave father, the 
 General, fell 
 
 Shepherd. There's nae punishment ower severe to inflick on 
 me, Mem. But may I never stir aff this fu'm,'^ if I wasna a' 
 in jeest — but there's naething mair dangerous than ill-timed 
 daffin — I weel ken that — and this is no the first time I hae 
 wounded folks' feelins wi' nae mair thocht or intention o' 
 doin sae than — this angel at my side. Tell your mother, my 
 sweet Miss Gentle, no to be angry or sorry ony langer — for 
 his heart, for a' my silly nonsense, lies open afore me, and it's 
 fertile wi' the growth o' a' the viilues. Faith, Hope, and 
 Charity — especially the last, which is, in good truth, but ae 
 name for a' the Tkree. 
 
 Mrs Gentle [Peter entering with tea-tray). Mr Hogg, do you 
 prefer black or green tea ? 
 
 Shepherd. Yes — yes — Mem — black and green tea. But I'm 
 taukin nonsense. Green — Mem — green — mak it strong — and 
 I'll drink five cups that I may Ke awauk a' nicht, and repent 
 bringin the saut tear into your ee by my wavir than stupid 
 nonsense about our benefactor. 
 
 Miss Gentle. Peter, take care of the kettle. 
 1 Mowdiewarj) — mole. ^ Firm — ^form, bench.
 
 360 THE SHEPHERD'S PENANCE. 
 
 Shepherd. You're ower kind, Miss Gentle, to bid Peter tak 
 care o' the kettle on my account. There's my legs stretched 
 out, that the stroop may hiss out it's boilin het steam on my 
 shins, by way o' penance for my sin. I'll no draw a worsted 
 thread through a single ane o' a' the blisters. 
 
 Miss Gentle. What a beautiful colour, Mr Hogg ! One might 
 think that the primroses had melted, and that this is the dew. 
 
 Shepherd [drinking and bowing to Miss Gentle). Ma senti- 
 ment — " May we have in our airms whom we love in our 
 hearts." You wudna like, I ken, just to pronounce thae 
 words after me, but you'll no refuse the feelin. It's no inno- 
 cence like yours that fears a bit leaf floating on the glass 
 pledged to love and friendship. 
 
 Tickler. You have not told us, my dear Hogg, how the 
 country is looking this late spring. 
 
 Shepherd. Green as a cameleon could desire. The second 
 snaw-storm gied a' things a drawback as they were hastenin 
 on into spring ; but it had cleared the air, which immediately 
 grew caller — and mair than caller — fu' at times o' a simmer 
 heat, and the change within the week afore last was like that 
 o' mawgic. 
 
 Miss Gentle. I fear that second snow-storm, sir, must have 
 been fatal to many of the lambs, for, being unlocked for at 
 such a season, the shepherds, perhaps, had not time to bring 
 them from the hill.^ 
 
 Shepherd. It's Like you, Mem, to be sorry for the bit lambs. 
 But you'll be happy to hear, baith for their sakes and that o' 
 the farmers, the butchers too, and genteel families in-by here 
 in Embro' and the sooburbs, that there wasna five score 
 starved or smoored^ in the twa haill parishes o' Ettrick and 
 Yarrow. 
 
 North. And the fruit-trees, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. The jergonelle on Eldenhope's^ barn-en' is sic a 
 sight wi' blossoms as I never saw. Our ain auld cherry-tree 
 that ye threeped upon me was dead, might hae been seen miles 
 aff in its glory ; and, to be sure, when you stood close till't, it 
 was like a standard tree o' pearlins and diamonds, brichtning 
 the knowe, and makin the tawry and tauted sheep that hap- 
 
 1 There was a severe snow-storm in the spring of 1827, which caused heavy 
 losses to the sheep-farmers in many f>arts of Scotland. 
 
 2 Smoored — smothered. 3 a farm in the vicinity of Mount Benger.
 
 SPRING IN THE COUNTRY, 3G1 
 
 pened to be lyin aneatli it, look as if they had xiaething to do 
 near sic a glorious and super-earthly vision. A' things else I 
 aye think, baith animate and inanimate, even the bonniest 
 amang them, get eclipsed into an obscure and common-day- 
 like appearance, when stannin aside a great fruit-tree in full 
 blossom. But it's only then that they're glorious — at least 
 in this cleemat — for though ripe cherries are just excessive 
 refreshin the niest morn after toddy, and the delicious sappi- 
 ness o' the jergonelle wull no bear disputin, on the tree baith 
 fruits hae but a mean appearance ; the ane round and poutin 
 like a kind o' lip I never had ony great fancy tae, and the 
 tither lang, daft-lookin things like taps and peeries, as indeed 
 in a sense they are ; and although multitudinous, yet not in 
 their numbers sublime, for you ken weel aneuch that the 
 servants hae taken on wagers on the maitter, and that, 
 exceptin them that's plucked stownways, you will ken to a 
 nicety how many dizzens turns out to be in the hale Tot. 
 
 Miss Gentle. I have never lived one single Spring in the 
 country, Mr Hogg, since I was a mere child ; but I remember 
 how much more beautiful I used to think it than any other 
 season of the year. All things were so full of gladness and 
 hope ; and day after day, the very earth itself, as it grew 
 greener and greener, seemed also to grow happier and more 
 happy. 
 
 Shepherd. God bless your dear sord for thinking sae, and 
 God bless these bricht een for seein it was sae ; and God bless 
 your red lips for spealdn o' the Spring wi' breath and soun' as 
 sweet and as musical as that o' it's ain blooming braes and 
 murmtiring waters. 
 
 Miss Gentle. I am told that late Springs are generally the 
 best for the country, and that thought and that feeling must 
 make them also the most beautiful, Mr Hogg. 
 
 Shepherd. You speak like yersel, Mem. The maist beau- 
 tifu o' a' Sj)rings, my dear Mem, is, whan early on in the 
 season the weather has been mild and warm, wi' fleein shoors, 
 and mony ghntin hoors o' sunshine, and whan there comes, a' 
 on a sudden, a raitherly sherp frost, but no sae sherp either as 
 to nip — only to retaird the genial strife o' the poo'rs o' 
 Natur, a' anxious to get burstin out into leafy life. The 
 verra instant that that week or fortnicht o' a' tilings observ- 
 able to ee or mind's ee stannin stiU is ower, and the wast
 
 362 A GENTLE SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 wund again begins to waver awa the cluds into shapes like 
 wee bit sliielins and hnts, and shiftin aiblins at sunset to 
 anither airt — say the south, bigs them up roun' and aboon his 
 disk, into towers, and temples, and cathedrals, — then I say, a' 
 at ance, the trees unfauld themselves Uke a banner, or as you 
 micht suddenly unfauld that fan — the yearth, that has been 
 lookin greyish and gloomyish, wi' a' the roots o' garse like 
 mouses' nests, puts on without warnin her green cymar, like 
 a fairy bride gaun to be married, and hearin the sweet jingle 
 o' the siller bells on the mane o' the steed o' her pretty para- 
 mour — ^up wi' first ae lark and then anither, no fearin to be 
 lost in a cloud, but singing a' the while in the verra hairt o't, 
 and then visible again as weel as audible, speckin the blue 
 sky — that's the Spring, Mem, that's the Spring for me, — ae 
 sic day — ay, ae sic hoor — ay, ae sic minnut o' Natur's book's 
 worth fifty volumms o' prentit prose and poetry, and micht 
 weel require a giftit and a pious commentautor. But I'm 
 waxin wearisome 
 
 Miss Gentle. Wearisome, Mr Hogg ! Pardon me for ven- 
 tuiing to name you so, but the Ettrick Shepherd never could 
 be wearisome to any one possessed of common — 
 
 Shepherd. It'll make us a' mair than happy — me, and the 
 mistress, and the weans, and a' our humble household, if, Mrs 
 Gentle, you, and your dutifu' dochter, '11 come out to Yarrow 
 wi' Mr North, liis verra first visit. Say, Mem, that you'll do't. 
 Oh ! promise you'll do't, and we'll a' be happy as the twenty- 
 second o' June is lang. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. I promise it, Mr Hogg, most cheerfully. The 
 Peebles Fly 
 
 Miss Gentle. My mother will make proper arrangements, Mr 
 Hogg, in good time. 
 
