,t
GIFT OF
Felix Flflgel
EWALD FLflGEL,
1897"
PALO ALTO.CAL
?EL1X
NOCTES AMBROSIANJ.
BY
CHRISTOPHER NORTH.
(PROF. JOHN WILSON).
SELECTED, EDITED AND ARRANGED ST
JOHN SKELTON,
ADVOCA1E.
NEW YORK:
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER,
1 8 VESEY STREET.
No
IQ7
XPH A'EN 2YMIIOZIQ KYAIKflN HEPINISSOMENAQN
HAEA K12TIAAONTA KA6HMENON OINOIIOTAZEIN.
PHOC. op. Ath.
[This is a distich by wise old Phocy tides,
An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ;
Meaning, " 'Tis RIGHT FOB 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 nt motto to put to our Noctes.]
C. N. ap. Amhr
DRAMATIS PERSONS
CHRISTOPHER NORTH.
THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
TIMOTHY TICKLER.
THE ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.
COLONEL CYRIL THORNTON.
MULLION, A Gentleman from the West.
BULLER, An Englishman.
THE REGISTRAR.
AMBROSE, Mine Host.
NATHAN GURNEY, the Reporter for the " Noctet"
MRS. GENTLE, a Widow.
Miss GENTLE.
BRONTE, a veteran Newfoundlander.
O' BRONTE, a young Newfoundlander.
A Cat, a Parrot, a Starling, a Raven, tyc.
The Jug.
TAPPYTOORIE, PICARDY, SIR DAVID GAM, KING PEPIH,
and others, Servants to AMBROSE.
The Scenes are laid at Ambrose's Tavern Tn Edinburgh ;
Buchanan Lodge, on the Firth of Forth ; St. Mary's Loch ;
the Ettrick Forest, and elsewhere.
THE CONTENTS.
THE INTRODUCTION, ». ix
I.
In which Christopher North, Timothy Tickler, and the Etlnck
Shepherd are introduced to the reader, ... 1
II.
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, ... 67
VI.
In which the Shepherd assists at an Incremation, . . 69
VIL
At the Lodge in Summer, .... 86
vi T?te Contents.
vm.
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
XL
The Execution of the Mutineer, . . . .133
XII.
In which the Shepherd paints his own portrait, . . 150
XIII.
In which Tickler captures the calf, and the Shepherd secures
the Bonassus, . . • • • .164
XIV.
In which the Shepherd and Tickler take to the water, . 184
XV.
The Shepherd is attacked by Tic-Douloureux, A ngina Pectoris,
and Jaundice, ..... 212
XVI.
In which, after North is hanged and drowned in a dream, the
Shepherd is tempted and falls, .... 232
XVII.
The Haggis Deluge, 248
TJte Contents ^ vii
xvm.
PAGE.
In which the Shepherd, having skated from Yarrow, takes a
planter, ......* 261
XIX.
In which, after settling Othello, North floors the Shepherd, . 282
XX.
In which, during the great storm, the Snuggery window is
blown in, and the Shepherd suffers, . . • 302
XXL
In which, the English Opium-Eater dining with the Three,
the Shepherd mounts Bonassus, .... 323
XXII.
The Bloody Battle of the Bees, . . 854
XXIII.
In which, after the Shepherd has appeared successively as Pan,
as Hercules, and the Apollo Belvidere, North exhibits
his great picture — the Defence of Socrates, . • 386
XXIV.
n which, in the race from the Saloon to the Snuggery, Tickler
and the Shepherd are distanced by North, . . 410
XXV.
In which North erects his 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 Lodge, .... 462
viii The Contents.
*
XXVIL
PAOK.
A Dinner in the Forest, 485
xxvm.
A Day at Tibbie's, 498
XXIX.
In which the Shepherd appears for the last time-as the terrible
Tawney of Timbuctoo, ..... 527
APPENDIX, 553
GLOSSARY, . .... 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,
the 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
ix
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 way 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 part 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 Tuddy 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, who 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 with emotion while he turns to the window,
through which 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
goodness, 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 with
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 Introduction.
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 con-
The Introduction. xiii
ceived in the true spirit of Comedy, using the word
in its widest sense, and their 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
i i v The Introduction.
suited to the pages of a critical j jurnal or a
review, are entirely out of place in a permanent work
of the artistic imagination.
• It was clear, therefore, that if these
could be conveniently detached, the true dramatic
unity 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 whole, 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
lacunas, 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
mar the general effect — the tout~€m-*ammal, as the
Shepherd would say — of an almost unique piece of
dramatic humor. 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;
and it has been suggested that an author in such
straits should " request the prayers of the congrega
tion." Even a mere editor 4ias difficulties in his way,
— as the present editor has discovered. To have
called this volume the " Noctes Ambrosianao " might
have produced a false impression, seeing that it does
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 work
which deals wit h,or presents directly and dramatically
to the reader, human life, and character, and passion,
as distinguished from that portion of it which is fV/V/m/,
and devoted to the discussion of subjects of literary,
artistic, or political interest only. The word "Comedy "
(although 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 8nl>#t,iui',- of the
Discussion or Debate in which the kl Three " engage is
often grave, and not un frequently pathetic, the presen
tation is essentially humorous,— the surroundings being
xvi The Introduction.
whimsical, and the situations mirth-provoking. The
44 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, appeared 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 original 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 age of mechanical invention — of the steam-engine
and the telegraph — being disposed to regard the pro
verbially barren fields of psychology with disrelish and
disrespect. Against this materalizing tendency, 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
* The present edition is baaed upon that edited by Professor Ferrier.
The material passages of the Preface which he contributed are reprinted
In the Appendix. The Notes also are mainly taken from that edition,
which must always remain the standard, and, so to speak, classical edition of
the " Noctes AmbrosiansB."
The Introduction. xvii
commented on the Greek psychologists, or explored the
intricacies of the Hegelian logic ; and for Hegel (be it
said in passing) he entertained an immense, and, con
sidering the character of his own mind — its clearness,
directness, and love of terseness and epigram — some
what inexplicable admiration. At the same time he
was no mere bookworm. He did not succeed, and
did not try to succeed, at the Scottish bar, to which
he was called ; but he had many of the qualities —
subtlet}^ of thought, lucidity of expression, power of
arrangement — which ought to have secured success.
He took a keen interest in the letters and politics of
the day. His own style was brilliant and trenchant,
and it was probably the slovenliness and inelegance of
Reid (which even the studied art and succinct power
of Hamilton have been unable to conceal or repair)
which drove him into the camp of the enemy. He
was considered, in orthodox philosophical circles, some
what of a free lance. He had a sharp scorn for
laborious dulness and pretentious futility, — a scorn
which he took no pains to disguise. When he de
scended into the controversial arena, he was sure to
be in the thickest of the melee. He hit right and left ;
quietly, deftly, for the most part, it is true, yet with a
force and precision which it was unpleasant to provoke
and difficult to resist. If his life should be written
hereafter, let his biographer take for its motto the five
words of the " Faery Queen," which the biographer of
the Napiers has so happily chosen — " Fierce warres and
faithful loves" For though combative over his books
and his theories, his nature was singularly pure, affec-
The Introduction.
tionate, and tolerant. He loved his friends even bet"
ter than he hated his foes. His prejudices were in
vincible ; but apart from his prejudices, his mind was
open and receptive, — prepared to welcome truth from
whatever quarter it came. Ferrier, other than a high
Tory, is an impossible conception to his friends ; yet
had he been the most pronounced of Radicals, ho
could not have returned more constantly to first prin
ciples, nor showed more speculative fearlessness. He
was, in fact, an intrepid and daring reasoner, who al
lowed few formulas, political, ecclesiastical, or ethi
cal, to cramp his mind, or restrain the free play of his
intellectual faculties. This contrast, no doubt, pre
sents an air of paradox; but Ferrier's character, as
well as his logic, was sometimes paradoxical. He
was a man of infinite subtlety, and he liked to play
with his fancies, — to place them under strong lights,
and in unusual attitudes ; but he possessed a fund of
humor and common-sense which made him on the
whole a sound and discerning student of human na
ture. He was content to spend his days in contem
plative retirement ; but every one who has seen him
must have remarked a certain eager look — an eager
ness of gesture and of speech — which indicated quite
other than a sluggish repose. He united with a pe
culiar sensitiveness of constitution and fineness of
critical faculty, a sturdy and indomitable soul. His
frame, in his latter years at least, was slim and atten
uated ; but to the end he was one of the manliest of
men. He was capable of becoming on occasion, as I
have indicated, hotly, and it may be unreasonably
The Introduction. xix
indignant. Perhaps to this original fire and fineness
of nature his early decline is to be attributed. The
fiery soul 4 fretted the pigmy body to decay." Taken
from us in the prime of life and in the vigor of his
powers, the death of such a man is a loss to our
philosophical schools not quickly to be repaired ; to
his relatives, to his disciples, to his students — to all
who knew him in the easy intercourse of social life
— the loss is irreparable. Apart altogether from
those qualities of heart and intellect, of which the
world knows, or may yet know, his friends will
not soon forget his refined simplicity of manner,
— a manner perfectly unaffected, peculiar to him
self, and indicating a remarkable delicacy of or
ganization, yet smacking somehow of the high breed
ing and chivalrous courtesy of that old-fashioned
school of Scottish gentlemen whom he had known in
his youth, and of which he remained the represen
tative.
J. S.
THE HERMITAGE OF BRAID,
llth May, 1876.
NOCTES AMBROSIANJl.
IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER NORTH, TIMOTHY TICK
LER, AND THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD ARE INTRO.
DUCED TO THE READER.
Blue Parlor. — Midnight. — Watchman heard crying " One
NORTH.— TICKLER.— THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
The middle Term asleep.
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 !
Tickler (dormiens). Three times three. — Hurra ! hurra I
hurra !
Shepherd. That's fearsome. Only think how his mind
corresponds wi' his friends, even in a dwam o' drink, — for I
* Afterwards the Countess of Harrington.
2 Th-e Pastoral Drama.
never saw him 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 Ramsay — 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 incee-
dents, and passions o' the human mind in my drama — mair
fun, and frolic and daffinf — 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 Sirs and Lords upon 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 frae§ the
lave o' the characters, — by way o' " similitude in dissimilitude,"
as that haverer || Wordsworth is sae fond o' talking and
writing about. Aboon a' things, 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 im
mortalize baith him and yoursel in my " Ain Life," — in my
yawtobeeograffy. I'll pay aff a' auld scores there, I'se war
rant you. Deevil tak me gin IT I haeiia a great mind — («
* Keelivine— chalk pencil. \ Daffin— liumorsome nonsense.
% Wiselike— judicious. § Abeigh/rae—&loof from
0 Haverer — proser. IF Qin—U. .
Tickler's Legacy. 3
pause, — -jug}— to hawn * you down to the latest posterity as
a couple o'
North. James ! — James ! — James !
Shepherd. Confound thae grey glittering een o' yours, you
warlock that you are ! I maun like you, and respeck you,
and admire you too, Mr. North ; but och, sirs ! do you ken
that whiles I just girn, out-by yonner, wi' perfect wudness *
when I think o' you, and your chiels about you, lauchin' 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. Reach me over
that pamphlet ; 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 further portion
of Botheration about Pope, f
* Hawn— hand. t Wudness— distraction.
