mmxi ififififiL lOCTES AMBROSIANJ. o U9 BY CHRISTOPHER IsTOETH. CPkop. John Wilson). SELECTED, EDITED AE'D ARRANGED BT JO HIT SKELTOIV:. ADVOCATL NEV/ YORK: JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 14 AND 16 Vesey Street. \ TROWS PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANVa MEW YORK.. XPH A'EN STMnOSIQ KYAIKON HEPINISSOMENAQN HAEA KS2TIAA0NTA KAGHMENON OINOnOTAZEIN. PHOc. ap. Ath, [This is a distich by wise old Phocy tides. An ancient loho wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ; Meaning, " 'Tis right for good wine-bibbing people, Not to let the jitg pace round the board like a cripple ; But gaily to chat while discussing their tipple." An excelleait rule of the hearty old cock'tis— And a very jit motto to put to our Nodes A C. IS. ap. Amir. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Christopher North. , « The Ettrick Shepherd. Timothy Tickler. The English Opium-Eater. Colonel Cyril Thornton. MuLLiON, J[ Geritleman from the West, BuLLER, An Englishman, The Registrar. Ambrose, Mine Host. Nathan Gurney, the Reporter for the " NoctesJ* Mrs. Gentle, a Widow. Miss Gentle. Bronte, a veteran Newfoundlander, O'Bronte, a young Newfoundlander, A Cat, a Parrot, a Starling, a Raven, S^c, The Jug. Tappytoorie, Picardy, Sir David Gam, King Pepin, and others, Servants to Ambrose, The Scenes are laid at Ambrose's Tavern in Edinburgh ,* Buchanan Lodge, on the Firth of Forth ; St. Mary's Loch ; the Ettrick Forest, and elsewhere. THE CONTENTS. PAGE, THE INTRODUCTION, ... . ix I. In which Christopher North., Timothy Tickler, and the Etlrick Shepherd are introduced to the reader, ... 1 ft. In which Tickler narrates his experiences at Dalnacardoch, . 15 III. In the Blue Parlor, ... .30 IV. In which the Shepherd usurps the Editorial chair, . • 44 V. In which the Shepherd routs Mullion, ... 57 VI. In which the Shepherd assists at an Incremation, . . 69 VIL At the Lodge in Surnmer, . . . . .86 vi Tlce^ Contents, vni. PAGE. In which the Shepherd is hanged and beheaded ^ . . 99 IX. In the Paper Parlor, ..•••• 110 X. In which the Shepherd relates how the Bagmen were lost, . 123 XI. The Execution of the Mutineer , . • • t 133 XII. I ' which the Shepherd paints his own portraity . . 150 xm. In which Tickler captures the coif, and the Shepherd secures the BonassuSj ...... 164 XIY. In which the Shepherd and Tickler take to the water, . 184 XV. The Shepherd is attacked hy Tic-Douloureux, A ngma Pectoris, and Jaundice, . . . . . 21:.' XVI. In which, after North is hanged and drowned in a dream, the Shepherd is tempted and falls, .... 232 XVII. TJie Haggis Deluge, ...... 248 The Contents., vii xvin. PAGE. In which the Shepherd, having skated from Yarroio, takes a plmiter^ ....... 261 XIX. 'I- 'licit, after settling Othello, North Jloors the Shepherd, . 282 XX. In icliich, during the great storm, the Snuggery window is blown in, and the Shepherd suffers, . . • 302 XXI. In which, the English Opium-Eater dining ivith the Three, the Shepherd mounts Bonassus, . • • ' . 323 XXII. The Bloody Battle of the Bees, . . 354 XXIII. In wkich, after the Shepherd has appeared successively as Pan, as Hercules, and the Apollo Belvidere, North exhibits his great picture — the Defence of Socrates, . • 386 XXIY. ' u-hich, in the race from the Saloon to the Snuggery, Tickler and the Shepherd are distanced by North, . . 410 XXV. fn icliich North erects Ms tent in the Fairy^s Cleugh, and is crowned King of Scotland by the Forest Worthies, . 440 XXVI. A night on the leads of the Ledge, .... -iCS viii The Contents. XXVIL TAOTi. A Dinner in the Foresty . ..... 485 xxvm. A Day at Tibbie' Sy 4:0- XXIX. In which the Shepherd appears for the last time as the terrible Tawney of Timbuctoo, ..... 527 APPENDIX, ....... 553 GLOSS ARYy 561 TBE INTRODUCTION. John Wilson had the eagle beak, the lion-like mane of the Napiers. Mrs. Barrett Browning has said of Homer : — " Homer, with the broad suspense Of thund'rous brows, and lips intense Of garrulous god-innocence " — and whenever I read the lines, the mighty presence of Christopher North rises before me. John Wilson was an immense man, physically and mentally, and yet his nature was essentially incomplete. He needed concentration. Had the tree been thoroughly pruned, t.he fruit would have been larger and richer. As it was, he seldom contrived to sustain the inspiration unimpaired for any time ; it ran away into shallows, and spread fruitlessly over the sand. In many re- spects one of the truest, soundest, honestest , men who ever lived, he used to grow merely declamatory at times. Amazingly humorous as the Shepherd of the " Noctes " is (there are scenes, such as the open- ing of the haggis and the swimming match with X The Introduction. Tickler while the London packet comes up the Forth, which manifest the humor of conception as well as the humor of character, in a measure that has seldom been surpassed by the greatest masters), his fun is often awkward, and his enthusiasm is apt to tire. Yet had Shakespeare written about Falstaff once a month for twenty years, might we not possibly have said the same even of him ? And if the Shepherd at his best could be taken out of the " Noctes " and compressed into a compact duodecimo volume, we should have an original piece of imaginative humor, which might fitly stand for all time by the side of the portly knight. But the world is two crowded and too busy to preserve a creation which is not uniformly at its best, — which, on the contrary, is diffused and diluted through forty volumes of a magazine ; and so it is possible that, not quite unwill- ingly, posterity will let the Shepherd die. The same in a wa}^ holds true of Christopher's own fame. The mor- alist has told us from of old that only the mortal part of genius returns to the dust. But then this moral part was so large a j)art of Wilson. He was such a mag- nificent man ! No liteiary man of our time has had such muscles and sinews, such an ample chest, such perfect lungs, such a stalwart frame, such an expan- sive and Jove-like brow. Had he lived in the classic ages they would have made a god of him, — not be- cause he wrote good verses, or possessed the divine gift of eloquence, but because his presence was god- like. There was a ruddy glow of health about him, too, such as the people of no nation have possessed as The Introduction. xi a nation since the culture of the body, as an art of the national life, has been neglected. The critic, there- fore, who never saw Wilson, cannot rightly estimate the sources of his influence. We, on the contrary, who looked upon him, wdio heard him speak, know that we can never listen to his like again ; never can look upon one who, while so intellectually noble, so eloquent, so flushed with poetic life, did so nearly ap- proach, in strength and comeliness, the type of bodily perfection. The picture of the old man eloquent in his college class-room — the old man who had breasted the flooded Awe, and cast his fly across the bleakest tarns of Lochaber — pacing restlessly to and fro like a lion in his confined cage, his grand face work- ing Vvdth emotion while he turns to the window, through YN^hich are obscurely visible the spires and smoky gables of the ancient city, his dilated nostril yet '' full of youth," his small grey eye alight with visionary fire, as he discourses (somewhat discursive- ly, it