 Shepherd. And then, indeed, there will be a Gentle 
 Shepherdess in Yarrow. 
 
 North. A vile pun. 
 
 Shepherd. Pun ? Heaven be praised, I never made a pun 
 in my life. It's no come to that o't wi' me yet. A man's 
 mind must be sair rookit o' thochts before he begins in his 
 dotage to play upon words. But then, I say, there will be a 
 shepherdess in Yarrow ; and the author o' Lichts and Shadows,^ 
 ^ The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. By Professor Wilson.
 
 tickler's gambols. 363 
 
 who imagines every red-kuted^ hizzie lie meets to be a sliep- 
 berdess 
 
 Miss Gentle. Pardon me, sir, the Lights and Shadows are 
 extremely beau 
 
 Shepherd. Nae mair sugar, Mem, in ma cup ; the last was 
 rather ower sweet. What was ye gaun to say. Miss Gentle ? 
 But nae matter — it's iixed that you're comin out to Altrive in 
 the Peebles Fly, and 
 
 Miss Gentle. The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life 
 
 Shepherd. I agree with you. They certainly are. Nobody 
 
 admires the author's genius mair than I do ; but What 
 
 the deevil's become o' Mr Tickler ? I never missed him till 
 this moment. 
 
 North. Yonder he is, James, rolling down the hill all his 
 length with my gardener's children ! happy as any imp among 
 them — and worrying them in play, like an old tiger acting 
 the amiable and paternal with his cubs, whom at another hour 
 he would not care to devour. 
 
 Shepherd. Look at him, wi' his heels up i' the air, just like 
 a horse roUin i' the garse on bein' let out o' the harnesh ! I 
 wush he mayna murder some o' the weans in his unwieldy 
 gambols. 
 
 North. 'Tis the veriest great boy. Colonel Thornton ! Yet 
 as soon as he has got rid of the urchins, you will see him 
 come stalking up the gravel walk, with his hands behind his 
 back, and his face as grave as a monk's in a cloister, till, 
 flinging himself into a chair, with a long sigh he will exclaim 
 against the vanities of this weary world, and, like the melan- 
 choly Jacques himself, moralise on that calf yonder — which 
 by the way has pulled up the peg, and set off at a scamper 
 over my beds of tulips. Mr Tickler — hallo — wiU you have the 
 goodness, now that you are on your legs, to tell the childi'en 
 
 to look after that young son of a cow 
 
 Tickler {running up out of breath). He has quite the look of 
 a Puma — see how he handles his tail, and kicks up his heels 
 like a D'Egville. Jem — Tommy — Bauldy, my boys, — the 
 caK — the calf — the hunt's up — halloo, my lads — ^halloo ! 
 
 [ Off" they all set. 
 Shepherd. Faith, I've aneuch o' rinnin after calves at hame. 
 ^ Red-kuted — red-ankled.
 
 364 STORY OF A PUMA, 
 
 Here I'm on a holiday, and I'll sit still. What's a Puma, Mr 
 North ? I never heard tell o' a beast wi' that name before. 
 Is it outlandish or indigenous ? 
 
 North. The Puma, James, is the Couguar of Buffon — the 
 American Lion ; and jow will see a drawing of the animal by 
 Lizars in the first number of James Wilson's^ beautiful Illus- 
 trations of Zoology ; or the animal itself in a cage in the 
 College. Your friend Captain Lord Napier brought it home in 
 the Diamond Frigate, and presented it to Professor Jameson.** 
 
 Shepherd. Are nane o' the bars o' the cage lowse, tliink ye ? 
 For wild beasts are no safe in colleges ; and it would cause a 
 sair stramash gin it got out o't, and entered the Divinity 
 HaU. 
 
 North. It is at present of a very gentle disposition ; and as 
 a proof of its unwillingness to break the peace, Mr Wilson 
 mentions, that while in London it made its escape into the 
 street during the night, btit allowed itself to be taken up by a 
 watchman, without offering even a show of resistance. 
 
 Miss Gentle. Its motions, even in its narrow cage, are 
 wildly graceful ; and when let out to range about a large 
 room, it manifests all the elegant playfulness of the cat, with- 
 out any of its alleged treachery. Mr James Wilson was so 
 good as to take me to see it, and told me, from Cuvier's His- 
 tory of the Animal Kingdom, a striking story of one of its wild 
 brethren in the woods. 
 
 Shepherd. Wull ye hae the goodness to tell us the story, my 
 bonny dear ? Onytlaing in the w^ay o' a story maun intereest 
 anent a Puma — a Couguar o' Buffon — and an American Lion. 
 
 Miss Gentle. Two Hunters went out in quest of game on 
 the Katsgill Mountains, each armed with a gun, and accom- 
 panied by a dog. Shortly after separating, one heard the 
 other fire, and, agreeable to a compact, hastened to his com- 
 rade. After searching for him for some time without effect, he 
 found his dog dead and dreadfully torn. His eyes were then 
 suddenly directed, by the growl of a Puma, to the large branch 
 of a tree where he saw the animal couching on the body of a 
 man, and directing his eyes towards himself, apparently hesi- 
 tating whether to make an attack, or rehnquish its prey and 
 
 ^ See ante, p. 295, note. 
 
 2 Robert Jameson, for fifty years Professor of Natural History in the Uni- 
 versity of Edinburgh, died in 1854.
 
 MR JAMES WILSON. 3G5 
 
 take to fliglit. The Hunter discharged his piece and wounded 
 the animal mortally, when both it and the dead body of the 
 man feR to the ground together from the tree. The surviv- 
 ing dog then flew at the prostrate beast, but a single blow 
 from its paw laid the dog dead by its side. In tliis state of 
 things, finding that his comrade was dead, and that there 
 was still danger in approaching the wounded animal, the man 
 prudently retired, and with all haste brought several persons 
 to the spot. The unfortunate Hunter, the Puma, and both the 
 dogs, were all lying dead together. 
 
 Shepherd. Thank ye, Mem — a very bonny forenoon's sport 
 indeed. Oh ! but ye tell a story weel ; and I'm thinkin you'll 
 be unco fond o' Natural History and Zoology, and the 
 
 Kke 
 
 Miss Gentle. I lay claim to but very slight and superficial 
 knowledge on any subject, sir ; but it is with great interest 
 that I study the habits and instincts of animals; and this 
 anecdote I copied into my commonplace-book out of Mr 
 Griffith's translation of Cuvier, so that I daresay the most of 
 the very words have remained in my memory. 
 
 Shepherd. And Mr James Wilson, the great Naturalist, 
 author o' Illustrations of Zoology., tyuk you wi' him into a 
 room where a Puma was gambollin out o' his cage — did he ? 
 