$ The " botheration about Pope " refers to a protracted controversy orig-
nating 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.
4 Pope.
Shepherd. I care little about Pop — except his Louisa arid
Abelard. That's a grand elegy ; but for coorseness it beats
me hollow. . . . Puir wee bit hunched-backed, windle-strae-
legged, gleg-eed, * clever, acute, ingenious, sateerical, weel-
informed, warm-hearted, real philosphical, 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 Bolingbroke 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 pulpit, — his Ye-
pistles about the Passions, and sic like, in the whilk he goes
baith deep and high, far deeper and higher 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, wi' a' these sylphs
floating about in the machinery o' the Rosicrucian Philoso-
phism, just perfectly yelegant and gracefu', and as gude, in
their way, as onything o' my ain about fairies, either in the
Queen's Wake or Queen ffynde, — his Louisa to Abelard is,
as I said before, coorse in the subject-matter, but, 0 sirs !
powerfu* and pathetic in execution — and sic a perfect spate f
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
thoct 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 f am 'liar with his works
— you have them at your finger ends.
Shepherd. I never ken what's in my mind till it begins to
work. Sometimes I fin' mysel just perfectly stupid — my
mind, as Locke says in his Treatise on Government, quite a
* Oleg-eed — sharp-eyed. f Spate — stream in flood
" Lisle Bolh " 5
carte blanche — I just ken that I'm alive 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 blissful dreams gathered up in the
sacred solitudes of nature.
Tickler. Bowles also depreciates his genius.
North. No, no, no !
Tickler. Yes, yes, yes !
Shepherd. Gude save 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 set
tles the question against our friend Bowles ID one line : —
" Nature must give way to Art."
North. Pope's poetry is full of nature, at least of what I
uave 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 havf
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
6 Superiority of Pope.
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 I What interminable prosing ! The language is
out of condition, — fat and fozy, thick-winded, purfled 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.
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 next number,
which I think 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 ?
• The friend of Sir Walter Scott.
The Death of Byron. 1
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 narrow 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 his hideous propensities 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 truth. How quickly all misrepresentations die
away ! One hates calumny, because it is ugly and odious in
its own insignificant and impotent stinking self. But it is al
most always extremely harmless. I believe at this moment that
Byron is thought of as a man, with an almost universal feel
ing of pity, forgiveness, admiration 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
capital cod and haddock now in St. Mary's Loch.
Tickler. James ! — James ! — James !
Shepherd. Nane o' your jeering, Mr. Tickler. The nat
uralization of sea-fishes into fresh-water lochs was recom
mended some years ago in the Edinburgh Review, and twa-
three 'o us, out by yonner, have carried the thing into effect.
* John Cam Hobhouse, afterwards Lord Broughton— the friend of Byron
when living, and his defender when dead.
8 Haddocks in St Marys Loch.
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.
Tickler. I thought the scheme plausible at the time. I
read it in the Edinburgh, which I like, by the way, much
better as a zoological than a political journal. Have, you
sent a creel of codlings 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
favorable opinion of Queen Hynde.\
North. No, — no. Jeffrey has a soul above bribery or
corruption. All the cod in Christendom would not shake his
integrity. You had, however, better send half-a-dozen riz-
zered haddocks to Tom Campbell.
Shepherd. My boy Tammy wull never choke himself wi'
my fish-banes, Mr. North.
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 worst fifty lines in a' Queen Hynde are
nae worth the haill vollumm. . . . Wha's conceit $ was the
boiler ?
Tickler. Your humble servant's. Ambrose goes to bed
regularly at twelve, and Richard half an hour after. Occa
sionally, as at present, old friends are loath to go — so, not to
disturb the slumbers of as worthy a family as is in all Scot
land, I ordered the boiler you now see at Begby and Dick-
son's, St. Andrew Square. It holds exactly six common
kettlefuls. Strike it with the poker. — Ay, James, you hear
by the clearness of the tinkle that it is nearly low water.
* Fushuynless — without sap. t A poem by Hogg, published in 1825.
$ Conceit — notion.
The Shepherd's Wealth. 9
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 spirits by itsel'.
I never saw the match o' this tall square fallow o' a green
bottle for handing spirits. The verra neck o' him hauds
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 off
life'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
me things in your wull ; but I would prefer something in
haun
North. Then, my dear friend, there is a receipt for your
last article — the Shepherd's Calendar.
Shepherd. Twa tens ! Come noo,sirs, let me pay the reck
oning. . . . 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
rolling 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 dou
ceur — a small perquisite.
Hogg. Twenty gallons, man, — that does not serve our
house for sax weeks in the summer part of the year, when
* When the piston of a pump-well ceases to work from having become too
dry, water is poured down upor It to restore the action. This operation is
called fanglng the well.
10 Buchanan Lodge.
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 heart, Mr. North. I hear you've
been biggin a bonny lodge near Larkfield yonder, within the
murmur 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 every,
thing rich and rare in the world of flowers. Folding doors
are drawn noiselessly into the walls, as if by magic, and lo !
drawing-room and dining-room, stretching east and west in
dim and distant perspective, 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, ser
vants' room, etc. ; and the third side my study and bedrooms,
— all still, silent, composed, standing obscure, unseen, unap
proachable, holy. The fourth side of the square is not, —
shrubs, and trees, and a productive garden shut me from be
hind ; while a ring-fence, enclosing about five acres, just
sufficient for my nag and cow, form a magical circle, into
which nothing vile or profans can intrude. O'Doherty
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
* So named after the celebrated walk in the Grounds of Magdalen CoM»<je,
Oxford, where Professor Wilson was educated.
The Mysteries of Incubation. 11
honor 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 stayed 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, ahint the house, amang, the offishes, and
through 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 pheasants, or patricks, or muirfowl.
Their flesh will be the sappier, and mair highly flavored on
the board, and their shape and plummage beautifuller far,
strutting about at liberty among your suburbs. Aboon a*
things, for the love o' heevin, nae cavies ! f 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.J 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 screech
ing out frae their het eggs, a' in a ever, with their feathers
tapsetowry, 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.
• Big — build. t Caviet— hen-coops.
I Daigh and dmmmock—dovLgh and cold porridge-
12 Hogg on How-towdies.
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 mid o' March till the end o' August, and never de
vour aff a haill clackin at ance. Aye keep some three or
four pullets for eerocks, or for devouring 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
agreed o' gem- birds. Nane better than the lady-legg'd reds.
1 ken the verra gem-eggs at the first pree frae your dunghill
— a different as a pine-apple and 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 ; f or if that princely chiel be in Embro' or
Lunnon, to James Laidlaw's and Watty Bryden's, in Strath-
glass, 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 mo'ny 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 South-
Bide, t
* An easy-tempered, somewhat slovenly female is called in Scotland a
mawsie.
T The Thane was the Earl of Fife, whose estates in Braemar abound in red
deer. James Laidlaw and Walter Bryden were sheep farmers in Strathglass.
The former was the brother of William Laidlaw, Sir Walter Scott's friend
and factor.
$ Mr. Kobert Sym, of whom Timothy Tickler was in some respects the
eidolon, resided in No. 20 George Square, on the south side of Edinburgh.
A Song by the Shepherd. 13
Shepherd. That's maist extraordinar. I could hae ta'enmy
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.
AlR, " Whistle, and Pll come to ye, my lad."
If e'er jou would be a brave fellow, young man,
Bewpre of the Blue and the Mellow, * 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, t young
He-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 off a
segment of a circle, and have been making 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
• The " Blue and the Yellow " is the Edinburgh Review.
t The effigies of George Buchanan is the frontispiece to Blackwood's Afaga-
tine.
14 Three o'clock a. m.
beats like the strong, regular pulse of a healthy horse.
Whirr ! whirr ! whirr ! Hear till her gi'eing 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 *'U
hae gane to the garret, and how'll I get in ?
(Sus canit.) — O let me in this ae night,
This ae ae ae night, etc.
With a* our daffin, we are as sober as three judges with
double gowns.
Tickler. As sober !
Mr. AMBROSE looks out in his nightcap, wishing good
night with his usual suavity. JSxeunt — TICKLER in
advance — and NORTH leaning on the SHEPHERD.
* The sign of the hostelrie near the Grassmarket where Hogg resided when
In Edinburgh.
II.
IN WHICH TICKLER NARRATES HTS EXPERIENCES
' A T DALNA CA RDO CH.
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
murder 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. Why kill the royal bird ?
Tickler. In self-defence. It bore down upon Sancho like a
sunbeam 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 yell,
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-
* A shooting-quarter in the highlands of Perthshire, occupied in the sum.
mer of 1825 by some friends of Professor Wilson.
16 Tickler " in purls naturalibus"
ters in pur is naturalibus — and out-Byroning Byron, shot in
twenty seconds, a furlong 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
habiliments. 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 -pound standing, with a jaw like
an alligator, 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! *0h that Sir
Thomas Lawrence * or our own John Watson, f had been
there to put you on canvas ! Or shall I rather say, would
that Chantrey had been by to study you for immortal mar
ble !
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 our speed when I fired, and the ball piercing his spine
the magnificent creature sunk down, and died almost without
a convulsion.
* Sir Thomas Lawrence died in 1830.
t Afterwards Sir John Watson Gordon, President of the Royal Scottish
Academy.
Apollo and Daphne. 17
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
carcase. 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
Paradise, 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 ?
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 chase, but saw that Malvina
was making for a morass. Whiz went a ball within a stride
of her petticoats, 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 impetuous 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 lightened, she bounded over the
little knolls like a barque over Sicilian 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.
18 Spoiling the Egyptians.
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 ... of Highland greed.
North. If idle folks will wander over the Highlands, 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
shieling, be it what it may, or give up a day's sport on the
hill or river to accompany a Sassenach* some thirty miles
over the moors, with his big 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 like a gentleman. So, with boats, a couple
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. Recollect,
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 Gaelic — as lean as laths ; — what
the worse will you be of being cheated a little ? 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.
* Sassenach — a Lowlander or Englishman.
G-rouse-Soup. 19
An extraordinary price must be paid for an extraordinary
service. But, oh ! my dear North, what grouse-soup at Dal-
nacardoch ! You smell it on the homeward hill, as if it were
exhaling from the heather : deeper and deeper still, as you
approach the beautiful chimney vomiting forth its intermit
ting columns of cloud-like 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 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
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
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 hun
* Jawp— spalsh.
20 Tickler's Polggamy.
ger — 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.
Nortfi. 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 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 ?f
Tickler. I have ; and feel disposed 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 1 have been a
monogamist. 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, compli-
• In his " Address to a Wild Deer," Professor Wilson says of the hunter :
" 'Tis his, hy the mouth of some cavern his seat,
The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet,
"While the thunder below him that growls from the cloud,
To him comes on echo more awfully loud."
t At that time recently discovered.
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
poet 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
the race, the subject-matter of poetry is to be sought and
22 The Excursion.
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
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 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 a while.