must be owned) of truth, and beauty, and e^oodness, is one not to be forgotten. Had he talked the merest twaddle, the effect would have been very nearly the same : he was a living poem where the austere grandeur of the old drama was united w^iti the humor and tenderness of modern story-tellers ; and some such feeling it was that attracted and fas- cinated his hearers. It has been said by unfriendly critics that Wilson was an egotist. Montaigne and Charles Lamb were egotists ; but we do not complain of an egotism to which not the least charm of their writings is to be xii The IntroductioJi. attributed. The truth is that the charge against Wil- son rests on a misconception. Christopher North was egotistical, but Christopher North was a creation of the imagination. He represented to the world the invin- cible Tory champion, before whose crutch the whole breed of Radicals and Whiglings and Cockneys fled as mists before the sun. It was impossible to endow this gouty Apollo with the frailties of mortal combat- ants. Haughty scorn, immaculate wisdom, unassail- able virtue, were the characteristics of the potent tyrant. We have as' little right to say that Wilson was an egotist because Christopher North was ego- tistical (though, no doubt, in his old age, he could have looked the part admirably), as to say that Milton was immoral because he drew the devil. Men (whiggish and priggish) may continue to resent, indeed, as indelicate and unbecoming, the license of his fancy and the airy extravagance of his rhetoric ; but a juster and more catholic criticism confesses that in the wide realms of literature there is room for the grotesque gambols of Puck, for Attiel's moonlight flit- tings, for the imaginative riot of Wilson and Heine and Jean Paul. These sentences — written several years ago — may serve to explain how the idea of the present work first presented itself to me. My design has been to compress into a single manageable volume whatever is permanent and whatever is universal in the Comedy of the " Noctes Ambrosianse." The " Noctes " are cop The Introduction, x i ceived in the true spirit of Comedy, using the word in its widest sense, and tlieir presentation of human life is as keen, as broad, and as mellow as that of any of our dramatists. In this great play among various subordinate characters, three figures stand out with surprising force, — Christopher North, Timothy Tick ler, and the Ettrick Shepherd. During these hun dred-and-one ambrosial nights, what heights of the poetical imagination are scaled, what depths of the human soul are sounded, by the immortal " Three ! " While the whole is bathed in an atmosphere of natural humor, of irrepressible fun, of laughter that is not the less genuine because it is at times closely akin to tears. But the true unity of the piece is obscured by the introduction of much foreign matter. It is overlaid and smothered by protracted discussions upon topics of transient, personal, and local interest only. In the " Noctes," political events and notabilities that are no of interest to no living creature — romances which flourished for a season, poems which have been swept into oblivion — are criticised at unreasonable, or at least unreadable, length. Many of the smaller social and political portraits are first-rate of their kind, — such play of the imagination, such splendor, versatility, and, it must be added, ferocity of invective as " The Glasgow Gander," for instance, provoked by his assault on Walter Scott, are to be found nowhere else in our literature since the days of Dryden. But the " Gander " is dead ; and even the most patient reader tires of controversies which, though perfectly x\Y The Introduction. suited to ihe pages of a critical journal or a party review, are entirely out of place in a permanent work of the artistic imagination. It was clear, therefore, that if these excrescences '^oulcl be conveniently cletaclied, the true dramatic iiiity of the Comedy would be made manifest and emphasized; and the question then came to be, — Was such separation possible without vital injury to the Avhole, without reducing the entire building to mere fragmentary ruin ? It appeared to me that it was possible ; and this volume will enable the reader to judge whether my conviction was well founded. The operation was, I admit, a difficult and delicate one, and I cannot hope that it has been perfectly suc- cessful. Passages have been omitted which might have been retained, and passages have been retained which might have been omitted. .But I have tried, as far as practicable, by preventing any dialogue from being broken into mere fragments, to preserve the current and continuity of the narrative. The^ laounce, I suspect, are sometimes visible to the naked eye; but on the whole I do not feel that they are likely to affect the reader's enjoyment, or that they nar the general effect — the tout-an-sammal, as the iie[)]ierd Avould say — of an almost unique piece of dramatic hnmor. In what seemed to be a case of doubt, I have inclined to lean rather to the side of brevity than of prolixity. Many of the descriptive passages belong to what may be called the florid order of literary style ; and these do not suffer, but The Introduction. xv on the contrary are improved, by moderate retrench- ment and compression. One of the most difficult duties devolving on a writer of books in these days is to find an appropriate and unappropriated title — ^to know what to call his work • iiiid it has been sugf-o-ested that an author in sucii straits should '' request the praj'ers of the congrega tion." Even a mere editor has difficulties in his way. ^as the present editor has discovered. To have called this volume the '' Noctes Ambrosiange " might have produced a false impression, seeing that it doee not contain more than a third of the matter which the " Noctes " written by Professor Wilson contained. On the other hand, it is a selection made upon a definite principle; so that to have called it a volume of " Selections " would not have sufficiently indicated its scope and design. The word required was one which could be fitly applied to that portion of the Tv^ork which deals with, or presents directly and dramatically to the reader, human life, and character, and passion, as distinguished from that x3ortion of it which is critical^ and devoted to the discussion of subjects of literary, artistic, or political interest only. The word " Comedy " althoiioh liable from modern use or abuse to be mis- understood) ultimately appeared to me to be the most suitable ; for, even if misunderstood the misunderstand- ing could not be very serious. It may in fact be said with perfect truth that, although the substance of the Discussion or Debate in which the ^' Three " enscag^e is often grave, and not unfrequently pathetic, the presen- tation is essentially humorous,— the surroundings being xvi The Introduction. whimsical, and the situations mirth-pro voldng. The " Noctes Ambrosianse," as a characteristic product of the dramatic spirit, belongs to the Comic Muse. The papers from which the materials of the present volume are taken, a]3peared in "Blackwood's Maga- zine " during the ten years from 1825 to 1835. I should not be doing justice to my own feelings if I were to close this prefatory note without a brief tribute to the editor of the origj-inal edition of the •' Noctes," — James Frederick Ferrier.