 Miss Gentle. He did so, sir ; but 
 
 Shepherd. Nae buts, my dear Mem. I sail gie him Iris 
 dixies for sic a rash ac', the first time I dine wi' him out 
 yonner at WoodviUe. He may endanger his ain life wi' 
 Pumas, or Crocodiles, or Crakens, or ony ither carnivorous 
 cannibals, but he shanna tak young leddies in wi' him intil 
 their dens. 
 
 Miss Gentle. We did not go into the cage, Mr Hogg 
 
 Shepherd. Didna ye ? Yet I've seen sic things dune. By 
 payin a sixpence, you was alloo'd to gang into the Lion's 
 den at Wommell's ; and it was no easy maitter to believe my 
 een, when I rubbit them and saw, first ae nursery-maid, and 
 then anither, gang in wi' their maisters' and mistresses' baiiTis 
 in then- arms — the Lion a' the while lickin his paws, and 
 seemin raither dour and dissatisfied wi' the intrusion. Sup- 
 pose he had eaten a wean, what could the slut hae possibly 
 said for hersel when she tyuk hame only Maggy and Mary, 
 and no puir wee Tam, who had only been charged sixpence
 
 366 A SUDDEN INROAD. 
 
 for seein his last Show ?— But I'll no press the argument ony 
 furder. You'll maybe hae read my "Shepherd's Calendar" in 
 the Magazine, Mem? 
 
 Miss Gentle (hesitating). I have, I believe, sir, read all of it 
 that relates to the habits and instincts of animals. 
 
 Shepherd. And a' the rest, too, I see ; but I'll no press the 
 point. My pen sometimes rins awa wi' me, and 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Mary often reads the Queen's Wake, Mr Hogg ; 
 and can, indeed, say " Kilmeny," and some of the other Tales, 
 by heart. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! but it would make me a proud and a happy 
 man to hear her receet only as mony as a dizzen Unes. 
 
 Mrs Gentle [nodding to her daughter). Mary 1 
 
 Miss Gentle — 
 
 " Bonny Kilmeny's gane up the glen, 
 But it isna to meet Duneira's men." 
 
 l^The Calf gallops by in an exhausted state, tail-on-end, — 
 
 with Tickler, and Jem, Tommy, and Bauldy, the 
 
 gardener's children, in full cry. The recitation of 
 
 '''■Kilmeny" is interrupted. 
 
 Shepherd. I canna lauch at that — I canna lauch at that ; 
 
 and yet I dinna ken either — yonner's Tickler a' Ids length, 
 
 haudin fast by the tail, and the calf — it's a desperate strong 
 
 beast for sae young a ane, and a quey^ too — harlin him 
 
 through the shrubbery. Haw ! haw ! haw ! haw ! — Oh, 
 
 Corrnall ! but I'm surprised no to hear you lauchin — for my 
 
 sides is like to split. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. It is a somewhat singular part of my 
 idiosyncrasy, Mr Hogg, that I never feel the slightest impulse 
 to laugh aloud. But I can assure you, that I have derived 
 from the view-holla the most intense excitation of the midriff, 
 I never was more amused in my life ; and you had, within my 
 very soul, a silent accompaniment to your guffaw. 
 
 North. These, Cyi'il, are not the indolent gardens of 
 Epicurus. You see we indulge occasionally in active, even 
 violent exercises. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. There is true wisdom, Mr North, in that 
 extraordinary man's mind. It has given me much pleasure 
 to think that Mr Tickler should ha,ve remembered my name 
 
 1 Qwey — a young cow.
 
 A FASCINATOR. — CIGAKS. 367 
 
 — ^for I never had the honour of being in his company but 
 once — ^when I was at the University of Glasgow, in the house 
 of my poor old grand uncle, Mr SpreuU.^ Mr Tickler had 
 earned some important mercantile case through your law- 
 courts here for Mr Spreull, and greatly gratified the old gen- 
 tleman by coming west without ceremony to take pot-luck. 
 It was with no little difficulty that we got through dinner, 
 for I remember Girzy was so utterly confounded by his tout- 
 ensemble, his stature, liis tie — for he sported one in those 
 days — his gestures, his gesticulations, his jokes, his waggery 
 and his wit, all of a kind new to the West, that she stood 
 for many minutes with the tureen of hotch-potch sup- 
 ported against her breast, and all her grey goggles fascinated 
 as by a serpent, till poor old Mr Spreull cursed her in his 
 sternest style to set it down on the table, that he might ask a 
 blessing. 
 
 [Tickler, Jem, Tommy, and Bauldy re-cross the front of the 
 
 Porch in triumph with the captive Calf, and disappear 
 
 in the rear of the premises. 
 Shepherd. He'll be laid up for a week noo, on account o' 
 this afternoon's stravagin without his hat, and a' this rowin 
 ower braes wi' weans, and a' this gallopin and calf-huntin. 
 He'll be a' black and blue the mom's morning, and sae stiff 
 that he'll no be able to rise. 
 
 North. If you please, my dear Cyril, here comes Peter 
 with the green wax-taper, as you say, James, 
 
 "Like ae single wee starnie that shines its lane !" 
 
 [Peter removes the tea-tray, and puts down the taper. 
 
 Shepherd. Preserve me ! Mr North, you and the Corrnall's no 
 gaun to yoke to the cigars in the Porch amang leddies ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Do not, I request you, Mr Hogg, give 
 way to needless distress on account of the fair ladies. These 
 my cigars are from the Havannah ; their peculiar fragrance 
 will scarcely be distinguished in the evening air, among the 
 other sweet scents floating from the flower-garden. At Cadiz, 
 where I resided several weeks, after the Battle of Barossa, I 
 could not but at first admii-e the Spanish ladies as they 
 delicately lipped the cigar, and aU the while murmured in 
 my ear their sweet unintelligible Castilian speech. 
 
 1 One of the characters in Cyril Thornton.
 
 368 ADIEU TO THE WIDOW. 
 
 Shepherd. Cadiz is no in Castile ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I'm sorry for it, sir, but I cannot help it. 
 Miss Gentle — a cigar? 
 
 Miss Gentle. I know not how to light it. 
 
 Shepherd. Gie me't, and I'll licht it for you at the pint o' 
 the Corrnall's. 
 
 Miss Gentle [tripping across to Mr North). I wiU light it at 
 my own dear father's. 
 
 North. Kiss my forehead, child. 
 
 [Miss Gentle does so, lights the cigar at Mr North's, and 
 returns to her seat beside the Shepherd. 
 
 Mrs Gentle. Mary, we must bid Mr North and his friends 
 good-night. You know we are engaged at ten, — 
 
 " And yon bright star has risen to warn us home." 
 
 Shepherd. What's the hurry ? what's the hurry ? But I see 
 you're gaun, sae I needna try to keep you. I like freens that 
 stays to the verra last moment they can, without hinting a 
 word, and then ghdes awa in the gloamin towards their ain 
 hames. The Corrnall '11 bide with Mr North, but I'll 
 
 Mrs Gentle. There is a door, Mr Hogg, in the boundary- 
 wall, between Buchanan Lodge and Trinity, and we can pay 
 our visits without going round by the road. Instead of a 
 mile of dust, we have thus not above five hundred yards of 
 greensward. Farewell. 
 
 North. Farewell. 
 
 Shepherd. Faur ye weel, faur ye weel — God bless you baith 
 — faur ye weel — noo be sure no to forget your promise to 
 bring Miss Mary out wi' ye to Ettrick. 
 