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 in the sound. The remaining 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. O 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 long red pendant at their noses, and
frightening away the fair and lovely swans as they glide
down the waters of immortality ?
Scott's Martial Spirit. 23
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 nev
er with impetuosity or grandeur. There if no strength, no
felicity in his diction — and the substance of his poetry is
neither rich nor rare.
Tickler. But then, when his 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 1
should deny drivelling to any poet, ancient or modern — for
now he makes my very soul burn within me ; and, coward
and civilian though I be, — yes, a most intense and insuperable
coward, prizing life and limb beyond all other earthly pos
sessions, 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 nourishing 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 Marmlon t "
North. Bravo — bravo — bravo !
Tickler. I care not one single curse for all the criticism
that 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
24 Portrait of Wordsworth.
another, 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 him 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 intellectual.
The forehead is narrow, and the skull altogether too scanty.
Yet the baldness, the gravity, and the composure are impres
sive, 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 ex
pression of courteousness arid philanthropy.
North. Is he not extremely eloquent ?
Tickler. Far from it. He labors like a whale spouting —
his voice is wearisomely monotonous — he does not know
when to have done with a subject — oracularly announces per
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.
Modern Conversation. 25
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.
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. O 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
snuffers — and stinking away after expiration in the socket ! *
North. Bad enough in town, but worse, far worse, in
country places.
Tickler. The Burgeon ! The dominie ! The old minister's
assistant and successor ! The president of the Speculative
Society ! Two landscape painters ! The rejected contribu
tor to Blackwood ! The agricultural reporter of the county !
The surveyor ! Captain Campbell ! The Laird, his son !
The stranger gentleman on a tour ! The lecturer on an or-
* Scott's conversation is thus elsewhere described : —
" Shepherd- I never in a' my born dayi, and I'm noo just the age o* Sir
Walter, and, had he been leevin, o' Bonnypratt, met a perfeckly pleasant —
that is a'thegither enchaiitin man in a party — and I have lang thocht there's
nae sic thing in existence as poo'rs o' conversation. There's Sir Walter wi'
his everlastin anecdotes, nine out o' ten meanin naething, and the tenth
it.sel as auld as the Eildon Hills. Yet I lov« and venerate Sir Walter aboon
a' ither leevin men except yoursel. sir, and for that reason try to thold his dis
course. As to his ever hearin richt ae single syllable o' what ye may be sayin
to him, wi' the maist freendly intent o' enlichtenin his weak mind, you
maun never indulge ony howp o' that kind— for o' a' the absent men when
anither's speakin, that ever glowered in a body's face, without seemin token
even wha he's lookin at, Sir Walter is the foremost ; and gin he behaves in
that gate to a man o' original genius like me, you may conceive his treatment
o' the sumphs and sumphesses that compose fashionable society".
'26 Oblivion.
rery ! 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 wi
dow ! 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 within him —
for he is inspired. Wind him up, and away he goes, dis
coursing most excellent music — without a discord — full, am
ple, inexhaustible, serious, and divine !
Tickler. Add him to my list, and the band of instrument
al music is complete.
North. It is pleasant to know how immediately every
thing 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 life,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 thirty 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
Thurtell, and Hunt, and Fauntleroy, and Hazlitt, and Tims,
and Soames, and Sotheran ? Soap-bubbles all — blown,
burst, vanished, and forgotten.
Tickler. Why, you almost venture to republish Maga her
self in numbers, under the smirk of a New Series. I know
a worthy and able minister of our church, who has been
preaching (and long may he preach it) the self -same sermon
for upwards of forty years. About the year 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
A Veteran Sermon. 27
During the Whig ministry of 1806, my attention was strong
ly 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 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. Coine, now, tell me truth — have you ever palmed
off any part of it upon me in the shape of an article ?
Tickler. Never, 'pon honor ; 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. 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." — ( Trameunt omnes.)
SCENE II. — The Pitt Saloon.
North. Hogg, with his hair powdered, as I endure I
— 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 Meggat — turnips like cabbages, and cabbages like bal
loons — bairns brawly, and Mistress bonnier than ever. — It is
quite an annus mirabilis.
Tickler. James, my heart warms to hear your voice.
• Nowte— cattle. A stream near Hogg'a farm.
28 H°99 °n his High-horse.
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 indistinct
ly by candle-light, or I shall rather say, by gas-light. 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 please, sir. Why, you think
because I am good-natured, that you and North, and " the
rest," are to quiz the Shepherd ? Be it so — no objections —
but hearken to me, Mr. Tickler, my name will be remem
bered when the dust of oblivion is yard-deep on the grave
stone 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, un
doubtedly — 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'f — and set up an opposition Maga
zine, that . . .
North. This is most extraordinary behavior, 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 ine — at
my time of life a man cannot afford to lose a friend. No,
he cannot indeed.
* Of the Church of Scotland.
t Spinks' Hotel,— the resort (real or supposed) of opposition literary con-
vivialists.
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 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 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' inawt 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. . . .
•
(Here follows the Supper.)
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 inysel' frae fallin' asleep. Hear till
that auld watchman, crawing the hour like a bit bantam.
What's the cretur screeching ? Twa o'clock ! ! Mercy me I—
we maun be aff. (Exeunt omnes.)
in.
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
branches and carolling birds, and wimpling burnies, 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 awakening
thunderstorms. Nor let me libel Autumn, in her gorgeous
bounty, and her beautiful decays. But Winter, dear, cold-
handed 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
of an old Cremona discoursing 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 grewin,* and
a* sorts o' deevilry amang lads and lasses at rockins and kirns.
Beef and greens ! Beef and greens ! Oh, Mr. North, beef
and greens !
* Grewin— 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.
The season this of rumps and rounds. Now the whole nation
sets in for serious eating — serious and substantial eating,
James, half leisure, half labor — the table loaded with a lease
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
slice of the slot, 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
day ? 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 ouy
32 Tickler's Appetite.
English— a pot o' draught — twa long shankers o' ale, noos
arid 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 Heraclitus
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 ! 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 G-lenlivet ! " 33
Jupiter's satellites forsake his 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 envious attributions
o' ae spirit for anither. It's the soul within him that breaks
out, like lightning in the collied * night, or in the dwawm-
like f 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 up a speech yoursel,
Mr. North, and then see who'll cry, " Hear the Glenlivet !
— hear the Glenlivet ! " then. But haud your tongues,
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 — " Angels ever bright and fair," or u Farewell, ye 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 Lightning in the collied night."— Midsummer Night's Dream
Collied — blackened as with coal,
t Dwawni-like — swoon-like,
t Havvril — a c-hatteriny half-witted person.
34 The York Musical Festival.
dale. 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
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 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
ture. Were every eatable land animal extinc', the human
race could dine and soup out o' the ocean till a' eternity.
* Geyan— rather.
The Peril of Luncheon. 35
Tickler. No fish-sauce equal to the following : — Ketchup
— mustard — cayenne pepper — butter amalgamated on your
plate proprio manu, each man according to his own propor
tions. Yetholm ketchup 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 — what 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 myseP wi' a luncheon. In my haims
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 gloamin for a het denner ? So
when'er I'm betrayed into a luncheon, I mak it a luncheon
wi' a vengeance ; and then order in the kettle, and finish aff
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 Johnson, " have a foolish way of
uot 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.
86 The Mid-day Hour.
dear Davy at the corner, act as a whet, 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'
thanksgiving, 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,
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
* Hajlins covered — half-covered.
What is pleasant Conversation ? 37
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 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' some 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 t
— puns painfully elaborated with pen and ink for extempo
raneous reply — bon-mots generated in 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 the American editor supposes.
t Alrt— point of the compass.
t How carefully Sheridan's impromptus were prepared beforehand may be
learned from Moore's Life of that celebrated wit, just published at the date
yf this number of the Noctes.
38 The Shepherd'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 himseF,
yet. The bawns* are published.
Tickler. Why, really, James ; marriage, I tlr'nk, 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 — banns.
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, ho
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 himseF. 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 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 fwa-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 honor with heart and hand
One of the Sons of Song ?
North. Right, James, right. On such an occasion, Mont-
* Kersse, a celebrated Kelso salmon-fisher.
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 speak of himself
— and by so doing he " has graced his cause." Meanwhile
let us drink his health in a bumper.
Shepherd. Stop,stop, my jug's done. But never mind, I'll
drink't in pure speerit. (Bibunt omnes.)
Tickler. 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 Nodes. Tory
ism is an innate principle o' human nature — Whiggism but
an evil habit. O 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 Trafalgar — Nelson's death — the greatest of all England's
heroes —
" His march was o'er the mountain wave,
His home was 011 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 cairn to his memory would not be out
of place even at the head 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 whole 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
for fight 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 JEschylus.
Shepherd. I wish to heaven I could read Greek. I'll
begin to-morrow.
42 The Glory of War.
Tickler. The songs of Tyrtaeus 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,
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 ennobling conceptions, 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 splendor 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 you
gentlemen — do you think you're baith quite sober ? Our
conversation is rather beginning to get a little heavy. Tak
a mouthfu'. (NORTH quaffs.}
Tickler. 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 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 Noctes, that the party
again met in the old, " Blue Parlor" in Gabriel's Road.
Farewell to the Blue Parlor. 43
( NORTH suddenly sits down ; TICKLER and the SHEPHERD
in a moment are at his side.)
Tickler. My beloved Christopher, here is my sinelling-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 flowers 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.
( Enter Mr. AMBROSE, much affected, with NORTH'S
dreadnought ; NORTH whispers in his ear, Subridena
olli ; Mr. AMBROSE looks cheerful, et exeunt omnes.
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. Ton's a grand hotel in Picardy — and there can
be nae manner 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 naetking 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 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 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, 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 — just a leetle —
of his lustre. But it is the streets, squares, courts, closes,
The Shepherd is confidential. 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
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
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 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 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 ine 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, Constantino, 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-youfm 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. 0 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.
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
* The " Russian affair " was the declinature by Constantino of the Russian
sceptre, in favor of his younger brother Nicholas, who died on the 2nd of
March, 1855.
Tickler 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's
the 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 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 ! . . . 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. Noo 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 The 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, diuna ye think sae
his superior ?
Tickler. I do. There seems to me something pretty in this
little son^. To do it justice, I must sing it. (Sings.)
" Oh ! often on the mountain's side
I've sung with all a shepherd's pride,
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore down the burden 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 ! $ Let Burns, and
me, and Allan Cunningham talk o' kintra matters under our
am 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, haud your hand, Mr. Tickler ! —
dinna burn that, as you houp 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 langer.
* Tells his tale. Milton in I' Allegro, uses this expression as a synonym
for "counts his flock;" here, by a singular misapprehension, the words
eoem to be used literally in the sense of " tells his xtory ! "
t Wersh — insipid. t Ilaccrs — jargon.
TJie Shepherd objects to " James.'" 49
Tickler. My dear Editor, I will sing it.
Shepherd. Na, you shanna 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 sue 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 ! It's the twa Epithaliums
that I wrote for the young Duke o' Buccleuch's birthday,
held at Selkirk the 25th of November, 182o.f (sings.)
Rejoice, ye wan and wilder'd glens,
Ye dowie dells o' Yarrow.