* Ferrier was a philosophical Quixote, — a man who loved " divine philosophy " for its own sake. The student of pure metaphysics is now rarely met with ; the aofe of mechanical invention — of the steam-eno^ine and the telegraph — being disposed to regard the pro- verbially barren fields of psychology with disrelish and disrespect. Against this materalizing tendenc}^ Pro- fessor Ferrier's life was an uninterrupted and essen- tially noble protest. No truer, simpler, or more un- selfish student ever lived. Seated in his pleasant rustic library, amid its stores of curious and antiquated erudition, he differed as much from the ordinary men one meets in the law courts or on " 'Change," as the quaint academic city where he resided differs from Sal- ford or Birmingham. It was here — in his library — that Ferrier spent the best of his days ; here that he * Tlie present edition is based upon that edited by Professor Ferrier. The niatcri.al passages of the Preface which he contributed are reprinted i\\ the Appendix. T]ie Notes a'so are mainly taken from that edition, which must alwavs remain the standard, and, so to speak, classical edition of ',h(^ " N■roafh the beautiful chimney vomiting forth its intermit- ::'L' columns of cloLid-like peat-smoke, that melts afar over !ie wilderness! North. Yes, Tickler — it was Burke that vindicated the claims of smells to the character of the sublime and beautiful. TicMer. 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 him- self, squirrel-like, 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 glorious tureen ! Down goes the ladle into " a profoundis 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 miglit seduce an anchorite! North (risi7ig). I must ring for supper, Ambrose- Ambrose — Ambrose ! Tickler. No respect of persons at Dalnacardoch ! I plump I hem into the plates around sans selection. No matter al- though the soup play jawp* frompresesto 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 hun • .Taw/'— spaiali. 20 Tickler's Polggamy. ger — dogs of the desert indeed, and nose-led by unerring instinct riglit up to the cowering covey in the heather groves on tlie mountain-side. North. Is eagle good eating, Timothy? Pococke the trn- veller used to eat lion : lion pasty is excellent, it is said- but is not eagle tough ? TicUer. Thicrh a'cod, devilled. The deliVht of the Tlii^l' lands is in the Highland feeling. That feeling is entirely destroj^ed 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 alono; hisfh-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 leap- ing, as Byron says, from mountain to mountain, otherwise you might as well listen to a mock peal from the pit of a theatre. North. Pray, Tickler, have you read Milton's Treatise on Christianity ?t Tickler. I have ; and feel disj30sed to agree with him in his doctrine of polygamy. For many years I lived very com- fortably without a wife ; and since the year 1820 I have been a monogamist. But I confess that there is a sameness in thai system. I should like much to try polygamy for a few year,-. I wish Milton had explained the duties of a polygamist ; foj' it is possible that they m^y be of a very intricate, compli- * In Ms " Address to a Wild Deer." Professor WiiS'ni snys of the hunter : *' 'Tie his, hy tlie mouth of some cavern liis seat, The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, While the thunder below him that growl? !rom the cloud, To him comes o!i echo moi-e .awfinl}- loud." '"At tlialtliiie r(;>.-;.'T)T";vdiHi'r-v*'!>vl. Milton. , 21 cated, 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 over- take it ; occupied, too as he might be, as in my own case, in contributing 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 politician. 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 s ul was like a star, and dwelt apart ! " For it dwelt in tumult, and mis- chief, and rebellion. Wordsworth is, in all things, the re- verse 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 humor 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 his- tory 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 ]>oet have done ? — That' the language of poetry is but the language of strong human passion ! — That in the great elementary principles of thought and feeling common to all tlie race, the subject-matter of poetry is to be sought and 22 \The .Exnu?\sio7i. found! — That enjoyment and suffering, as they wring and crush, or expand and elevate, men's hearts, are the sources of song ! — And what, pra}"-, has he made out of this true and philosophical creed ? — A few ballads (pretty at the best), two or three moral fables, some natural description of scenery, and half-a-dozen narratives of common distress or happiness. Not one sincjle cliaracter 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. TicMer. 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 a while. J confess that tlie " 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 in the sound. The remainino; seven thousand three hundred are quite ineffectual. Then, what labor the builder of that lofty rhyme must have undergone ! It is, in its own way, a small Tower of Babel, and all 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. North. thou Polygamist ! Tickler. And what the devil would you be at with your great bawling He-Poets from the Lakes, who go round and round about, strutting upon nothing, like so many turkey cocks, gobbling with a Ln^j red pendant at their noses, and frightening away the fan vivinljsts. He descends. 29 Shepherd. Your hand, Mr. Tickler. But I will 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 wrote the Clialdee Manuscript . . . Shepherd. Not another word — not another word — if you love me. North. Plave the Cockneys been bribing you to desert us^ James ? Shepherd, The Cockneys ! Puir misbegotten deevils ! (I maun to speak Scotch again now that I'm in good humor.) I would rather crack nuts for a haill winter's nicht wi' a mon- key, 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 1 do in Embro' and Yarrow. . . . (Here follows the Supper.) Tickler. James, you are the worst smoker of a cigar in Christendom. No occasion to blow like a hi^Dpopotamus. Look at me or North — you would not know we breathed. Shepherd. It's to keep mysel' frae falliu' asleep. Hear till that auld watchman, crawing the hour like a bit bantam. What's the cretur screeching ? Twa o'clock ! ! Mercy me ! — we maun be aff. {Exeunt omnes.) m. IN THE BLUE PARLOR. North. — Shepherd. — Tickler. North. Thank heaven for winter ! Would that it lasted all year long ! Spring is pretty well in its way, with budding brandies and carolling birds, and wirapling burnies, andfleec} skies, and dew-like showers softenins^ and brighteuincr the bosom of old mother earth. Summer is not much amiss, with umbrageous woods, glittering atmosphere, and awakening thunderstorms. Nor let me libel Autumn, in her gorgeous bounty, and her beautiful decays. But Winter, dear, cold- lianded and 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 or an old Cremona discoursinsr excellent music — thine the long snow-silent or hail-rattling nights, with earthly 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 grewln,* and a' sorts o' deevilry amang lads and lasses atrockins and kirns. Beef and greens ! Beef and greens ! Oh, Mr. North, beef and greens ! • Orewin — coursing. 