 Miss Gentle (smiling). In the Peebles Fly. 
 
 Shepherd. Na, your father, as ye ca'd him, when ye gied 
 his auld wrinkled forehead a kiss, 'U bring you to the Forest 
 in his ain cotch-and-four. Faur ye weel — God bless you 
 baith — faur ye weel. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Ladies, I wish you good evening. Mrs 
 Gentle, the dews are falhng ; allow me to throw my fur cloak 
 over you and Miss Gentle ; it is an ancient affair, but of the 
 true Merino. — You flatter me by accepting it. 
 
 [^Covers Mother and Daughter with his military cloak, and 
 they vanish. 
 
 North. Now, James, a single jug of toddy.
 
 A DIVISION IN THE CABINET. 369 
 
 Shepherd. What ! each '? 
 
 North. Each. There comes Tickler, as grave's a judge — 
 make no allusion to the chase. {Tickj^er rejoins the party.) 
 But it is chilly, so let us go into the parlour. I see Peter has 
 had the sense to light the candles — and there he goes with a 
 pan of charcoal. 
 
 Scene II.— The Pitt Parlour. 
 North, Colonel Cyril Thornton, Shepherd, Tickler. 
 
 Tickler. The Bowl ! The Bowl ! The Bowl ! 
 
 Shepherd. The Jug ! The Jug ! The Jug ! 
 
 Tickler. The bonny blue gold-rimmed Bowl, deep as Com- 
 pensation Pond,^ needing not all night any replenishment, 
 and ebbing down so imperceptibly, that the cheated soul sees 
 not the increasing line of dry shore ! 
 
 Shepherd. The beautafu' brown silver-lipped Jug, profotmd 
 as a well, yet aft-times during the short night demanding 
 replenishment, and ebbing sae obviously, that every soul that 
 kens what he's about at all, soon sees that there's no aboon 
 ither twa glasses lying like cauld dregs at the bottom ! 
 
 Tickler. The Sun-like Bowl ! 
 
 Shepherd. The Star-like Jug ! 
 
 Tickler. That fixed in the centre of the System 
 
 Shepherd. That revolving round the circumference o' the 
 System 
 
 Tickler. Sheds light and heat. 
 
 Shepherd. Sheds light and heat. 
 
 North. Benignant provision made for mortalia cegra, 
 
 " At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove." 
 
 How do you vote. Colonel ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. "Why, in the very unsettled state of the 
 Government, I am free to confess, that I am unwilling to give 
 any pledge to my sole constituent, the Countiy, which my 
 conscience afterwards mif^ht not suffer me to redeem. 
 
 "O' 
 
 ^ A large reservoir among the Pentland Hills, constructed to compensate 
 the mills on the Esk for the loss of the Crawley springs, from which Edinburgh 
 is now supplied with water. 
 
 VOL. 1. 2 A
 
 370 MUTUAL CONCESSIONS. 
 
 Shepherd. I dinna understand that equivocation, or tergiver- 
 sation, as it is ca'd, at a', Wull you answer me ae single 
 question ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Mr Hogg, short as our friendship has 
 been — and I hope I may call the right honourable Shepherd 
 my friend 
 
 Shepherd. You may do that — ^you may do that — rax ower 
 your arm, and shake hands across the table. Wull ye answer 
 me a single question? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton [addressing himself to Mr North). Short, 
 sir, as 
 
 Shepherd. That's really ower provoMng, Mr Cormall Cyril 
 Thornton, Esquire, — Bowl or Jug? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Both. 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, that's answerin like a man as you are, every 
 inch o' you — ^but what for roar sae loud ? We're no a' deaf 
 at this side o' the house. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Were it not that the name is ugly and 
 ominous, I should propose a coalition of parties, on the basis 
 of mutual concession. 
 
 Shepherd. No need o' concessions — confound concessions' — - 
 Whig and Tory may meet ane anither at the half-way house, 
 and sit down to a Conciliation denner — but as sune as the 
 strong drink operates, the fause friends '11 begin to glower 
 first suspiciously, and then savagely, at ane anither — the 
 cowards '11 e^o:^ on the crouse to fecht — them wi' glib tongues 
 in their heads '11 keep gabbhn about principles and consistency 
 — they'll no be lang o' ca'in ane anither names a' througliither, 
 
 ^ On Lord LiverpooVs retirement from the Premiership early in 1827, the 
 difficulty of forming a ministry, mainly arising out of a diversity of sentiment 
 on the question of Catholic Emancipation, was almost insuperable. A united 
 anti-Catholic Administration was found to be unattainable ; and the only 
 alternative was to reconstruct the Government on the former plan, in which 
 the Catholic question was not made a Cabinet measure. But Mr Canning, 
 whose pro-Catholic partialities were decided, refused to accept any office but 
 that of Prime Minister. To this he was ultimately promoted ; but nearly all 
 his former colleagues deserted him. He was thus thrown almost entirely on 
 Whig and Radical support. This coalition between the Canningites and the 
 Whigs constituted " the mutual concessions" so indignantly glanced at in the 
 text. The state of parties was not improved by the death of Mr Canning in 
 August 1827. His genius had to some extent thrown a lustre over a coalition 
 which had no other redeeming quality to show.
 
 STATE OF PARTIES. 371 
 
 renegate, apostate, ratical, yultra, and everything else that's 
 infamous and fearsome — till feenally there's a battle-royal, a 
 clourin o' heads and a beatin o' bottoms ; wliile the bars and 
 benches are fleein up and doun, and nae man, sic is the 
 colleshangy, rippet, and stramash, can be sure whether he's 
 knocked do^vn or no by a new freen or an auld enemy, fairly 
 by the clenched fist, or by some sharp instrament, treacher- 
 ously concealed within the palm of the hand — till the haill 
 Idntra-side, being scandaleezed at sic nefaurious behaviour, 
 rise up hke ae man, and kickin the heterogeneous mass o' 
 inconsistent combatants out o' doors, pu' doun, out o' verra 
 rage, the halfway-house itsel, ahas the Conciliation, alias the 
 Accommodation tavern, no leaving sae muckle as a single 
 stane to tell where the clay-biggin stood. 
 
 [The sliding-doors run into the wall., and Tickler enters^ 
 with the Punch-Bowl^ christened " Leviathan" — Peter 
 close behind with the " Baltic" Jug. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. The transition from a Youth of cold 
 Glasgow Punch, to a Manhood of Edinburgh hot toddy, has 
 in it something pleasant and mournful to the soul. 
 
 Shepherd. Let's finish the Jug first — and, Peter, my man, 
 if you would just rug that green cloth aff the wee circular 
 table in the window, and cover up the mouth o' the Bowl wi't, 
 I wad be muckle obHged to you. It'll keep in the steam. 
 That's it — it just fits. The circumferences o' the twa are just 
 equal to ane anither. 
 
 North. Take the hips from me. THE KING ! 
 
 Omnes [stantes). Hip — hip — hip — hurra — huiTa — hurra. — 
 Hip — hip — ^hip — hurra — hurra — hurra. — Hip — hip — hip — 
 hurra — hurra — hurra ! ! ! 
 
 Tickler. Suppose that in room of these glasses, that seem 
 very fragile in the stalk, we substitute tumblers ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I, for one, shall not make any " factious 
 opposition" to that motion. 
 
 Shepherd. Nor me neither ; but let it be counted a bumper, 
 gif the toddy reaches up to the heather- sprig. 
 