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
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, the present Duke of Buccleuch, born In
1806.
50 The Health of Bucdeuch !
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 verra pride gies them a higher character. The clan
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 thegither in a sort o' brotherhood. Curse the
Radicals, who would be for destroying the old aristocracy
of the land ! (Sings the second Epithalium, — WAT o' Buc-
CLEUCH.) 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 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. (Drinks 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
* Wully- waught— large draught.
The 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
borispeil, 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 about
52 The Shepherd Skates.
two minutes. " The curlers quat their roaring play," and
every tent east 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 47th 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-folder, 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 composedly —
* This article, written by Professor Wilson, appeared in Blaclcwood'8
Magazine, vol. xix. p. 105.
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
thirst. Horror pierces both your 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 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 ray 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."
Tickler. 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
ony 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 ?
54 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, bond fide,
editor. Arid 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-brees
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.
North. 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.
The 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 dcealec 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 ftoggs ?
Shepherd (throwing off his disguise} . 0 ye Gawpus ! Ye
great Gawpus ! 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 waggeries.
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 game-cocks when about
to gi'e battle. Vow, but you're crouse ; * but sae sune as I
turn the tables on you, gegg 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
sourocks, let down your jaws like so many undertakers, and
* Crouse — brisk and confident.
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 ?
North. Your Magazine ?
Shepherd ( bursting into a guffaw). O Mr. North ! O
Mr. North ! what a fule 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 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.
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 ,
Shepherd. } T ask Pard°n'
North. Let us embrace. ( Triajuncta in uno.)
Shepherd. Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! — Noo for the Powl-
dowdies.f
*tCowp — overthrow. t Powldowdies— oysters.
V.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD ROUTS MILLION
Blue Parlor. — 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.
Driiik 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-office, wi' a watchman aneath ilka oxter,
kickin and spurrin a' the way, like a pig in a string. Haud
* JDouked your lugs— plunged your ears.
57
58 Is " a little Learning " dangerous ?
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*
ye. A' contributors are in a manner fairce — but I canna
thole 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 duel'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.
Midlion. 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 onything'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.
* Wunnock — 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
Secretary 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 haud o'
a word, as if ony rational ;~nan 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 am 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
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 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 speak anither word the nicht, if that
60 2 he 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 — 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, booksellers, innkeepers, advocates, writers to the W.
S., grieves, bagmen, and ten hundred thousand million forbye—
and wull you, Mr. Tickler, 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. North — 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'
knowledge must belong to different men even in the same
station ; and I'm sure it's no you, sir, that would baud clever
cliiels ignorant, that they might be on a level wi' the stupid
anes o' their ain class. Raise 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 staug, 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.
* Nyaffing — email yelping.
Mullion s Appeal. 61
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 colors 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. 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.
Mullion. 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 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 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
« Stab— 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 gaun 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 gigglin 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— Greyhound
Wolves in the Forest. 63
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 nicht, when the snaw is comin doon the lum, or
the speat's roarin amang the mirk mountains ?
Midlion. I 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 !
Tickler. 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 wadna grudge 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. 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 vou frae a
distance o' twenty yards, and wi' a single pat o' his paw on
64 North and the Tiger.
that pow o' yours, that ye hand so heigh, fracture youi
skull, dislocate your neck, crack your spine, and gar ye play
tapsalteerie * ower a precipice into a jungle where the teeg-
ger had his bloody den.
Tickler. Would 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 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-over-bead.
Sport — is it cruel ? 66
Shepherd. I've heard you tell that story a thousan' times,
Mr. North ; but ye'll pardon me for sayin noo, what I only
iook'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 him an idiot or a
madman for the rest of his life. Much evil is done the cause
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. Gia 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 te'ir
him to pieces, he shows fecht, and gangs 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-
» Skarted— scratched.
66 . 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 I 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 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 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 stronger 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 accomplished gentleman and keen sportsman was the author of a
finely illustrated work on deer stalking.
The Moor and the " Brig" 67
as if it quaked. Nae birds but some whaups * — ane Heein,
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, I will give you twenty guineas for that
keelivine sketch.
Shepherd. Ye'se hae't for naething sir, and welcome — if
you'll only fasten't against the wa' wi' a prin f 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
gey an 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 siclike on
the arch, and the sun smote it wi' sudden glory, till in an
instant it burst into a variegated lowe, and I could hae taen
my Bible-oath it was the rainbow. Oh ! man, that I had
had a pullet o' colors ! I'm sure I could hae mixed them up
prismatically aneuch, — yet wi' the verra mere, naked, unas
sisted 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,
* Whaups— curlews. t Prin— pin.
68 Serious Eating.
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 smell the tur
key. From seven o'clock to this blessed moment your tongue
has never ceased wagging. I must now have my turn.
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, Mullion, stop. What ! will ye daur to
walk before Mr. North ? Tak my arm, sir.
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 failins.
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.
VI.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHED ASSISTS AT AN INCREMA
TION.
Blue Parlor.
NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD. — CLERK OP THE BA
LAAM-BOX. — MR AMBROSE. — DEVIL. — PORTERS. — IN-
CREMATORS.
Shepherd. Safe us ! I was never at an Incremation afore !
North. Mr. Ambrose, bring in Balaam,* and place him on
the table.
$Ir. Ambrose. May I crave the assistance of the Increma-
tors, 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, arid try to hoise him up, our twa lanes,
ontil the table.
Tickler. My dear Shepherd, you'll burst a blood-vessel.
Let me assist.
North. And me too !
Shepherd. Dinna loot f 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, Mr. Awmrose ?
* The depository of rejected contributions. t Loot— stoop.
70 The Preliminaries.
— Dinna girn 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.
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 whisky, 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 gi'e a stane.
North. Let the Incremators take their stations.
(They do so, one, at each side of the chimney. The
Incremators are Jiremen belonging to the Sun Fire
Office.)
Devil !
Devil. Here !
North. Clerk of the B. B.
O. B. B. Here !
North. Open Balaam.
G. 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 mo
ment the clerk had turned the key, it flew up with prodig
ious violence, 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
wo 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 eneuch to shave by. But the same
* Stoiter — stagger. t Bouk — bulk. J Dung — knocked.
Lucifer and Beelzebub. 71
shinna* befa' the year — for I'se sit doun upon the lid like
a guardian angel, and the lid'll 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 niind 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 !
North. Mr. Ambrose, stnd in the scavenger. — Sorters, col
lect 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
the maist fearsome ! What tangs in their hauns ! and what
pokers ! Lucifer and Beelzebub !
North. At home, James, and at their own firesides, 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 del
icate little gir] of eighteen, quite a fairy of a thing — seem
ingly made of animated wax — so soft that, like the winged
butterfly, you would fear to touch her, lest you might spoil
the burnished beauty.
Shepherd. Married — on him wi' the red whuskei s !
* Shinna — shall not.
72 « All Poetry to Beelzebub:'
North. Come, now, James, no affected simplicity, no Arca
dian innocence !
Shepherd. You micht hae gi'en him the play the day, I
think, sir ; you micht hae gi'en him the play. The Incre-
mawtor !
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' poetry to Beelzebub ! ! O 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. Whist — whist.
(BEELZEBUB recites " The great muckle village of Bal-
raaquhapple.")
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 ?
Shepherd. What a dracht in that lum ! * It's a verra
fiery furnace ! — hear till't hoo it roars, like wund in a cavern !
Sonnets, charauds, elegies, pastorals, lyrics, farces, tragedies,
and y epics — in they a' gang into the general bleeze ; then
there is naething but sparkling 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 !
* Lum — chimney.
A Midnight Burning of Heather. 73
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 burning 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 glow
ed with fire unextinguishable by waterspout. The crackle
became 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 fire, and its
tresses, like a shower of flaming diamonds, were in a minute
consumed. Whirr, whirr, played the frequent gorcock
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 ant
lers, 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 sank in dark repose.
Tickler. Vivid coloring, 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 !
Tickler. James, what do you think of that, eh ?
74 T7ie Heat becomes intolerable.
Shepherd. Didna ye pity the taids and puddocks, and asks
and beetles, and slaters and snails and spiders, and worms
and ants, and caterpillars and bumbees, and a' the rest o'
the insect-world, perishin in the flamin nicht o' their last
judgment ?
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 this everyday world into the Land of Glamoury.
Shepherd. O 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 favor, no to burn the prose till after
supper. At a' events, let the married Incremawtor gang
hame to his bride — and there's five shillings to him to drink
my health at his aiu ingle.
(INCREMATOR, DEVIL, CLERK OF THE BALAAM-BOX,
PORTERS, and MR. AMBROSE retire.)
North. Who are the wittiest men of our day, Tickler ?
Tickler. Christopher North, Timothy Tickler, and Jaines
Hogg.
North. Poo, poo — we all know that — but out of doors ?
Tickler. Canning, Sydney Smith, and Jeffrey.
North. I fear it is so. Canning's wit is infallible. It is
Canning and Brougham. 75
never out of time or place, and is finely proportioned to its
object. Has he a good-natured, gentlemanly, well-educated
blockhead — 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 Bull
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
sittin up wi' him a' nicht, for three nichts rinnin, about
thretty years syne, at Miss Ritchie's hottel, Peebles. O man,
but he was wutty wutty — and bricht thochts o' a maist ex
traordinary kind met thegether frae the opposite poles o'
the human understanding. I prophesied at every new half-
mutchkin that Mr. Brumm would be a distinguished charac
ter ; and there he is, you see, Leader o' the Opposition !
Tickler. His Majesty's Opposition !
* At tliis time Canning was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
76 Sydney Smith.
North. Sydney Smith is a wit.
Shepherd. No him — perpetually playiu upon words. I
canna thole to hear words played upon till they lose their
natural downright meaning and signification. It was only
last week that a fallow frae Edinburgh 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
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, makin 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 till the sma' hours, he was not only rational, but
clever and weel-informed, and I gi'ed 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
enormous frizzle is felt ; and the dignitajy would fain ex
change all that horse-hair for a few scattered locks of another
animal.
North. He would 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. O man, that will be capital sports ! Sic con
versation !
• T^cunse— a passage within a house,— the lobby.
A Thunderstorm in Yarrow. 77
Tickler. 0 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
naething about. Wather ! My faith, had ye been but in
Yarrow last Thursday !
Tickler. What was the matter, James, the last Thursday
in Yarrow ?
Shepherd. I'se tell you, and judge for yoursel. At four in
the mornin, it was that hard frost that the dubs * were
bearin, and the midden f was as hard as a rickle o' stanes.
We couldna 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 grun' was whitey-blue, wi' a sliddery sort o' sleet,
and the Yarrow began to roar wi' the melted broo alang its
frost-bound 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 dinnertime 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 thunderstorm on
the eve o' sic a day ? But the heavens, in the thundery airt,
were like a dungeon — and 1 saw the lightning playing like
meteors athwart the blackness, lang before ony growl was
in the gloom. Then, a' at ance, like a waken'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 shud
dered in eclipse — and the grews and collies 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
4
• Dubs— puddles. t Midden — dunghill.