30 A Plea for Winter. 31 North. Yes, James, I sympathize with your enthusiasm. Now, and now only, do carrots and turnips deserve the name. Tlie season this of rumps and rounds. Now the whole nation sets in for serious eatino- — serious and substantial eatin^, James, half leisure, half labor — the table loaded with a lease of life, and each dish a year. In the presence of that Haggis 1 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 slice of the stot, James, another slice of the stot — and, Mr. Ambrose, smash that half-ton lump of black diamond till the chimney roar and radiate like Mount Vesuvius. — Why so glum. Tickler ? — why so glum ? Tickler. This 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 da}" ? Are not wages good, and work plenty, and is not charity a British virtue ? Shepherd. I never heard sic even-doun nonsense in a' my born days. . . . Mr. Tickler, there's nae occasion, man, to look sae doun-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' Mollygo-tawny soup, wi' bread in proportion — twa codlins (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 jeelies and coosturd, and bluemange, and many million mites in that Campsie Stilton — better than ony 52 Tickler^ s Ajypetite. English — a pot o' draught — twa long shankers o' ale, noes 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 looking at Mrs. Siddons in the sleep- walking scene in Shakespeare's tragedy of Macbeth — gin ye had an appeteet after a' that destruction 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 Ileraclitus been contemporaries, it would have saved the shedding of a world of tears. Shepherd. Just laugh your fill, Mr. Ambrose. A smile is aye becoming that honest face o' yours. But I'll no be sae wutty again, gin I can help it. [Exit Mr. Ambrose with 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 1 With an ever observant eye he watches the goings-on of the board, like an astronomer watching 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. During 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 Mullion usurping the place of the kidneys of O'Doherty. 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 " Hear the CrlenUvet I " 33 Jupiter's satellites forsake his orbit' jostling the stars, and wheeling away mto some remoter system, than our Ambrose run against any of the subordinates, or leave the room wliile North is in his chair. North. Hear the Glenlivet ! — Hear the Gleyilivet ! Shepherd. No, Mr. North, nane o' your envious attributions o' ae spirit for anither. It's the soul within him that breaks out, like lightning in the coUied "* niglit, or in the dwawm- like t silence o' a glen the sudden soun' o' a trumpet. Tickler. Give me vour hand, James. Shepherd. There, noo — there, noo ! It's aye me that's said to be sae fond o' llattery ; 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 rhat saluted De Gama at the Cape o' Storms. North. Hear the Glenlivet ! — Hear the Glenlivet ! Shepherd. Hush, ye haveril. X Give up a speech yoursel, Mr. North, and then see wiio'li cry, " Hear the Glenlivet I — hear the Glenlivet ! " then. But baud your tougues, baith o' you — dinna stir a fit. And as for you, Mr. Tickler, howk the tow out o' your lug, and hear till a sang. {The Shepherd sings "The brakens wi' me.") 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 — " Ano-els ever briofht and fair," or '"■ Farewell, ve lim- pid streams and floods." Shepherd. I was at the last York Festival, and one day 1 was in the chorus, next to Grundy of Kirk-by-Lons * ♦' Like LigUtning i]i tlia c>lUed uiglit." — Mldsiiuini^r yig/ii's Dream Co! I led— hhicke'AQil as with coal, f Dioaicm-llke — swoon-like, t HurL'rU — n chattofT-ii; U'\li!-v,ltto<'. persoii. 34 The York Musical Festival. dale. I kent my mouth was wide open, but I never heard my aiti 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 fiiigels 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 froe the awe o' their religious hearts that beat not, but were cnamed as in the pres- ence of their Great Maker. All eyne were fixed in a sol- emn 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 pillars — 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' splen- dor that came through the high Gothic window, left shadows here and there throughout the temple, till a' at ance the or- gan 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. North. What think 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- tare. Were every eatable land animal extinc', the human race could dine and soup out o' the ocean till a' eternity. * Of'yon— -ratli-or. Tlie Feril of Lu7icheo7u 35 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 propor- tiotts. Yetholm ketch.up made by the gipsies. Mushroom, for ever — damn walnuts. North. I care little about what I eat or drink. Shepherd. Lord have mercy on us — wdiat a lee ! There does not, at this blessed moment, breathe on the earth's surface ae human being that doesna prefer eating and drink- ing to all ither pleasures o' body and sowl.^ This is the rule : Never think about either the ane or the ither but when you are at the board. Then, eat and drink wi' a' your pow- ers — moral, intellectual, and physical. Say little, 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 hap- piness. I daurna trust mysel' wi' a luncheon. In my haun-s it becomes an untimeous denner — for after a hantle o' cauld meat, muirfowl pies, or even butter and bread, what reason- able cretur can be ready afore gioamin for a het denner ? So when'er I'm betraj^ed into a luncheon, I mak it a luncheon wi' a vengeance ; and then order in the kettle, and finish aii wi' a jug or twa, just the same as gin it had been a regular dinner wi' a table-cloth. Bewaur the tray. North. A few^ anchovies, such as I used to enjoy with my *"Some people," says Dr. Samuel Jolinson, "have a foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. 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 will hardly mind anything else." — Boswell's Life^ chap. xvii. 36 The Mid-day Hour, dear Davy at the corner, act as a wliet, I confess, and noth- ing 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 not upon the integrity o' time atween break- fast and the blessed hour 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 col- lected a' ower Scotland, and a' ower the face o' the earth — for in every clime wondrously the same are the great lead- ing laws o' man's necessities — under bits o'bonny buddin or leaffu' hedgeraws, some bit fragrant and fluttering birk-tree, aneath some owerhanging rock in the desert, or by some diamond well in its mossy cave — breakin their bread wi' thanks oivin 2:, and eatin with the clear blood o' health mean- dering in the heaven-blue veins o' the sweet lassies, while the cool airs are playing amang their haflins-covered* bosoms wi' many a jeist and sang atween, and aiblins 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 Robbie Burns lo'ed sae weel and sang sae gloriously — and the whilk, need I fear to say't, your ain Ettrick Shepherd, my dear fellows, jias 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 * Hajlins-covered—hsi.U'COXGied. IVhat is pleasant Conversation f 37 of your pathos, my dear James. ( Looking red about the eyes.) North.- We were talking of codlins."