 North. If ever I accept a seat in the Cabinet, it must be 
 accompanied mth Place. 
 
 Tickler. On no other condition wiU I accede or adhere to 
 any Administration.
 
 372 POLITICAL MORALITY AT A LOW EBB, 
 
 Shepherd. Do you tliiiik:, sirs, that Mr Canning sliould hae 
 telt his freens that Brumm had made him an overture o' the 
 Whigs? 
 
 North. How can you ask the question, James ? Certainly. 
 
 Tickler. Unquestionably. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. No doubt he ought, Mr Hogg. 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, then — ought he to try to carry the Catho- 
 Kc Question ? 
 
 Omnes. Yes. 
 
 Shepherd. Wull he try? 
 
 Omnes. Cannot say. 
 
 Shepherd. But wull the King and country let him ? 
 
 Omnes. No. 
 
 Shepherd. What must he do then ? 
 
 Omnes. Go out. 
 
 North. Nothing, my dear James, as you well know, ever 
 prospered long, even in this wicked world, but plain-dealing. 
 Pubhc and private moraUty are not to the outward eye the 
 same — for the colouring is diiTerent. But essentially they 
 are one — and every attempt made to separate them recoils oq 
 the head of the schemers, and strikes them all to the earth. 
 
 Tickler. All the speecliification of all the most eloquent men 
 in England will be as ineffectual to prove that the two great 
 parties in the State are virtually the same, as the drivel of a 
 slavering idiot, to convince you or me that black is white, by 
 holding up in his hands a black crow and a white dove, and 
 muttering with a loud laugh, that he found them both sitting 
 in one nest. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I profess myself, as one of the old Whigs, 
 hostile to the present aiTangement. Some conversation passed 
 between my Lord Grey and myself, about a month ago, and I 
 am proud to think that his Lordship so far honoured the 
 humble individual who now addresses you, as to embody some 
 of his opinions and sentiments in his late admirable speech in 
 the Upper House. 
 
 North. One noble Lord declares he will support the Ministry, 
 because it is to be guided by the principles of Lord Liverpool 
 — and another noble Lord, equally sapient, and above suspi- 
 cion, declares he will do so, because it is not. Between these 
 two views of the subject are some score of shadings, those 
 immediately adjacent to each other pretty much alike ; but
 
 A PATCHWORK ADMINISTRATION. 373 
 
 compare those about the middle A\ith each extreme point, and 
 you will observe that it is a bright administration, consti-ucted, 
 not so much on rainbow as on patchwork principles. We defy 
 you to teU the pattern. Here a graceful and elegant person' 
 — buttoned to the chin — with one hand in his breast, just 
 above his heart — and the other outstretched in oratorial 
 action. Here an honest old woman, leaning on her staff, and 
 contrite for her factious resignation, returning to retake her 
 mite out of the Treasury.^ Here England's Pride, and West- 
 minster's Glory, ^ the terror of the borough-mongers, and 
 friend to Parhaments accompanying the green earth but on 
 one revolution round the sun, supporting on his shoulders a 
 member Hneally descended from the architect who contracted 
 to build tlie Temple of Solomon, and twice convicted of 
 bribery and corruption in an attempt, nefarious by any means, 
 to effect a lodgment in St Stephen's Chapel for seven solar 
 years. There a mild Wliig, of middle age, ranging through 
 his Majesty's Woods and Forests. Here a keen old citra- 
 ultra Whig- Tory leering out of a glass- window in the charac- 
 ter of Mat-o'-the-Mint.* There one^ who erst frowned terrible 
 as Satan (I look down at his feet, but see no, &c.) 
 
 " Like Teneriflfe or Atlas unremoved," 
 
 converted into Raphael, " the affable Ai-changel," but soon to 
 be made to resume his native shape at the touch of some 
 Ithuriel's spear. Here a rabble rout of Radicals, with axes 
 and pitch- smeared firebrands under their cloaks, waiting the 
 word to hew and burn. While on the very edge, and at one 
 corner of the patchwork — instead of in the centre — stands a 
 Throne some few degrees declined — and sitting there the 
 Shadow of one who the likeness of a kingly crown hath on — 
 and who, with a countenance more in sorrow than in anger, 
 waves a reluctant, but not a lasting farewell to six faithful 
 servants — one holding in his hand the Balance of Justice,'^ 
 true and steady, even to a grain of dust — and another the 
 sword of Victory,' with the hilt fixed, but not fastened to the 
 scabbard. 
 
 Shepherd. What, in the name o' Satan and a' his Saunts, 
 can be the riddle-me-ree o' that allegory ? The toddy surely 
 
 ^ Canning. ^ Lord Bexley. ^ gij. Francis Burdett. 
 
 * Tiemey. ^ Brougham. ^ Eldon. ^ Wellington.
 
 374 CONFOUND ENCORING. — THE MISSES PATON. 
 
 canna hae taen the head o' him already — for we haena di-ank 
 half-a-dizzeu o' thae rather-aneath-the-middle-sized tumblers. 
 Mr North, you talked at tea-time o' me deein o' a brain fivver 
 — but I'm fearin it's flown to your ain head, and that you're 
 forced to be obedient, whether you wull or no, to a species o' 
 ravin. 
 
 (Tickler sings.) 
 
 Let's all get fou together, 
 
 Togethex", together, 
 Let's all get fou together, 
 
 Ye ho, ye ho, ye ho ! 
 See how it runs down his gizzard. 
 
 His gizzard, his gizzard. 
 See how it runs down his gizzard, 
 
 Ye ho, ye ho, ye ho ! 
 
 Omnes. Encore — encore — encore ! 
 
 Tickler. No — I never do the same thing over again, now, 
 on the same night. Encoring shotdd be coughed down by 
 general expectoration.^ 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I often feel for that nightingale, Miss 
 Paton,^ who, after seeming to pour out in thick delicious 
 warble, nay, rather in a stream of sound, bold, bright, beauti- 
 ful, and free, her very soul — is forced, fair Christian though 
 she be, to curtsy to the Heathen Gods, and laying her white 
 hand upbraidingly on her bosom, to recall it from its flight, 
 and let it die once more in heavenly harmonies, that they may 
 le-thunder from their high abodes. 
 
 North. We have a sister of Miss Paton's here, Cyril — Miss 
 Eliza Paton, a charming creature — in years quite a school- 
 girl, but in face and figure a lovely woman — who is every day 
 singing more and more like an angel. Miss I. Paton, too, 
 occasionally sojourns with us in Edinburgh — and I have heard 
 no such profound and pathetic contralto as hers since the era 
 of the glorious Grassini. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. A family of genius. 
 
 North. They are so indeed — and it is hereditary on both 
 sides of the house. For the father is a man of original talents, 
 and the mother quite a delight — of the most mild and modest 
 
 ^ This practice is still greatly overdone in the places of public entertainment 
 in Edinburgh ; and the nuisance ought certainly to be repressed. 
 2 Afterwards Mrs Wood.
 
 north's method of angling. 375 
 
 demeanour — pnident, sensible, and affectionate — and had her 
 voice not mysteriously failed in her youth, I know not but she 
 would have been the finest singer of them all. 
 
 Shepherd. I never thocht muckle o' the Piawno till I heard 
 Miss Yaniewicz. What fingering is yon ! Like a shower o' 
 dancing sunbeams ! What's in general ca'd execution 's a 
 desperate clatter o' keys. But that young leddy makes the 
 ivory silver-sweet as the musical-glasses, or it crashes to her 
 hauns like the pealing organ in a cathedral. 
 