78 A Calm in Yarrow.
glance to the howling heavens, noo a' in low, for the fire
was strong and fierce in electrical matter, and at intervals
the illuminated mountains seemed to vomit out conflagration
like verra volcanoes.
Tickler. ' E~sa -reposvra !
Shepherd. Afore sunset, heaven and earth, like lovers after
a quarrel, Jay embraced in each other's smile !
North. Beautiful ! Beautiful ! Beautiful !
Tickler. Oh ! 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 hill-silence. It was mair
like a mornin 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 hours, days, months, and
years about the wather, without e'er becoming tiresome. O
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 faries' 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
ee, and through aneath ane's arm, guardin the face frae the
cloudless sunshine !
North. A rivulet leaping from the rock —
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 with
out motion ! No doubt, if you were walking along the bank,
A Calm in Yarrbiv. 79
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 drina.
ing, and also in putting down your tumbler. You break in
upon the repose of James' 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 happi
ness 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 re
gion 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 which she salutes the dewy dawn ; some yellow
as the long steady streaks that lie below the sun at set, and
ithers blue as the sky before his orb has westered. Spotted,
too, are all the glorious creatures' wings — say, rather,
starred wi' constellations ! Yet, O sirs, they are but crea
tures o' a day !
North. Go on with the calm, James — the calm !
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 ! Ay, sing awa, my
bonny bee, maist industrious o' God's creatures ! Dear me,
* Ettlin — intending, attempting.
80 A Temple in the Clouds.
the heat is ower muckle for him, and he burrows himsel in
amang a tuft o' grass, like a beetle panting ! and noo invisi
ble 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 —
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 ! Yon
der 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 from its vision,
sees nothing but the pageantry of earth's common vapors —
that ere long will melt in showers, or be wafted away in
darker masses over the distance of the sea. Of what better
stun7, O 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 steadfast or substantial than that cloud-cathedral, with
its flight of vapor-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 — Politics — Magazines and
Reviews, and the threatened Millenium ?
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 13
a full allowance. . . . ( The long-winded are rated by the three.)
Tickler in the Pulpit. 81
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 arid 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 his 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 ? f
Shepherd. You're just best as you are — a gentleman at large.
You're scarcely weel adapted for ony profession — except
maybe a fizician. You wad hae fau'J a pulse wi' a true
Esculawpian solemnity ; and that face o' yours, when you
looked glum or gruesome, wad hae frichtened families into
fees, and held patients down to sick-beds, season after
season. O man ! but you wad hae had gran' practice.
* The " prerentor " in the Presbyterian service corresponds to the
" clerk " in the Episcopalian.
t Moderator, or president, of the General Assembly of the Ohurch of
Scotland.
t Fan'— felt.
82 Quackery in all Professions.
Tickler. I could not have endured the quackery of the
thing, Hogg.
Shepherd. Haud your tongue. There's equal quackery in
a' things alike. Look at a sodger — that is, an offisher — a'
wavin wi' white plumes, glitterin wi' gowd, and ringin wi'
iron — gallopin on a grey horse, that caves * the foam frae its
fiery nostrils, wi' a mane o' clouds, and a tail that flows like
a cataract — mustachies about the mouth like a devourin can
nibal, 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 dunshin f down among the spats o' a teeg
ger'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 aide-de-camp o'
the stawf, — writers' clerks, bakers, butchers, and printers'
deevils, a' wushin they were sodgers, — and leddies frae bal
conies, where they sit shooin silk purses in the sunshine,
start up, and, wf palpitatin hearts, send looks o' love and
languishment after the Flyin Dragon.
North. Mercy on us, James, you are a perfect Tyrtseus.
Shepherd. O ! wad you believe't — but it's true — 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
durstna gang into the dookin § aboon his doup, for fear o'
drownin, and even then wi' seggs ; IF and as for speelin trees,
* Care*— tosses.
t Dunshin.— There seems to be no English word for tliis except "bump.
Ing ; " yet how feeble.
t Fozie— soft as a frost-bitten turnip. § DooHn— bathing.
t Seggs— sedges, answering the purpose of a cork jacket.
"Fozie Tarn." 83
he never ventured aboon the rotten branches o' a Scotch fir.
He was feared for ghosts, and wadna sleep in a room by hiin-
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 char
acterize 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. O sirs ! when
I see what creturs like him can do, 1 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 ?
Shepherd. I wonder to hear you askin. Let you or me
gang into a public room at ae door, amang a hunder bonny
lassies, and Fozie Tarn in full uniform at anither, and every
star in the firmament will 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 Tarn ?
Shepherd. And by mony o' the verra same creturs that at
a great leeterary sooper the nicht afore were sae affable 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
* A turnip Ian thorn.
84 Tfie Fife Hens.
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, dirlin * to ane's very heart — and after a'
this, and mair than this, only think o' being clean forgotten,
overlooked, or despised for the sake o' Fozie Tarn !
Tickler. We may have our revenge. Wait till you -find
him in plain clothes — on half-pay, James, or sold out — and
then, like Romeo, when the play is over, and the satin
breeches off, he walks behind the scenes, no better than a
tavern-waiter, or a man-mill iner's apprentice.
Shepherd. There's some comfort in that, undoubtedly. — •
Are the Fife hens lay in ?
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' yel
low eggs, frae the size o' a peppercorn to that o' a boy's
bools, t and up to the bulk o' a ba' o' thread, thinks 1 to my-
sel, " 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
fifty years. But the truth is, Mr. North, that all domesticated
fowl would live bra wly if turned out in to 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.
* Dirlin— thrilling. 1 Bools— marbles.
Tickler s Melancholy. 85
sir ! it wad be gran' sport to see and hear a great big bub
bly-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 as
tonished pointers-!
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. Oh 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 maist-
ly lyiii on the drawers-head — twice as mony mair in the
neuks o' rooms, up and down stairs — the servants get hand
o' them in the kitchen — and ye cauna 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. 0
man ! it wad be a sair pity to dee wi' sic an appeteet !
[ Clock strikes ten — -folding -doors fly open, and the Tria
Lumina Scotorum sit down to supper.
VII.
AT THE LODGE IN SUMMER.
Scene, — Buchanan Lodge — Porch. Time, — Afternoon.
NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD.
«
Shepherd. What a changed warld, sirs, since that April
forenoon we druv doun to the Lodge in a cotch I I couldna
but pity the puir Spring.
Tickler. Not a primrose to salute his feet that shivered in
the snow-wreath.
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 be
loved 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 doubtfu' glimmer o' sunshine, appearing
and disappearing frae amang the birk-trees, twenty times
The Hackney Coach. 87
in the course o' an April day. — But, oh ! sirs, you 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
the 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 ; in
tolerable aneuch ower the macadam, but Lord hae mercy on
us when you're on the causeway ! you could swear the
wheels are o' different 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 canna 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 — - f
Tickler. Why don't you keep your own carriage, James ?
Shepherd. So I do — a gig ; but when I happen to for
gather 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 abominations.
North. How do you like that punch, James ?
Shepherd. It's rather ower sair iced, I jalouse, and will be
• Fin's— feels.
t This is a faithful description of the old hackney-coach— a very different
Vehicle from the smart broughams which now ply upon our streets.
88 The Inebriety of the Sober.
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 wineglasses are perfect 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' uncon
scious 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. When
e'er I hear in the kintra o' ony man's being killed aff his
horse, I ken at once that he's a sober coof , that's been gettin
himsel drunk at Selkirk or Ha wick, and sweein aff at a sharp
turn ower the bank, he has played wallop into the water,
or is aiblins been fun' lyin in the middle o' the road, wi' his
neck dislocate, the doctors canna tell hoo ; or ayont the wa'
wi' his harns * sticking on the coupin-stane.
North. Or, foot in stirrup, and face trailing the pebbly
mire, swept homewards by a spanking half-bred, and disen
tangled 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 wuld hae been
staggering geyan steady into the parlor, wi' a' the weans
ruggin at his pouches for fairins,f and his wife, half angry,
half pleased, helpin him tidily and tenderly aff wi' his big
boots ; and then by and by mixing him the bowster cup—
and then —
* Harns— brain» t Fairins— presents.
The Inebriety of the Sober. 89
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 Hanoverian Succession.
Shepherd. I wad rather get fou five hunder times in an
ordinary way like, than ance to expose mysel sae afore my
fellow-citizens. Yet, meet my gentleman next forenoon in
the Parliament House, or in a bookseller's shop, or in Princes
Street, arm-in-arm wi' a minister, and he hauds 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 client, and, ten to ane, denounces you
to his cronies for a drunkard, who exposes himself in com
pany, and is getting constantly into scrapes that promise a
fatal termination.
North. Hush ! The minstrels !
Shepherd. Maist delightfu' music ! O sir, hoo it sweetens,
and strengthens, and merrifies as it comes up the avenue !
Are they Foreigners ?
North. An itinerant family of Savoyards.
Shepherd. Look at them — look at them ! What an out
landish, toosy-headed, wee sunbrunt deevil o' a lassie that,
playing her antics, heel and head, wi' the tambourine. Yon's
a darlin wi' her thoom coquet-coquettin on the guitaur, and
makin music without kennin't — a' the while she is curtshyin
and singin wi' lauchin rosy mouth, and then blushin be
cause we're glowering on her, and lettin fa' her big black eec
on the grun', as if a body were asking for a kiss ! That nitun
90 TJie Savoyard Minstrels.
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' !
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 play-actress dancin on the stage. Gude legs too — thin
ankles, and a thick calve — girl, wife, and witch a' in ane ;
and only think 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-s tap- jump o' a
bouncin body as that man o' hers, wi' the swarthy face and
head harlequinaddin on the Pan's-pipes, could never hae been
bred and born on a flat — But whish — whish — they're be
ginning to play something pathetic !
Tickler. Music is the universal language.
Shepherd. It's a lament that the puir wandering creturs
are singin 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 beutifu', wanderin wi' your melody name
less 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
The Scotch Puppy. 91
and innocence 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 morn to night a' up and doun
the dusty streets and squares. Yet they askt for naething,
contented creturs ! — Hear till them siugin awa doun the
avenue "God save the King," in compliment to us ana our
country. A weel-timed interlude this, 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 bonnie Mary.")
Tickler. Scotch and English puppies make a striking con
trast. The Scotch puppy sports philosophical, and sets to
rights Locke, Smith, Stewart, and Reid. lu his minority
he is as solemn as a major of two-score — sits at table, even
during dinner, with an argumentative face, and in a logical
position — and gives out his 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' your force, and then cover them wi' a bandage, — chiels
that are employed frae morning to nicht colleckin 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
92 TJie Castle of Indolence.
Ooter House — chiels that think it a great maitter to spoot
aff by heart an oraution on the corn 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 than 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 herrin to put intil the mooth o'
him, or a burned cork to gie him mistashies, 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 very 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 tremblin
in the swell o' the blue loch-water, inspire a dreamin somno
lency that the maist waukrifef canna a'thegither resist ; and
the bonny twilight, chequering the stane floor a' round and
round the shady Lodge, keeps the thochts confined within
its glimmerin boundaries, 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
umbrage o' imagination, and weel ken I what a heavenly thing
it is to soom doun the silent stream o' that haunted world.