^ Shepherd. True, Mr. North, but folk camia be aye talkiu 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 walkini^ through a mountainous kintra — at every glen-mouth the wun' blaws frae a different airtf — the bit bairnies come tripping alang in opposite directions — noo a harebell scents the air — noo sweet briar — noo heather bank — here is a grue- some 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 hillside 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' som.e great waterfa' far aff in the very centre o' the untrodden forest. A' the warks o' ootward natur are sym- bolical o' our ain immortal 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 m malice 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 * Codlins — small cod ; not apples, as tlie American editor supposes. t Airt — point of the compass. X How carefully Sheridan's impromptus were prepared beforeliand may be learned from Moore's Life of that celebrated wit, just published at the date uf this number of the Nodes. 38 The SJiepherd^s Monkey, to be palmed off 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 him 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, beholding the sunrise ! or weeping, like a Laker, at the beauty o' the moon and stars ! North. Is he a bit of a poet ? Shepherd. Gin he could 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' him ! 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 engaged to be married, although he's no in the secret himsel', yet. The bawns"^ are published. Tickler. Why, really, James ; marriage, I think, ought to be simply a civil contract. Shepherd. A civil contract ! I wuss it was. But oh ! Mr. Tickler, to see the cretur sittin wi' a pen in's hand, and pipe ♦ Bawns — ^baiins. His Accomplishments. 39 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 bairn's auld big-coats on his back ; and then sure eneugh, when he takes his stroll in the avenue, he is a heathenish Christian. North. Why James, by this time he must be quite like one off the family ? Shepherd. He's a capital flee fisher. I never saw a monkey throw alighter line in my life. But he's greedy o' the gude linns, and canna thole to see onybody else gruppin 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 Montgomeryf 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 Rainbow — in my pocket, and it made me proud to see sic honors conferred on genius. Lang-wunded speech, Mr. Tickler ! What ! would you have had Montgomery mumble twa-three sentences, and sit down again, before an assemblage o' a hundred o' the most resoectable o' his fellow-townsmen, with Lord Milton at their head, a' gathered thegither to honor with heart and hand One of the Sons of Sonsj ? North. Right, James, right. On such an occasion, Mont- * Kersse, a celebrated Kelso salmon-fislier. t James Montgomery, author of The World before the Flood, and other esteemed poems, was born in 1771, and died in 1854. 40 The Night of Trafalgar, gomery was not only entitled, but bound to sjDeak of himself — and by so doing he " has graced his cause." Meanwhile let us drink his health in a bumper. SJtepherd. Stop, stop, my jug's done. But never mind, I'll drink't in pure speerit. {Bihunt omnes.') TicJder. Did we include his politics ? 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 politics, 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 Whig leader, Satan himself ; besides, James Montgomery is, I verily believe, a true patriot. Gin he thinks himself a Whig, he has nae understanding whatever o' his ain character. I'll undertak to bring out the Toryism that's in him in the course o' a single Noctes. Tory- ism is an innate principle o' human nature — Whiggism but an evil habit. sirs, this is a gran' jug ! Tickler. I am beginning to feel rather hungry. Shepherd. I hae been rather sharp-set even sin' Mr. Ambrose took awa the cheese. North. 'Tis the night of the 21st of October — the battle of Trafalsjar — 'Nelson's death — the greatest of all Eno^laud's heroes — ** His march was o'ev tlie mountaiu wave, His liome 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- born. The Spirit of the Iliad. 41 Shepherd. Yes — a cairii to liis memory would not be out of place even at the liead of the most inland glen. Not a sea-mew floats up into our green solitudes that tells not of Nelson. North. His name makes me proud that 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 bricht- est luminary o' nicht says in that halo, " England expects every man to do his duty." . . . 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 poet- ry will be that which celebrates war. The mighty races of men, and their mightiest deeds, are represented in such poet- ry. It contains " the glory of the world " in some of its noblest ages. Such is Homer. The wholei poem of Homer (the Iliad) is war, yet not much of the whole Iliad is fight- ing and that, with some exceptions, not the most interesting. If we consider warlike poetry purely as breathing the spirit of fighting, the fierce ardor of combat, we fall to a much lower measure of human conception. Homer's poem is in- tellectual, and full of affections ; it would go as near to make a philosopher 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 be found anywhere in language the real breathing spirit of lust foi llglit which is in some nations, there would be concep- tions, and passion of blood-thirst, which are not in Homer. There are flashes of it in ^schylus. Shepherd. I wish to heaven I could read Greek. I'll begin to-morrow. 42 The Glory of War. Ticlchr. The songs of Tjrtaeus goading into battle are of that kind, and their class is evidently not a high one. Far above them must have been those poems of the ancient German nations, which were chanted in the front of battle, recitino- the acts of old heroes to exalt their courasfe. 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 ennobling concejDtions, and yet was mere- ly 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 the heart. In fact, the cause of war is false on both sides. But there is a glory of war, like the sjjlendor of sun- shine, resting upon and enveloping all. Shepherd. I'm beginning to get a little clearer in the up- per storey. That last jug was a poser. How feel j'^ou gentlemen — do you think you're baith quite sober ? Our conversation is rather beginning to get a little heavy. Tak a mouthfu'. (North quaffs.) TicUer. North, you look as if you were taking an observa- tion. Have you discovered any new comet ? 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 about the jorum. No speech — no speech — for my heart is big. This may be our last meeting in the Blue Parlor. Our next meeting in AMBROSE'S HOTEL, PICARDY PLACE 1 * * At this time Ambrose was about tosliift bis sign from Gabriel's Road, at the baclc of Princes Street, to a large tenement in Picardy Place, facing tlie liead of Leitlv Walk. It will be seen, in the next Xoctes, that the party again met in the old, " Blue Parlor" in Gabriel's Road. Farewell to the Blue Parlor, 43 {'^ov^.TH suddenly sits down; Tickler and the Shepherd in a moment are at his side.") Ticher. My beloved Christopher, here is my smelling-bottle {Puts the vinaigrette to his aquiline nose.) Shepherd. My beloved Christopher, here is my smelling- bottle. (Pnts the stately oblong Glenlivet crystal to his lips.) North {opening his eyes). What jiowers are those? Roses- mignonette, bathed in aromatic dew ! Shepherd. Yes ; in romantic dew — mountain 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. ( winter ^Ir. A:mbrose, much affected, with North's dreadnought ; North tohispers ^V^ his ear, Subridens oUi ; Mr. Ambrose looks cheerful, et exeunt omnes. * Syho—Sk leek. IV. IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD USURPS THE EDITORIAL CHAIR. Blue Parlor. — 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 manner o' doubt that Mr. Ambrose '11 succeed in it. Yon bis letters facinsf 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 riglit hand when I forget Gabriel's Road. 