 Tickler. I fear, Colonel, since you lost your arm, that you 
 are no longer a sportsman. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. I have given up shooting, although Joe 
 Manton constructed a light piece for me, with which I gener- 
 ally contrived to hit and miss time about ; but I am a devout 
 disciple of Izaak, and was grievously disappointed on my 
 arrival t'other day in Kelso, to find another occupier in Wal- 
 ton-hall ; but my friend, Mr Alexander Ballantyne, and I, 
 proceed to Peebles on the 1st of June, to decide our bet of a 
 rump and dozen, he with the spinning minnow, and I with 
 Phin's delight. 
 
 Shepherd. Watty Kitchie '11 beat you baith with the May- 
 flee, if it be on, or ony length aneath the stanes. 
 
 North. You Tvill be all soriy to hear that our worthy fiiend 
 Watty is laid up with a bad rheumatism, and can no longer 
 fish the Megget Water and the lochs, and return to Peebles in 
 the same day. 
 
 Shepherd. That's what a' your waders comes to at last. 
 Had it no been, Mr North, for your plowterin in a' the rivers 
 and lochs o' Scotland, baith saut water and fresh, like a New- 
 foundland dog, or rather a seal or an otter, you needna had 
 that crutch aneath your oxter. Cormall Cyril, saw ye him 
 ever a-fishin ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Never but once, for want of better ground, 
 in the Crinan Canal, out of a coal-barge, for braises, when I 
 was a red-gowned student at Glasgow. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! but you should hae seen him in Loch Owe, 
 or the Spey. In he used to gang, out, out, and ever sae far 
 out frae the pint o' a promontory, sinkiu aye furder and furder 
 doun, first to the waistband o' his breeks, then up to the 
 middle button o' his waistcoat, then to the verra breast, then 
 to the oxters, then to the neck, and then to the verra chin o'
 
 376 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 him, sae that you wunnered how he could fling the flee, till 
 last o' a' he would plump richt out o' sight, till the Highlander 
 on Ben Cruachan thocht him drooned ; but he wasna bom to 
 be drooned — no he, indeed — sae he taks to the soomin, and 
 strikes awa wi' ae arm, hke yoursel, sir — for the tither had 
 haud o' the rod — and, could ye believ't, though it's as true as 
 Scriptur, fisliing a' the time, that no a moment o' the cloudy 
 day micht be lost ; ettles at an island a quarter o' a mile afF, 
 wi' trees, and an old ruin o' a religious house, wherein beads 
 used to be coonted, and wafers eaten, and mass muttered 
 hundreds o' years ago ; and gettin footin on the yellow sand 
 or the green sward, he but gies himsel a shake, and ere the 
 sun looks out o' the clud, has hyucket a four-pounder, whom 
 in four minutes (for it's a multiplying pirn the cretur uses), 
 he lands gasping through the giant giUs, and glitterin wi' a 
 thousan' spots, streaks, and stars, on the shore. That's a 
 pictur o' North's fishing in days o' yore.^ But look at him 
 noo — only look at liim noo — Avi' that auld-farrant face o' his, 
 no unlike a pike's, crunkled up in his chair, his chin no that 
 unwullin to tak a rest on his collar-bane — the hauns o' him 
 a' covered wi' chalk-stanes — ^liis legs like winnle-straes — and 
 his knees but knobbs, sae that he canna cross the room, far 
 less soom ower Loch Owe, without a crutch ; and wunna you 
 join wi' me, Corrnall Cyril, in handing up baith your hauns — 
 I aux your pardon, in handing up jour richt haun — and com- 
 paring the past wi' the present, exclaim, amaist sobbin, and 
 in tears, " Vanity o' vanities ! all is vanity ! " 
 
 North {suddenly hitting the Shepherd over the sconce with his 
 crutch). Take that, blasphemer ! 
 
 Shepherd [clawing his pow). " Man of age, thou smitest 
 sore ! " 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Mr Hogg, North excels at the crutch- 
 exercise. 
 
 Shepherd. Put your finger, Corrnall, on here — did you ever 
 fin' sic a big clour risen in sae wee a time ? 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. Never. Mr North with his crutch, had 
 he lived in the Sylvan Age of Robbery, would have been a 
 match for the best of the merry Outlaws of Sherwood. Little 
 
 ^ Professor Wilson's mode of angling in his younger days is here painted to 
 the Ufa. Even so late as 1849 he was in the habit of wading up to the loins in 
 the practice of his favourite pastime.
 
 THEATRICALS. 377 
 
 John would have sung small, and Kobin Hood fancied him no 
 more than he did the Finder of Wakefield. 
 
 Shepherd. That's what's ca'd at Buchanan Lodge cracking 
 a practical joke, Cormall. I maun get Peter to bring me some 
 brown paper steep'd in vinegar, or the clour '11 be like a horn. 
 I scarcely tliink, even already, that my hat would stay on, 
 sir, but you're desperate cruel. 
 
 North. Not I, my dear James. I knew I had a man to deal 
 with; the tenth part of such a touch would have killed a 
 Cockney. 
 
 Shepherd. The table's unco coggly; and if a body happens 
 to fill their tumbler to the brim, the toddy fa's ower, and jaups 
 it a', makin the mahogany nasty sticky. 
 
 North. One of the feet is too short ; but it is a diflScult 
 thing to get a book exactly of the right size to steady it. Tom 
 Dibdin is making the attempt now — but without any benefit. 
 
 Tickler. Boaden? 
 
 North. Too heavy. Peter uses him instead of the lead for 
 the front door. 
 
 Tickler. Shall we try Eeynolds ? 
 
 North. Too light. 
 
 Tickler. OldO'Keefe? 
 
 North. He would do better, but is now too much battered. 
 
 Tickler. The Margravine of Anspach ? 
 
 North. I am using her at present for the door of my bed- 
 room, to keep it from flying to in this hot weather; and when 
 the nights are cool, I take the old lady into bed with me, 
 sliding her, when I get sleepy, under the bolster. 
 
 Shepherd. That's a bonny way o' using so mony o' Mr 
 Cobi-un's byucks. For my ain part, I like just excessively 
 to read the lives o' playactors and playactresses, and every- 
 thing in ony way connected with the stage. 
 
 Tickler. So do I, Hogg. There's Gibber, a delightful book. 
 You are carried back by a single little unimportant fact to the 
 Augustan age — such as Gibber's mentioning that the person 
 sitting next him in the pit was — Mr Addison ! 
 
 North. Eeynolds is the liveliest of those modem Theatrical 
 Autobiographers, and tells well some good stories. Dibdin is 
 less so — but he seems to be, notwithstanding, a clever man, 
 with his talents at all times at his finger ends ; and what is 
 better, an amiable and an honest man. I like Tom Dibdin
 
 378 BRONTE. 
 
 both on his own and liis father's account. I never saw Tom, 
 but his father I knew well; and although my friend Allan 
 Cunningham and I differ in opinion on that point, he was, 
 take good, bad, and indifferent together, the best sea-song 
 writer that ever was chanted below or between decks of the 
 British Navy. 
 
 Shepherd. What a bow-wowing's that, thinks ony o' you, 
 out-by ? 
 
 North. Bronte baying at some blackguards on the outer 
 side of the gate. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh ! sir, I've heard tell o' your new Newfound- 
 land dowg, and would Uke to see him. May I ring for Peter 
 to lowse him frae his cheen, and bring him ben for me to 
 look at ? {^Rings the bell — Peter receives his instructions. 
 