• Shachlin— shuffling. f Waulrife— watchful.
A Portrait of Tickler. 93
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
hotchpotch, and that afternoon sun —
N<>rth. 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 luxuries 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 ly
ing and sitting at the same time ! carelessly diffused, yet —
Shepherd. You're a maist extraordinary feegur, Mr. Tick
ler, I humbly confess that, wi' your head imbedded in a cush
ion, and your een fixed on the roof like an astronomer ;
and your endless legs stretched out to the extremities o' the
yeai th ; 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 waist
coat 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 1
fear to tak the same leeberties wi' Mr. North that I sometimes
94 The Shores of the Firth.
venture 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 Royal Archers gies him
a Robin-IIoodish character, that makes ane's imagination
think o' the umbrage o' auldoaks, 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
vigorous. 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 ! 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 harne !
A' the towers, and spires, and pillars, and pinnacles, and
bewilderments 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' villas, and then atower the grove-heads, seem
ing sae thick and saft that you think you might lie down on
them and tak a sleep, the murmuring motion o' the never
weary sea ! Oh, Mr. North, that you would explain to me
the nature o' the tides !
Tickler s Experience of Ghosts. 95
North. When the moon —
Shepherd. Stap, stap; I couldna command my attention
wi' yon bonny brig huggin the shores o' Inchkeith* sae lov
ingly — 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 debateable and border land between re
alities and dreams, —
" My weary length at noontide would I stretch,
And muse upon the world that wavers by."
Tickler. I never had any professed feeling of the super or
preter-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
enamored of my nurse, and of the fat of ham which she
gave him with mustard, between two thick shaves t of a quar
tern 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 clay.
Shepherd. Weel, it's very different wi' me. I should be
feared yet even for the ninth pairt 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
of Udolpho ?
Shepherd. Ihaenae doubt, sir, that had T read Udolpho and
her ither romances in my boyish days, that my hair would
* An island in the Firth of Forth, near Edinburgh. t Shaces— slic<»8
96 The Shepherd on Ghosts.
hae stood on end like that o' ither folk, for, by nature and
education baith, ye ken, I'm just excessive superstitious.
But afore her volumes fell into my hauns, my soul had been
frightened 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
inovin 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 aiu being — at times felt to be solemn and nae
inair — 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 morn. These are the
palaces o' the thunder, and before daybreak every window
will pour forth lichtnin. Mrs. Radcliffe 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
ony description by us puir creturs o' the works o' the Great
God?
North. Perhaps it is a pity that Mrs. Radcliffe never in
troduced into her stories any real ghosts.
Shepherd. I canna just a'thegither think sae. Gin you
introduce 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 cere
* SwarJ'ed — swooned.
The Shepherd on Ghosts. 97
ments for some end which the dead alane could have accom
plished — 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' communion wi' the breathin
world !
North. In highest tragedy, a Spirit may be among the
dramatis 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 hideous, comes glidin in and awa in cauld unriugin
armor, or unsubstantial vapor, a being whose eyes ancesaw
the cheeriu' sunlight, and whose footsteps ance brought out
echoes frae the flowery earth.
Tickler. James, be done with your palavering about ghosts,
and " gie us anither sang."
North. Come, I will sing you one of Allan's.
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 tremulous — but I
have sung Scotch airs, James, of old, with Urbani. (Sings
" 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
98 G-ood Night.
singer in a' Scotland. I prefer you to baith Peter Hill and
David Wylie, * and twa bonnier singers you'll 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
ain way o't — Gude nicht, sir — gude nicht. We've really
been verra pleasant, and our meetin has been maist as agree
able as ane o' the
NOCTES AMBROSIAN^.
•Peter Hill Is spoken of in the " Chaldee MS." as "a gweet singer."
David Wylie was one of tlie circuit clerks of the Court of Justiciary.
VIII.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD IS HANGED AND BE
HEADED.
MR. TICKLER'S smaller Dining-room — Soutkside.
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
fude, 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'iii awa at straw
berries, or rasps, or grozets, or cherries, or aipples, or peers,
or plooms, or aiblins at young green peas, shawps f an' a', or
wee juicy neeps, that melt in the mouth o' their ain accord
without chewin, like kisses of vegetable maitter.
Tickler. Do you ever catch a tartar, James, in the shape
o' a wasp, that —
Shepherd. Counfound thae deevils incarnate, for they're the
curse o' a het simmer. O' 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
• Daunering— saunter! t Shawps— husks.
100 A Shower of Wasps.
bills a feather that's got rumpled by sport or spray — when
the bees are at wark, murmuring 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
— 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 fro, and
backwards and forwards, and sideways, in millions upon
millions, and yet ane never joistling anither, but a' har
moniously blended together in amity, like imagination's
thochts, — why, amid this " general dance and minstrelsy," in
comes a shower o' infuriated wasps, red het, as if let out o' a
fiery -furnace, 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 wishin 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 frae 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 intolerable 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
in 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 like a
canal in the neighborhood of a railroad.
Shepherd. As for speaking in sic a condition, everybody
but yoursel kens it's impossible, and wunner to hear ye
The Shepherd Hafiged. 101'
tryiu'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 oiiy
bark, something atween a grunt, a growl, and a guller, 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 ?
What 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 wi' creeshy second-hand cordu
roy 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
born, think ye, be fairce on a brither when handlin his wizen *
as executioner, and hearin, although he was deaf, the knock-
in 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 plat
form o' the scaffold, and the soul o' the son o' sin and sorrow
is instantly in presence of its eternalJudge !
North. Pleasant subject-matter for conversation after
dinner, gentlemen. In my opinion, hanging —
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
* Wizen— the throat.
102 TJie Shepherd Beheaded.
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 ?
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' aim, 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, wi' an axe ower his 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 ony further vio
lence, 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
drum drowned it and the groans o' the multitude together —
and then a hissin, that, like the sudden east wind, had moved
the verra mournins o' the scaffold.
Tickler. North, put about the bottle. Will you never bo
cured 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—
* Airts — points of the compass.
His Speech on the Scaffold. 103
for had I intended to make a speech, would I not have deliv
ered it afore I laid down ray head on the block ? As for the
hissin, I kent weel aneuch they werena hissin me, but the
Man in the mask and the big hairy 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 roll over into
the bloody sawdust.
Tickler. Mr. North, Mr. North — my dear sir, are you ill ?
My God, who could have thought it ! — Hogg, Christopher
has fainted !
Shepherd. 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 drove 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, " Countrymen, 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 burst out into such a torrent
of indignant eloquence that the Slaves and Tyrants were all
tongue-tied, lock-jawed, before me ; and I knew that my voice
* Craig— neck.
104 The Scene at the Execution
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 like 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 frenzy 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 frothy 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 unfurl
to all the winds the standard of Freedom, never again to en
circle 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 from summit to summit the
exulting music of the thunderstorm.
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 traitor ! " 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 !
" The Cruse-dubs o Glasgow" 105
Tickler. In France, James would have been Robespierre.
Shepherd. Huts ! tuts ! Dreams gang by the rule o' con
traries. Yet I dinna say what I might hae been during the
French Revolution. 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 look
ing before and after — his imagination building up, and his
passions pu'in down ; ae day a loving angel frae heaven—
the next a demon o' destruction let loose frae hell ! But
wasna ye there yoursel, Mr. North ? What for no speak ?
There's naebody here but freens !
Tickler. Remember, James, that our beloved Christopher
fainted a few minutes ago —
Shepherd. Sae he did — sae he did. . . . But was ye ever
in the Guse-dubs o' Glasgow ? Safe us a ' ! what clarty
closses, narrowin awa' and darkenin douu — some stracht, and
some serpentine — into green middens o' baith liquid and solid
matter, soomin' wi' dead cats arid auld shoon, and rags o'
petticoats that had been worn till they fell aff and wad wear
nae langer.
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 canny when
they chance to forgather — and ca'in for a constable to tak
haud 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
106 A Battle of " Dowgs"
bull-dowg and a mastiff! The great big brown mastifi
mouthin 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 be
gins to fear that the veeper at his throat will kill him out
right, 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
growlin — baith silent, except a sort o' snortin through the
nostrils, and a kind o' guller in their gullets — I say, the crood
harl them out o' the midden, ontil the stanes again — and
" Weel dune, Crcsar." — " Better dune, Veeper." — "A mutch-
kin to a gill on whitey." — " The muckle ane canna fecht."—
" See how the wee bick is worryin him now by a new spat
on the thrapple." — " He wad 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 out 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. Stop, James, your mine is inexhaustible. But here
goes for a chant. (Sings " The Humors of Donny brook Fair.")
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, arid criticism on the
fine arts, and polemical discussion wi' red faces and fiery een
on international policy, and the corn laws and surplus popu-
The Shepherd in a Shower-Bath. 107
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 whistle ; 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 be
tween it and me, and that the warld will ken naething about
the matter if I come out again re infectd ; and, feenally, 1
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
u Noctes Ambrosianas," till I'm like to split wi' lauchin at
my ain wut, forgetting 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
thinkin, Mr. Tickler, for a' your lauchin, that in a like predic
ament 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. Here's a copy of fine verses, James, but every line
seems written twice over — how is that?
Shepherd. I never could tell how that happens — but mis*
every ither line, and a' will be right.
108 An Optical Delusion.
Tickler. I have observed that at night, after supper, with
ships at sea. Two ships of the line ! not one ship and one
frigate — but two eighty-fours. Shut one eye, and there at
anchor lies, let us say, the Bellerophon — for I am speaking
of the olden time. Open the other, and behold two Bel-
lerophons 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's nae 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 —
hurra — hurra — hurra !
Shepherd. Oh, Mr. Tickler, North's gotten a mouthful' 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 mornin, Tickler — what a moon and stars !
North. Surely Ambrose has made some alteration in his
house lately. I cannot make out this room at all. It is not
the Blue Parlor ?
One Coach — or Two? 109
Shepherd. We're at Southside, sir — we're at Southside, sir
— perfectly sober ane and a' ; but dirma be alarmed, sir, if
you see twa cotches at the door, for we're no gaun to sepa
rate — there's only ane, believe me — and I'll tak a hurl wi' ye
as far's the Harrow.
IX.
7^ THE PAPER PARLOR.
Scene — Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlor.
SHEPHERD. — NORTH. — 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 Parlor 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 Road will aye
be holy and haunted ground. George Cooper * is a line
fighter and a civil landlord, but I cannot look on his name oil
that door without a pensive sigh ! Mr. Ambrose's worthy
brother has moved, you know, upstairs, and I hobble in upon
him once a fortnight for auld langsyne.
Shepherd. I aften wauken greetin f frae a dream about that
dear, dear tenement. " But what's the use o' sighing, since
life is on the wing ? " and but for the sacredness o' a' thae
recollections, this 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.
* George Cooper, a respectable man, although a pugilist, succeeded
Ambrose in Gabriel's Road.
t Grect'm — weeping.