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 underofoincf a vital chan2;e. Nothinsf 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, but 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 — iust a leetle — of his lustre. But it is the streets, squares, couns, closes. The Shepherd is coyijidential. 45 — ^lands, houses, shops, that are all changed — ^gone — swept off — 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. ... 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 allowance 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 your cigar, and puff away like a steam-engine — though ye ken I just detest smokin ; — ^for I hae a secret to communi- cate — a secret o' some pith and moment, Mr. Tickler ; and I want to see your face in a' the strength o' its maist natural exi^ression 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 1 hae aye had the most profoun' respect for your abeelities, and I hae a pleasure in giein you the start o' the world for fOur-and- twenty hours. — I amnoo 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 getting 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 Yarrow yonder, fu' o' the maist 46 The Shepherd in the Chair. magnificent offers — indeed, telling me to fix my ain terms , and, faith, just to get rid o' the endless fash o' letters by the carrier, 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 Sanctorum. Tickler. Well, James, all that Russian affair * 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. Sire ! Shepherd. Nane o' your mocking — 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. Shepherd. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mr. Tickler, you're feared that I'll lay my haun on yane o' your articles. O 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 tell you — I hae been ringing this half-hour for the Balaam- box. 3fr. Ambrose. Here is the safe, sir. I observe the spider is still in the key-hole ; but as Mr. North, God bless him, told * The " Russian affair " was the declinature by Constantine of the Russian sceptre, in favor of his younger brother Nicholas, who died on the 2nd of March, 1855. TicJder is appointed Sub-Editor. 47 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'a che Monthly Budget? Mr. Ambrose. Here, sir. Shepherd (emptying the green bag 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 aff 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 v/eight I 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 ! . . . What's that your glowering on, Sub ? Tickler. Sub ? Shepherd. Ay, Sub. I create you Sub-yeditor of the Magazine. You maun correc' a' the Hebrew, and Chinese, 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. I^oo and then ye may overhaul, 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 soundin pero- ration. North had nae equal at that ; and I hae kent him turn out o' his hands a short, pithy, biting article, frae a long lank, lumbering rigmarole, taken, at a pinch, out the verra Balaam-box. The author wondered at his ain genius and * Smeddum — spirit. 48 Tlie Monthly Budget erudition when he read it, and wad gang for a week after up and down the town, 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 son2^. To do it justice, I must sing it. iSings.) " oil ! often on the mountain's side I've snng with all a slieplierd's pride, And Yarrow, as lie roll'd along, Bore down the hurden of the song. A shepherd's life's the life for me He tends his flock so merrily, — « He sings his song, and tells his tale, * And is beloved through all the vale." Shepherd. Tut, tut ! — it's wersh f — wersh as a potauto with- out saut. The writer o' that sang never wore a plaid. What for will clever chaps, wi' a classical education, aye be writin awa at sangs about us shepherds ? Havers ! t Let Burns, and me, and Allan Cunningham talk o' kintra matters under our ain charge. We'll put mair real life and love into ae line — aiblins 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 fire-heap at once, without further inspection. Shepherd. For God's sake, baud your hand, Mr. Tickler ! — • dinna burn that, as you hou|) to be saved ! It's my ain haun- writin — I ken't at a' this distance — I'll swear till't in a court o' justice! Burn that, and you're my Sub nae lauger. * Tells his tale. Milton in l' Allegro, uses this expression as a synonym for "counts his flock;" here, by a singular misapprehension, the words Boem to be used literally iu the sense of " tells his stori/ ! " t Wersh— iusiiAd. % Havers— ]sa-gon.. The Shepherd objects to " Jainesy 49 Tickler. My dear Editor, I will sing it. Shepherd. Na, you slianna sing't — I'll sing't mysel, thougli I'm as hoarse as a oraw. 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 wi' 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 1 It's the twa Epithaliums that I wrote for the young Duke o' Buccleuch's birthday, held at Selkirk the 25th of November, 1825. f {sings.) Rejoice, ye wan and wil(i^r'd, glens, Ye dowie dells o' Yarrow. TicJcler. 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 protected from degenerating into a coarse or careless familiar- ity. Tickler. Suppose you occasionally call me " Southside," and that I call you " Mount Benger " — * Afterwards the Countess of Essex. t Hogg's munificent landlord, tlie present Duke of Buccleucli, born in 1806. 60 The Health of Biiccleuch ! 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 ! — lie 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 verra pride gies them a higher character. The cl;uj must not disgrace the Chief. The " Duke" is a household word all over that Border — the bairns hear it every day — • and it links us thesfither in a sort o' brotherhood. Curse the Kadicals, who would be for destroying the old aristocracy of the land ! [Sings the second Eplthalium, — Wat o' Buc- CLEUCH.) There's a s5,ng 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 ain health — here's Ebony's health — here's Ambrose's health — the healths o' a' the con- tributors and a' the subscribers. That was a wully-waught ! * I haena left a dribble in the jug. I wuss it mayna flee to my head — it's a half-mutchkin jug. Tickler. Your eyes, James, are shining with more than their usual brilliancy. But here it goes. [Driiihs his jug.) Shepherd. After all, what blessing is in this world like a rational, well founded, stedfast friendship between twa people that hae seen some little o' human life — felt some little o' its troubles — kept fast hauld O' 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. 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 the • Wullywaught—l&Tge drauglit. TJie Loch in Winter, 51 shade of King Arthur 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 young 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 fear- some, — 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 been 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. 