 North. Bronte's mother, James, is a respectable female who 
 now hves in Claremont Crescent ; his father, who served his 
 time in the navy, and was on board Admiral Otway's ship when 
 he hoisted his flag in her on the Leith Station, is now resident, 
 I believe, at Portobello. The couple have never had any 
 serious quarrel ; but, for reasons best known to themselves, 
 choose to live apart. Bronte is at present the last of all his 
 race — the heir-apparent of his parents' virtues — his four 
 brothers and three sisters having all unfortunately perished 
 at sea. 
 
 Shepherd. Did ye ever see onything grow sae fast as a 
 Newfoundland whalp ? There's a manifest difference on them 
 between breakfast and denner, and denner and sooper ; and 
 they keep growin a' nicht lang. 
 
 North. Bronte promises to stand three feet without his 
 shoes 
 
 Shepherd. I hear him comin — yowf-yowffin as he spangs 
 along. I wush he mayna coup that weak-ham'd bodie, Peter. 
 
 \_Door opens, and Bronte bounces in. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. A noble animal, indeed, and the very 
 image of a dog that saved a drummer of ours, who chose to 
 hop overboard, through fear of a floggin, in the Bay of Biscay. 
 
 North. What do you think of him, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. Think o' him? I canna think o' him — it's 
 aneuch to see him — what'n a sagacious countenance. Look 
 
 1 Bronte was a real character. His life and death are afterwards com- 
 memorated.
 
 BRONTE. 379 
 
 at liim lauchin as he observes the empty puncli-bowl. His 
 back's preceesely on a Kne wi' the edge o' the table. And 
 oh I but he's bonnily marked — a white ring roun' the neck o' 
 him, a white breast, wliite paws, a wliite tip o' the tail, and 
 a' the rest black as nicht. man, but you're towsy ! His 
 legs, Mr North, canna be thinner than my airm, and what 
 houghs, hips, and theeghs ! I'm leanin a' my haill waght 
 upon his back, and his spine bends nae mair than about the 
 same as Captain Brown's chain -pier at ISTewhaven when a 
 hundred folk are walking alang't, to gang on board the 
 steamboat. His neck, too, 's like a bill's — if he was turnin 
 o' a sudden at speed, a whap o' his tail would break a man's 
 leg. Fecht ! I'se warrant him fecht, either wi' ane o' his 
 ain specie, or wi' cattle wi' cloven feet, or wi' the Lions Nero 
 or Wallace o' Wximmell's Menagerie, or wi' the Lord o' Crea- 
 tion, Man — by himsel Man ! How he would rug them down 
 — dowgs, or soos, or stirks, or lions, or riibbers ! He could 
 kill a man, I verily believe, without ever bitin him — just by 
 dounin him wi' the waght o' his body and his paws, and then 
 lying on the tap o' him, growlin to throttle and devour him if 
 he mudged. He would do grandly for the Monks o' St Ber- 
 nard to save travellers frae the snaw. Edwin Landseer maun 
 come down to Scotland for anes errand, just to pent his 
 pictur, that future ages may ken that in the reign o' Gleorge 
 the Fourth, and durin the Queer Whig-and-Tory Administra- 
 tion, there was such a dowg. 
 
 North. I knew, James, that he was a dog after your own 
 heart. 
 
 Shepherd. Oh, sir ! dinna let onybody teach him tricks — sic 
 as mnnin back for a glove, or standin on his hurdles, or loupin 
 out-ower a stick, or snappin bread frae aff his nose, or ringin 
 the bell, or pickin out the letters o' the alphabet, like ane o' 
 the working classes at a Mechanic Institution, — leave a' tricks 
 o' that sort to Spaniels, and Poodles, and Buggies (I mean 
 nae reflection on the Peebles Puggie withouten the tail, nor 
 yet Mr Thomas Grieve's Peero), but respec' the soul that 
 maun be in that noble, that glorious frame ; and if you maun 
 chain him, let him understand that sic restraint is no incom- 
 pawtible wi' liberty ; and as for his keimel, I woiild hae it 
 sclated, and a porch ower the door, even a miniture imitation 
 o' the porch o' Buchanan Lodge.
 
 380 THE BONASSUS. 
 
 North. James, we shall bring liim with us — along with the 
 Gentles — to Altrive. 
 
 Shepherd. Proud wad I be to see him there, sir, and gran' 
 soomin wad he get in St Mary's Loch, and the Loch o' the 
 Lowes, and Loch Skene. But — there's just ae objection — ae 
 objection — sir — I dinna see how I can get ower't. 
 
 North. The children, James ? Why, he is as gentle as a 
 new-dropt lamb. 
 
 Shepherd. Na, na — it's no the weans — for Jamie and 
 his sisters would ride on his back — he could easy carry 
 threeple — to Yarrow Kirk on the Sabbaths. But — but he 
 would fecht with — The Bonassus, 
 
 North. The Bonassus ! What mean ye. Shepherd ? 
 
 Shepherd. I bocht the Bonassus frae the man that had him 
 in a show ; and Bronte and him would be for fechtin a duel, 
 and baith o' them would be murdered, for neither Bronte nor 
 the Bonassus would say " Hold, enough." 
 
 North. Of all the extraordinary freaks, my dear bard, that 
 ever your poetical imagination was guilty of, next to writing 
 the Perils of Woman., your purchase of the Bonassus seems 
 to me the most mii'aculous. 
 
 Shepherd. I wanted to get a breed aff him wi' a maist 
 extraordinar cow, that's half-blood to the loch-and-river kine 
 by the bill's side — and I have nae doubt but that they wull be 
 gran' milkers, and if fattened, will rin fifty score a quarter. 
 But Bronte maunna come out to Altrive, sir, till the Bonassus 
 is dead. 
 
 North. But is tlie monster manageable, James? Is there 
 no danger of his rebelling against his master? Then, suppose 
 he were to break through, or bound over the stone-wall and 
 attack me, as I kept hobbling about the green braes, my doom 
 would be sealed. I have stood many a tussle in my day, as 
 you know and have heard, James ; but I am not, now, single- 
 handed, a match for the Bonassus. 
 
 Shepherd. The stane-wa's about my farm are rather rickly ; 
 but he never tries to break them doun as lang's the kye's wi' 
 him, — nor do I think he has ony notion o' his ain strength, 
 It's just as weel, for wi' yon head and shouthers he could 
 ding doun a house. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton. How the deuce, Mr Hogg, did you get
 
 NORTHS MYSTERIOUS RESERVE. 381 
 
 him from Edinburgh to Altrive ? To look at him, he seemed 
 an animal that would neither lead nor drive. 
 
 Shepherd. I bought him, sir, at Selkirk, waggon and a', and 
 druv him hame mysel. The late owner tanked big aboot his 
 fury and fairceness — and aiblins he was fairce in his keepin, 
 as weel he micht be, fed on twa bushels o' ingans — unnions 
 that is — per deeam — ^but as sune as I had him at Mount 
 Benger, I backet the waggon a wee doun hill, flang open the 
 end door, and out, Hke a debtor frae five years' confinement, 
 lap the Bonassus 
 
 Tickler. Was you on the top of the waggon, James ? 
 