110
Voices of the Night. Ill
Shepherd. That's a great maitter. You'll recollect me ance
lodging in Anne Street,* 1100 nae langer in existence, — a
steep street, ye ken, rinriin down alang the North Brig toward
where the New Markets are, but noo biggit up wi' a' thae
new buildings —
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 ; f — 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. Our 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 after
piece ca'd the Burn in o' Moscow, that was performed maist
every nicht. A while afore twal the Kremlin used to be
blawn up ; and the soun', 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 nyaffin, and snaffin, and clankin o' chains frae them in
kennels, that it was waur than the din o' aerial jowlers pur
suing the wild huntsman through the sky. Then cam the
rattlin o' wheels, after Moscow was reduced to ashes, that
* The North British Railway terminus is close to the site where Anne
Street formerly stood.
t Mr. Grieve of Cacra Bank, Ettrick, an Edinburgh merchant, and Mr.
James Gray, one of the mastei-s of the High School. The latter was an
accomplished linguist. After leaving the High School, he held an appoint
ment 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. J Quate — quiet.
112 Voices of the Night.
made the dowgs, especially the watch anes, mair outrageous
than ever, and they keepit rampaugin in their chains on till
past twa in the mornin. About that hour, or sometimes
suner, they had wauken'd a' the cocks in the neeborhood—
baith them in preevate families and in poulterers' cavies ;
and the creturs keepit crawin defiance 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 ! 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 hae I risen without
ever having bowed an ee, and a' owing to the burnin o'
Moscow and blawin up o' the Kremlin.
North. Nothing bf the sort can happen here. This 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
parlor.
North. What think 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 driukin after denner, that, wull
ye believe me when I say't, that gran' huntin-piece paperin
the wa's never ance caught my een till this blessed moment ?
O sirs, but it's an inspeeritin picture, and I wush I was but
on horseback, following the hounds !
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 !
* Begude — began.
A German Romance. 113
Shepherd The stag ! confoun' me gin I see ony stag ! But
yon's a lovely leddy — a Duchess — a Princess — or a Queen —
wha keeps aye crownin the career, look whaur you wull —
there soomin* a ford like a Naiad — there plungin a Bird o'
Paradise into the forest's gloom — and there, lo ! reappearing
star-bright on the mountain brow !
North. Few ladies look lovable on horseback. The
bumping on their 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 knee-pan !
Shepherd. Tauk awa — tauk awa — ye twa auld revilers ;
but let me hae anither glower o' my galloping goddess,
gleaming gracefully through a green glade, in a' the glorious
grimness of a grove of gigantic forest-trees !
Tickler. What a glutter o' gutturals !
Shepherd. Oh 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
* Soomin — swimming.
114 The Wood-Witch.
ere her lovely limbs could in their disarray be veiled among
the dim wood violets, receive into my arms and bosom — O
blessed burthen ! — the peerless Forest Queen !
North. O 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 Dell-deevil, my soul would
follow such a shape into the shades o' death. Let the
Beautiful Cruelty wear murder on her face, so that something
in her fierce eyeballs lure me to a boundless love. I see
that her name is Sin ; and those figures in the rear, with
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 arid 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 bell
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 your gaun
to smoke already ? Wait till after sooper.
Tickler. No, no, James. T rang for our dear Christopher's
Toothache. 115
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 stu
pid havers, arid never betrayin the least uneasiness, or wish
to interrupt me, and gaur me haud my tongue ! — Oh, sir ! oh,
sir ! 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 mouth-
fu' 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 twinge !
Shepherd. What's to be dune ? What's to be dune ? Pity
me, what's to be dune ?
North. A single small glass, James, of the unchristened
creature, my dear James.
Shepherd. Ay, ay — that's like your usual sense. Here it's
— open your mouth, and I'll administer the draught wi' my
am hauns.
Tickler. See how it runs down his gizzern, his gizzern, his
gizzern, see how it runs down his gizzern — 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 ?
* This is the fag-end of some old Bacchanalian ditty.
116 Tickler in his Back-Grreen.
Tickler. Jymnastics ! — James — if you love me — G hard.
The other is the Cockney pronunciation.
Shepherd. Weel, then, GGGhhymnastics ! Wull that do ?
Tickler. I wrote 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
on the Saturday afore their vacanse ! I never saw the match
o' yon.
Tickler. What tricks did the imps perform ?
Shepherd. They werena tricks — they were fates. First,
ane after anither took haud o' a transverse bar o' wud aboon
their heads, and raised their chins ower't by the power o' their
arms wi' a' the ease and elegance in the warld, and leanin
ower't on their breasts, and then catching haud, by some un
accountable cantrip, o' the waistband o' their breeks, awa
they set heels ower head, whirligig, whirligig, whirligig, wi' a
smoke-jack velocity, that was perfectly 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, lookin 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 nae thing superfine about me ; but to iiae
man o' common sense can it, on sic on occasion, be offensive.
Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Oh dear me ! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
* Fates— f eats.
Newhaven Fishwives. 117
ha ! Lang Timothy whurlin round a cross-bar, up in the air
amang the rowan-tree* taps, in his am back-green at South-
side ! ! ! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! I wash 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.
Ft gars ye look sae unco ugly — perfectly fearsome.
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'.
North. What think ye, James, of this plan of supplying
Edinburgh with living fish ?
Shepherd. Gude or bad, it shall never hae my countenance.
I couldna thole Embro without the fishwives, and gin it
succeeded, 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 dacent
bodies. I like to see their 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 steyf 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 reestt — and oh, man, but mony o' them
hae musical voices, and their cries afar aff make my heart
strings dirl.
North. Hard-working, contented, cheerful creatures indeed,
James, but unconscionable extortioners, and —
* This rowan-tree, or mountain ash, still flourishes in the back-green of
No. 20 George Square, formerly occupied by Mr. Robert Sym.
t Stey— steep. J Reett— grow restive.
118 On the Road to Leith.
Shepherd. Saw ye them ever marchin hamewards at nicht,
in a baun o' some fifty or threescore, down Leith Walk, wi'
the grand gas-lamps illuminating their scaly creels, all shining
like silver ? And heard ye them ever singing their strange
sea-sangs — first half-a-dizzen o' the bit young anes, wi' as saf t
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 aiblins great granmithers,
some o' them wi' vices like verra men, gran' tenors and awfu'
basses, joinin in the chorus, that gaed echoing 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 sort 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 ! . . .
North. You alluded, a little while ago, to the Quarterly
Review, James. I have carefully preserved, among other
relics of departed worth, the beautiful manuscript of the first
article the new Editor * 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 keelivine pen, and
tearing aff the back o' a letter to sketch a bit caricature o'
Southside ? Na — I've sometimes thocht, Mr. North, that ye
were a wee feared for him yoursel, and used, rather without
* John Gibson Lockhart, Esq., the late editor of the Quarterly Review.
Born in 1793 ; died in 1854. %
Troubles of an Editor. 119
kennm't, to draw in your horns. The Balaam-box, indeed !
Ma faith, had ye ventured on sic a step, ye micht just as weel
at ance hae gien up the Magazine.
North. James, that man never breathed, nor ever will
breathe, for whose contributions to the Magazine I cared one
single curse.
Shepherd. Oh, man, Mr. North, dinna lose your temper,
sir. What for do you get sae red in the face at a bit puir,
harmless, silly joke — especially you that's sae wutty and sae
severe yoursel, sae sarcastic an fu' o' satire, and at times (the
love o' truth chirts* it out o' me) sae like a sleuth-hound, sae
keen on the scent o' human bluid ! Dear me ! mony a luck
less 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 Eganf would say, at ance.
North. Nothing but the purest philanthropy could ever have
induced me, my dearest Shepherd, to suffer any contributors
to the Magazine ; and I 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 fewgude, 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 labor 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
* Chirts— spxirts. t The author of Boxiana.
120 The Shepherd's Wrongs.
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 contribu
tors finally removed only by death.
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 waggiu
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 —
Shepherd. Or suppose that some shepherd, more silly than
his sheep, that roams in yon glen where Yarrow frae still St.
Mary's Loch rows wimplin 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 unpretending 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, 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 anif.her,
frae a' men o' woman born, but which you, sir, — na, dinna
frown and gr.aw 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 ! —
" Precious Powldowdies" 121
Shepherd. Dinna greet, sir — oh ! dinna, dinna, greet ! For-
gie me for hurtin your feelins ; 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 Red Sea,
that's no possible ; for it's 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, perhaps, only ance or twice before Neddy Irving's *
Day o' Judgment.
(Mr. AMBROSE enters.)
Shepherd. As sure's death, there's the oysters ! O man,
Awmrose, but you've the pleasantest face o' ony man o' a*
my acquaintance. Here's ane as braid's a mushroom. 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 f 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
aff 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
* The Rev. Edward Irving, a popular preacher of the day. He died in 1834.
t Waught—* large draught.
122 A Psychological Curiosity.
nearing ane anither on the wa' there, as gin they were gaun to
fecht ; and either the roof's rising, or the floor fa'in, or I'm
hafflins fou !
Tickler. Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox ! — why, James, you are
dreaming. This is not the Blue Parlor !
North. A Psychological Curiosity 1
Shepherd. Faith, it is curious aneuch, and shows the power
o' habit in producing a sort o' delusion on the ocular spect
rum. I wad hae sworn I saw the lang, thin, lank feegurand
cocked-up nose o' Pitt, wi' his hand pressed down wi' an
authoritative nieve on a heap o' Parliamentary papers ; and
the big, clumsy carcase, 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 Parlor sure aneuch.
North. To think of one of the Noctes Ambrosianse 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. Awm-
rose, do you put back, ae round, the lang hand o' the knock.*
Ye'se hae a 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 scalin. Whisht, Mr. North !
keep a calm sugh, or O'Doherty will be in on us, and gar us
break the Sabbath morning. Noo, let's draw in our chairs
to the fireside, and when a's settled in the tither parlors, I'll
sing you a sang.
[ Curtain falls.
* Knock— clock.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD RELATES HO W THE BAG
MEN WERE LOST.
Scene — Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlor.
NORTH. — SHEPHERD.
Shepherd. 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 we're at Awm-
rose'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
re$ate 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 three 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 thread
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
123
124 The Sin of Snoring.
and the wing o' a how-towdy — wi' some tongue or ham — a
cut o' ploom-puddiu, and cheese and bread, to denner — and
ony wee trifle afore bedtime. That's the regimen, sir, 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' mysel stouter or stranger
either in mind or body, sin' the King's visit to Scotland. I
hae made nae change on my licker sin' the Queen's Wake,
and the time you first dined wi' me in Anne Street — only I
hae gien up porter, which is swallin drink, and lays on iiae-
thing but fat and foziness.
North. I forget if you are a great dreamer, James ?
Shepherd. Sleepin or waukin ?
North. Sleeping — and on a heavy supper.
Shepherd. Oh ! sir, I not only pity but despise the coot,
that aff wi' his claes, on wi' his nichtcap, into the sheets,
douri wi' his head on the bowster, and then, afore aoither
man could hae weel taken aff his breeks, snorin awa' wi' a'
great open mouth, without a single dream ever travellin
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 hail
house at the dead o' nicht, just to tell that you've lost your
soul and your senses, and become a breathin 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, like 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.
A Storm at Tomintoul 125
Shepherd. Your son ? ! Try the toddy, sir. Your son ? !