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 akimbo, off I went in a figure of 8, garring the crowd part like clouds, and circumnavigating the frozen ocean in the space of nboiit 52 The Shepherd Skates. 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 fankled ; and I finished with doing the 4:7th Proposition of Euclid with mathematical precision. Tickler. My dear Editor, you are forgetting the articles. The devil will be here for copy. ... Shepherd. Mr Tickler, here's a most capital article, entitled " Birds." * I ken his pen the instant I see the scart o't. Naebody can touch aff 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 written. — Square down the edges with the paper-foldor, and label it " Leading Article." 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 subject for him. Save us ! what he would mak 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 his own — fiend-like 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 — folding up his wings very comi^osedly — * Tliis article, wntten bj- Profeiisor Wilsou, appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xix. p. lo."). The Shepherd's Dismay. 53 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 hunger and tliirst. Horror pierces both yonr eyelashes before the bird begins to scoop ; and you have already all the talons of both his iron feet in your throat. Your heart's blood freezes ; but notwithstanding that, by and by he will suck it uj) ; 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 difference o' features, but very muckle o' the same expression. {Recites.^ " Oh to be free, like the eagle of heaven." TicUer. I used sometimes to think that North gave us too little poetry in the Magazine. Here's a little attempt of my own, Mr. Editor — if I thought it could pass muster. Shepherd. Ou ay. But what noise is that ? Do you hear o;iy noise in the lobby, Mr. Tickler? Dot, Dot, Dot! Dinna you hear't ? It's awfu' ! This way. O Lord ! it's Mr. North, it's Mr. North, and I am a dead man. I am gaun to be deteckit in personating the Yeditor. I'll be hang- ed 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 dashed to a thousand pieces ? 64 The Editor arrives. 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, hondjide, editor. And I too ! Am not I your Sub ? What is this, Mount Benger ? * Shepherd. A sudden thocht strikes me. I'll put on the wig, and be the offisher frae the Castle. Paint my ee-hrees wi' burned cork — fast, man, fast — the gouty auld deevil's at the door. 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. JVor'th. How do you do, Major? — I am happy to see you. I have the honor 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 honor, fresh as a two-year-old. Is it, indeed, the redoubtable Kit that I see before me ? You must be- come a member of the United Service Club. We can't do without you. 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- * Hogg's territorial title, from the name of his farm. Tlie Shepherd asserts himself. 55 looking fellow as yourself, 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). O ye Gawpus ! Ye great Gawjous ! It's me, man — it's me ! Tuts, man, dinna lose your temper. Dinna you think I would mak a capital play-actor ? North. Why, James, men at my time of life are averse to such wao-o^eries. Shepherd. Averse to waggeries! You averse to wag- geries ? 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 heel o' you, just like garme-cocks when about to gi'e battle. Vow, but you're crouse ; ^ but sae sune as \ turn the tables on you, g^gg 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 be- gin whimpering about your age and infirmities — immediately you baith draw up your mouths as if you had been eatin 8ourocks, let down your jaws like so many undertakers, and * Crouse — brisk arrl pri-nfirlcnt. 56 A General Amnesty proclaimed. 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, Theolo- gy, Poetry, Political Economy, Oratory, Criticism, Jurispru- dence, Agriculture, Commerce, Manufactures, Establishments in Church and State, Cookery, Chemistry, Mathematics — or My Magazine ? J^orth. Your Magazine ? Shepherd ( bursting into a guffaw). O Mr. North ! O Mr. North ! what a f ule I hae made o' Tickler. I made him believe 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 j)ity 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. 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. Gi'e the signal, Mr. North. Tickler. ) t i ^ err 7 7 hi ask pardon. i^hepherd. ) ^ North. Let us embrace. ( Tria juncta m uno.) Shepherd. Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! — Noo for t;he Powl- dowdies.f * Co70p — overthrow. t Powldowdies—ojstQrs, V. IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD RO UTS MULLION Blue Parlor. — North, Shephekd, 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 dangeroxis thing. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring." Shepherd. Oh, man, Mullion ! 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-ofiice, wi' a watchman aneath ilka oxter, kickin and spurrin a' the way, like a pig in a string. Haud * Dou]:ecl your lugs — plunged your ears. 57 58 Is " a little Learning" dangerous f your tongue, Mullion, about drinkin 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' so. A' contributors are in a manner fairce — but I canna cliole to hear nonsense the nicht. Ye may just as weel tell me that a little 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 licht'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 civil- ized 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 4eep, and snore, and draw your breath through a wat crinkly -.^ugh, 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 onything's mair preferable than j 3rk, yerkin at everything said by a wiser man than yoursel — by me^ or Mr. Canning, or Mr. North, when he chooses to illuminate. ♦ Wumiock — window. The Shepherd is interrupted. 59 Mullion. What will Mr. Canning say now about Parlia- mentary Reform, after that oration of his about Turgot and Galileo ? Shepherd. Turkey and Galilee ! What care I about such outlandish realms ? Keep to. the point at issue, sir, — the ed- ication o' the people ; and if Mr. Canning does not vote wi' me for the edication o' the people, confoun' me gin he'll be Sficretary o' State for the Hame Department anither session o' Parliament. Mullion. The Foreign Department, if you please, Mr. Hogg. Shepherd. Oh, man, that's just like you, — takin hand 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 policy ? Tickler. I confess, Mr. Hogg, that — Shepherd. Nane o' your confessions, Mr. Tickler, to me. I'm no a Roman priest. Howsomever — beg pardon for in- terrupting 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 — practising its own virtues. Shepherd. Noo, noo, Mr. Tickler, ye ken the unfeigned respec I hae for a' your opinions and doctrines. But ye (iiaunna 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 ana o' them a' in a free 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 spealc anither word the nicht, if that 60 Ihe Shepherd Resumes, creter Mullion keeps interruptin folk wi' that nyaffing* voice o' him in that gate. I say there are at least three thousand orders in the State — ^j-)lolighmeu, shepherds, ministers, squires, lords, ladies, auld women, virgins, weavers, smiths, professors, tailors, sodgers, howdies, bankers, pedlars, tinklers, poets, editors, contributors, manufacturers, annuitants, grocers, drapers, booksellers, innkeepers, advocates, writers to the W. S., grieves, bagmen, and ten hundred thousand million forbye — and wull you, Mr. Ticklei.', presume to tell me the . proper modicum o' edication for a' these Pagan and Christian folk ? Tickler. Why, James, you put the subject in a somewhat new point of view. Go on. Mr. Mullion, if you please, let us hear James. Shepherd. I hae little or naething to say upon the subject, Mr. jN'orth — only 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 station and discharge its duties. Besides, different degrees o' knowledsre must belons^ to different men even in the same station ; and I'm sure it's no you, sir, that would baud clever chiels ignorant, that they might be on a level wi' the stupid anes o' their ain class. liaise as high as you can the clever chiels, and the stupid anes will gain a step by their elevation. 