 Shepherd. No — that thocht had occurred to me, — ^but I was 
 munted, — and the powney's verra fleet, showin bluid, — and 
 afi" I set at the gallop 
 
 Tickler. With the Bonassus after you- 
 
 Shepherd. Whisht, man, whisht. The poor beast was scarcely 
 able to staun' ! He had forgotten the use of his legs ! Sae I 
 went up to him, on futt withouten fear, and patted him a' ower. 
 Sair frights some o' the folk frae Megget Water got, on first 
 coming on him unawares, — and I'm telt that there's a bairn 
 ower-by about the side of Moffat Water — it's a callant — whose 
 mither swarfed at the Bonassus, when she was near the doun- 
 lying, that has a fearsome likeness till liim in the face ; but 
 noo he's weel kent, and, I may say, hked and respeckit through 
 a' the Forest, as a peaceable and industrious member o' 
 society. 
 
 North. I dread, my dear James, that, independent of the 
 Bonassus, it will not be possible for me to be up with you 
 before autumn. I believe that I must make a trip to London 
 im 
 
 Shepherd. Ay, ay, — the truth's out noo. The rumour in 
 the Forest was, that you had been sent for by the King a 
 month sin' syne, but wadna gang, — and that a sheriff's offisher 
 had been despatched in a chaise-and-four frae Lunnon, to 
 bring you up by the cuff o' the neck, and gin you made ony 
 resistance at the Lodge, to present his pistol. 
 
 North. There are certain secrets, my dearest James, the 
 development of which, perhaps, Hes beyond even the privi- 
 leges of friendship. With you I have no reserve — but when 
 Majesty
 
 382 THE shepherd's LOYALTY. 
 
 Shepherd. Lays its command on a loyal subject, you was 
 gaun to say, he maun obey. That's no my doctrine. It's 
 slavish-like. You did perfectly richt, sir ; the haill Forest 
 swore you did perfectly richt in refusin to stir a futt frae your 
 ain fireside in a free kintra, Kke the auld kingdom o' Scotland. 
 Had the King been leevin at Holyrood, it micht hae been 
 different ; but for a man o' your years to be harled through 
 the snaw 
 
 North. I insist that this sort of conversation, sir, stop — and 
 that what has been now said — most unwarrantedly, remember, 
 James — go no farther. Do not think, my dear Shepherd, 
 that all that passes witliin the penetralia of the Koyal breast, 
 finds an echo in the nimours of the Forest. " But something 
 too much of this." 
 
 Shepherd. Weel, weel, sir — weel, weel. But dinna look 
 sae desperate angry. I canna thole to see a frown on your 
 face, it works sic a dreadfu', I had maist said deeabolical 
 change on the haill expression o' the fay tures. Oh smile, sir ! 
 if you please — do, Mr North, sir, my dear freen, do just gie 
 ae bit blink o' a smile at the corner o' your ee or mouth — ay, 
 that'll do, Christopher — that'll do — Oh man, Kit, but you 
 was fairce the noo just at naething ava, as folks generally is 
 when they are at their faircest, for then their rampagin 
 passion meets wi' nae impediment, and keeps feed, feed, 
 feedin on itself, and its ain heart. 
 
 North. For his Majesty King George the Fourth, James, 
 would I lay down my hfe. A better — a nobler King — never 
 sat on the British throne. 
 
 Shepherd. Deevil the ane. I dinna like the thocht o' 
 deein, but gin it cam to that, and that my life could save his 
 life, the thocht would be like the sound o' a trumpet, and 
 when I fell I should 
 
 " Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of Fame ! " 
 
 North. Scotland was delighted wi' the Thane's elevation 
 to the Peerage.* 
 
 Shepherd. What ! Lord Fife's ? She had reason to be sae ; 
 for there's no a nobler ane amang a' her nobles. 
 
 North. Not one. 
 
 ^ The British peerage, giving him a seat in the House of Lords.
 
 THE THAMES TUNNEL. 383 
 
 Shepherd. Ae promise ye maun gie me, my dear sir, before 
 ye gang to Lunnon, and that's no to gang into the Tunnel. 
 
 North. But Brunei, James, is one of my most particular 
 friends, and if he asks me to accompany him, I do not know 
 how I can refuse. 
 
 Shepherd. That's the head engineer ? Just tell liim at 
 ance that I hae extorted an oath, made you swear ower the 
 dregs o' a jug o' toddy and a bowl o' punch, the Baltic and 
 the Leviathan, that nae power on earth, short o' a Pulley or a 
 Steam-engine, shall induce, or seduce you into the Tunnel. 
 
 North. I swear. 
 
 Shepherd. Noo, I'm easy. A tunnel, indeed, aneath the 
 Thames ! If there's no briggs anew, canna they bigg mair 
 o' them ? Nae tunnels, nor funnels — for I kenna which you 
 ca' them — aneath rivers for me ! It's no verra pleasant passin 
 even under an aqueduck. But, Lord preserve us ! think o' 
 a street a' roarin wi' passengers, and lighted wi' lamp-posts, 
 half a mile lang, and after a' but a Tunnel ! 
 
 North. Yet I hope Brunei, a man of true genius, may yet 
 overcome all difficulties. 
 
 Shepherd. Never, no never — only think o' plastering the 
 back, or ratl\er the bottom o' the river Thames, wi' cley, to 
 hinner the water frae oozing through the roof o' the Tunnel ! 
 
 North. It does indeed seem a slight appHcation for a hope- 
 less disease. 
 
 Shepherd. Thank God, sir, you wasna in the Tunnel that 
 day ! In twal minutes fu' to the verra mouth o' the shaft ! 
 You never could hae made your escape, gran' soomer as you 
 ance was ; and what signifies soomin when the risin waters 
 jam you up to the ceilin — or when twenty out o' a hunder 
 Irish labourers giTip baud o' your legs ? There maim hae been 
 fine belter- skelterin that day — but niest time the Thames 
 pays a visit to his ain Tunnel, he mayna be so slaw, nor yet 
 so sober — but send a' the four hunder men wi' their spades, 
 and shovels, and pickaxes, and gavelocks, and barrows, 
 haund and horrel'd, and a' the sheds, and scaffoldin, and 
 machinery, steam-engines and a', to destruction in ae single 
 squash. But whisht — there's thunner ! 
 
 Tickler. Only Mr Ambrose with the coach I ordered to be 
 at the Lodge precisely at one.
 
 384 GOOD-BT. 
 
 Shepherd. I'm sorry slie's come. For I was just beginnin 
 to summon up courage to hint the possibility, if no the pro- 
 priety, o' anither bowl — or at least a jug. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton [rising). God bless you, sir, good morn- 
 ing — Mr Ambrose may call it but one o'clock, if it gives liim 
 any pleasure to think that the stream of time may run counter 
 to the Moon and Stars ; but it is nearer three, and I trust the 
 lamps are not lighted needlessly to affront the dawn. Once 
 more — God bless you, sir. Good morning. 
 
 North. Thursday at six, Cyril — farewell. 
 
 [Enter Mr Ambrose to announce the coach. 
 
 Shepherd. Gude-by, sir — dinna get up aff your chair, 
 (Aside) Cormall, he canna rise. The coach '11 drap the 
 Corrnall at Awmrose's in Picardy, and me at the Peebles 
 Arms, Sign o' the Sawmon, Candlemaker Eow, — and Mr 
 Tickler at his ain house, Southside — and by then it'll be 
 about time for't to return to the stance in George Street. 
 
 C. Cyril Thornton (opening the window-shutters at a nod from 
 North). The blaze of day. 
 
 [Coach drives from the Lodge, ribbons and rod in the hand 
 of Mr Ambrose. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTKD nv WlLLtAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, BDINBimOH.
 
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