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. What's that, sir, you're pittin into your mouth ? North. The depilatory of Spain, James, a sovereign rem edy for the toothache. • .Yf,"7/77?)7--?Tnall yelping. Mullions Appeal. 61 Shepherd. Take a mouthfu' o' speerit, aud keep whurlin't aboot in your mooth — dinna spit it out, but ower wi't — then anitlier, and anither, aud anitker — 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 colors o' the rainbow. We maun apply leeches. I daursayMrs.'Awmrose has a dizzen in bottles in the house — but if no, I'll rin mysel to the laboratory. North. The paroxysm is past. Look at Tickler and Mullion 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 speakin. You was sae enterteenin, Mr. North — sae el- oquent — sae philosophical. Midlion. That's twa ggems, Mr. Tickler. Hurra, hurra hurra ! Shepherd. Od, man, Mullion, to hear ye hurrain that gate, ane wad think ye had never won ony thing 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 terrible. Shepherd. You're a capital clever chiel, Mullion. I was just tryin to see what effect 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 Mullion — and there's millions o' Mullions in the warld — whenever he sees me • ;S'ia 6— stake. 62 Card-Playing in Ettrick. frichtened for him, or modest like, which is my natural dis- position, he rins in upon me like a terrier gauu to pu' a badger. That's a' I get by actin on the defensive. Sometimes, there- fore, 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 interruption. 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 wi' 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 Colburn. North. Gaming is not a vice, then, in the country, James ? 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 cheerfu', noisy sicht o' com- fort and confusion. Sic luckin into ane anither's hauns ! Sic fause shufflin ! Sic unfair dealin ! Sic winkin to tell your pairtner that ye hae the king or the ace ! 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 his deal ! Then what giggl in amang the lasses ! What amicable, nay, love quarrels between pairt- ners ! Jokin and jeestin, and tauntin, and toozlin — the caw- nel blawn out, and the soun' o' a thousan' kisses ! That's * Grew— Greyhouud Wolves in the Fo7-est. 63 caird-playing in the kintra, Mr. North ; and whare's the man amano; ye tliat wull daur to say that it's no a pleasant pastime o'a winter's nicht, when the snaw is comin doon the lum, or the speat's roarin amang the mirk mountains ? Midlion. 1 should like to have been t'other day at the shooting of the elephant. Tickler. Well, I should not. 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 ? I'm gettin hungry — I've a great likin for wild beasts. Oh, man ! gin we had but wolves in Scot- land ! TicMer. Why, they would make you shepherds attend a little better to your own business. How could you visit Ed inburgh and Ambrose, if there were wolves in the forest? Shepherd. I wadua grudge a score o' lambs in the year — for the wolves would only raise the price o' butcher's meat — tliey would do nae.harm to the kintra. What grand sport, lioundin the wolves in singles, or pairs, or flocks, up yonder about Loch Skene! Tickler. What 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 Act be held in operation against him and may he never be naturaleezed ! Tickler. What ! woul you be afraid of a tiger, James ? Shepherd. Would I be afraid o' a teegger, Timothy ? No half as afeard as you wad be yourself. Faith, I wadna grudge giein 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 64 North and the Tiger. thcat pow o' yours, that ye baud so heigh, fracture youi skull, dislocate your neck, crack your spine, and gar ye play tapsalteerie * ovver a precipice into a jungle where the teeg- ger had his bloody den. Tickler. Would you give no assistance — lend no helping liund, 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 Chris- tian 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, eyeing 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 Black- wood'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. Meanwhile 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 fir- ing both barrels successfully against the Bird of Juno. ♦ Tapsalteerie — ^lieels-OTer-liead. Sport — is it cruel ? 65 Shepherd. I've heard you tell that 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' snijDe-shot. North. Never, James — but I rendered him an idiot or a madman for the rest of his life. Much evil is done the cau^e of humanity by indiscriminate and illogical abuse of pursuits or recreations totally 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 innocent, 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 nature 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. Ane may weel lose patience, to think o' fules being sorry for the death o' a fox. When the jowlers teur him to pieces, he shows fecht, and ga^ngs aff in a snarl. Hoo 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. 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- * SAar^et/— sc;ratcbo<1. 6Q The Shepherd's Landscapes. vine on brown paper, and Mr. Scroope * telt Sir Waltei they showed a gran' natural genius. I fin' maist diffeeculty in the foreshort'nin and perspective. Things wunna retire and come forrit as I wush — and the back-grun' will be the fore-grun* whether 1 will or no. Sometimes, however, I dash the distance 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' the effect o' nature. North. Do you work after Salvator Rosa or Claude Lor- raine, James ? Shepherd. I'm just as original in paintin as in poetry, and follow nae master ! I'm partial to close scenes — a bit neuk, wi' a big mossy stane, aiblins a birk tree, a burnie mais-t 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 ofE " a wide open country with the keelivine. Shepherd. So it is. I've dune a moor — gin you saw't you 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 stroncjer bent — some o' the stalks thick as your arm — and places wi' naething but stanes. Here and there earth-chasms, cut by .the far-off folk for their peats — and on the foreground something like water, black and sullen. * This aecomplisbed gentleman ami keen sportsman was tLe author of a finelv illustrated work on