North. The jug is a most excellent one, James. Edin
burgh 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
drinkable toddy out o' sea-water. The human mind never
tires o' Glenleevit, ony mair than o' cauler*air. Jf 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 f 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
Tamantowl J 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 Gran town, 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
howlin wi' a' his legions. A black thunderstorm's no half
sae fearsome 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 descending in a universal deluge, or here and there
pouring down in straths, till the thunder can scarcely quell
the roar o' a thousand 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
* Cauter— fresh. 1 Skiri^n— flying. $ A village in Banffshlra-
126 Lost in the Drift.
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. Within twenty yards o' a
human dwelling, you may be remote from succor as at the
Pole. The drift 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 theirsel, 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 bairn 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 different feelings one would read
an account of the death of a brace of Bagmen f 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 thorn,
and gieiri them sair flaffs and dads on their faces, spittin in
their verra een, ruggin their noses, and blawin upon their
* Lnvam — swoou. t Commercial travellers.
The Bagmen in the Drift. 127
blubbery lips till they blistered, the Cockneys wad be wax
ing half feared and half angry, and damnin the " Heelans,"
as the cursedest kintra that ever was kittled. But wait
awee, my gentlemen, and you'll keep a lowner sugh or you
get half-way from Dalnacardoch to Dalwhinnie.*
North. A wild district, for ever whirring, even in mist
snow, with the gorcock's wing.
Shepherd. Whist — hand your tongue, till I finish the
account o' the death of the twa Bagmen in the snaw. Ane o'
their horses — for the creturs are no ill mounted — slidders
awa doun a bank, and gets jammed into a snaw -stall, where
there's no room for turnin. The other horse grows obstinate
wi' the sharp stour in his face, and proposes retreating to
Dalnacardoch, tail foremost ; but no being sae weel up to
the walkin or the trottin backwards as that English chiel
Townsend, the pedestrian, he cloitsf doun first on his hurdies,
and then on his tae side, the girths burst, and the saddle
hangs only by a tack to the crupper.
jyorth. 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 turnip 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
* In the Highlands of Perthshire. t Cloitst— falls heavily.
128 Death in the Drift.
to fin' warm and comfortable, but wae's me ! unco, unco
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' stickin at their
chafts, are as hard as airn, for they've gotten a sair Scotch
starchin — and the fierce North cares naeth ing 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 should they, lying in sic an unnatural and
out-o'-the-way place for them, as the moors atween Dalnacar-
doch and Dalwhinnie ?
North. Oh, James — say not they perished !
Shepherd. Yes, sir, they perished ; under such circum
stances, 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 interesting Bagmen never slept the sleep of death. Gie
me the lend o' your hankercher, 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 ac
count of the Red Tarn Raven 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 great battle, gie great
offence 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 drummf • ,
* See the Recreations of Christopher North, vol. iii. p. 81.
Pigeon-Murder. 129
and happin aff to eat them on the hollow round o' his 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
description 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. James, you are a good shot ?
Shepherd. 1 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. . . . 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
wi' a flutter and a whirr ; and then 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-
struck, within boun's, or carrying aneath the down o' their
bonny bosoms some cruel draps, that ere nightfall will gar
them inoan out their lives amang the cover o' suburban
groves.
North. So you have no pit}', James, for any other birds
but the birds of Venus ?
Shepherd. I canna say tl lat 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 half 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.
130 What are Whaups ?
for fleeing, and then making a circle half a mile ayont the
reach o' slug, gradually fa'in intil a mathemetical figure in
Euclid's Elements, and vanishin, wi' the speed o' aigles, in the
weather-gleam,* as if they were aff for ever to Norway, or to
the North Pole. Dang their web-footed soles —
North. James, remember where you are, and with
whom — time, place, and person. No maledictions to-night on
any part o' the creation, feathered or un-feathered. 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, f to the as
tonishment o' the Tailor, $ wha begood to fear that you would
neist § 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 wuntur they're aff to the sea — but a' simmer
and hairst they haunt the wide, heathy, or rushy and boggy
moors. Ye may discover the whaup's lang nose half a mile
aff, as the gleg-eed cretur keeps a watch ower the wilderness,
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 af t's the time that
I hae lain for hours ahint some auld turf-dyke, that aiblins
had ance enclosed a bit bonny kailyard belanging to a housie
* Weather-gleam — horizon. t Stoop and Roop. — stump and rump,
t The flying tailor of Ettrick, an eccentric character, celebrated for his
agility.
§ Neist.— next.
Natural History. 181
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 solitude ; and
gif nane were there, layin mysel doun a' my length on my
grufe* and elbow, and reading an ancient ballant, or maybe
tryin to croon a bit sang o'my am, inspired by the lown and
lanesome spat, — for oh, sir ! haena ye aften felt that the
farther we are in body frae 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 feelings o? auld lang syne
come crowd, crowdin 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 born, and first hunted the insect-
people through shadow or sunshine !
North. I wish you had seen Audubon, James ; you would
have taken to each other very kindly, for you, James, are
yourself a naturalist, although sometimes, it must be confessed,
you deal a little in the miraculous when biographically in
clined 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
an it her name for Natural Theology — and the sang o' the
* Grufe—bellj.
182 The Calabrian Harpers.
laverock, and the plumage o' the goldfinch — do they not alike
remind us o' God ?
North. Hark ! the Calabrian harpers. 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.
XI.
THE EXECUTION OF THE MUTINEER
Scene, — Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlor.
NORTH. — 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 friend but
yourself, James, with whom I have not frequently and bit
terly quarrelled, often to the utter extinction of mutual
regard — but towards my incomprehensible Brownie my
heart ever yearns —
Shepherd. Haud your leein tongue, ye tyke, you've quar
relled 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' freendship for me — for it flourishes, like 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 the
* Cozy bield— snug shelter.
133
134 The Spark of Immortality.
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.* Oh, sir, but maist men's hearts, and women's too,
are like toom nits f — uae kernel, and a splutter o' fushion-
less dust. I sometimes canna help thinkin that there's nae
future state.
North. Fie, fie, James ; leave all such dark skepticism 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
tombstones, 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
philosophy, 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 " ? Deevil a bit. For a wee,
short, simple, stiff, stern, dour, and fearsome word, commend
me to the " Grave."
* binders— shivers. t Toom nits— empty nuta.
The Fear of Death. 13f)
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 cawuit,
expiring — faint, feeble, flickering, and just like a,ne o' us
puir mortal human creatures, sair, sair unwilling to die !
Whare's the snuifers, that I may put it out o' pain ? I'm
tell't that twa folk die every minute, or rather every mo
ment. Isna that fearsome to think o' ?
North. Ay, James, children have been made orphans, and
wives widows, since that wick began to fill the room with its
funereal odor.
Shepherd. Nae man can manage snuffers richt, unless he
hae been accustomed to them when he was young. In the
Forest we a' use our fingers, or blaw the 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 pressef
for a fortnight, without their ever cas*tin 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." Oh,
man, noo that the cawnle's out, isna that fire unco heart-
some? Your face, sir, looks just perfeckly ruddy 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.
* Cawnle— candle.
136 The Popularity of North.
She'll no surveeve you ae single day. Buried shall you be in
ae grave, and curst be he that disturbs your banes ! Afore
you and her cam out, this wasna the same warld it has been
Bin' syne. Wut and wisdom never used to be seen linkin
alang thegither, han'-in-han', as they are noo, frae a,e 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 foregather wi' * sic a canty f crew
o' chiels as O'Doherty and the rest, passin themselves aff
sometimes for real, and sometimes for fictious 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' million, billion, trillion, and
quadrillion 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^E !
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
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-
* foregather wi'— fall in with. t Canty— lively.
The Shepherd's Bad Luck. 137
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 wush 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 I
would try to introduce into the Forest buckskin breeks.
I would neist, sin' naebody's gien me ane in a present, buy a
gold musical snuff-box, that would play tunes on the table.
North. Heavens ! James — at that rate you would be a
ruined man before the coming of Christmas. You would see
your name honorably mentioned in the Gazette.
Shepherd. Then a gold twisted watch-chain, sax gold seals
o' various sizes, frae the bigness o' my neive amaist, doun to
that o' a kitty-wren's egg.
North. Which O'Doherty 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 without 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 f that I had twa honors — 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 trumlin drummer
had flung deuces, and be led out into the middle o' a hollow
square for execution.
* Anglict>. Beggar-my-neighbor. t Threepin— asserting pertinaciously
138 The Approach of the Troops.
North. James, you are very excursive this evening in youi
conversation — nobody is thinking of shooting you, James.
Shepherd. And I'm sure that I hae nae thochts o' shootin
mysel. But ance — it's a lang time syne — I saw a sodger
shot — 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 Rodney when he beat
Langara,* James.
Shepherd. Hand your tongue ! — What a crowd on the
Links f that day ! But a' wi' fixed, whitish faces— nae
speakin — no sae muckle as a whisper — a fro-zen dumbness
that nae wecht $ 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 somr
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 Richmond 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 drum ceased, as at
* Off Cape St. Vincent, on the 16th of January 1780.
t Links— downs. I Wecht— weight.
The Mutineer. 139
an inaudible word of command, or wavin o' a haun, or the
lowerin o' a banner. It was but ae man that "vas about to
die — but for that ae man, had their awe no hindeieJ 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, corpses raised up by cantrip in their
death-claes, they couldna hae been mair motionless than at
that 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
alang, 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 natural to him, arid 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' 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.
140 At the Death Scene.
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, weepin een, for he had lo'ed them but ower
weel ; and mony a time, it is said, had he let himsel down
the Castle-rock at night, God knows hoo, to meet his lemans
— but a' that, a' his 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 handkerchief
ower his een, dropped down on his knees on his coffin, wi'
faulded hands, and lips noviug fast, fast, and white as ashes,
in prayer !
North. Cursed be the inexorable justice of military law ! —
he might have been pardoned.
Shepherd. Pardoned ! Hadna he disarmed his 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 him — it wad hae been as
much as his crown was worth — for hoo could King, Kintra,
and Constitution thole a standing army in which 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 sune as nightfall darkened the
city, some o' them were gossipin about the shootin o' the
sodger to their neighbors, 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
The Mutineer s Father. 141
doubtless sittin thochtfu' 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,
somewhat bowed his head, and ance he reeled as if he were
faint on a sudden. — But what the deevil's the use o' me
haverin awa this way about 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' mischievous 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,
winding 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
naething humiliating to human nature in it — as in a hangin ;
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.
142 Toasted Cheese.
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, luk, 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 ouy-
thing sae tenawcious ? I verily believe that I could walk,
without breakin't, intil the tither room. Noon 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 f (see Dr. Jamieson) in the ashet — and the ither end's
in my stammach — and the thin thread o' attenuated cheese
gets at ween 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 t the Tweed ran dry, and never flowed sin' syne.
They're speakin o' takin doun a' the brigs frae Erickstane to
Berwick, and changing the channel iutil 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 apairt, do you
ken, sir, that mony and mony a wee well among the 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 leeviri things ! Eor 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 ruukled on] 7
* Tae— one. t Gedd— a, pike-staff stuck into the ground,
t The summer of 1826 was memorable for its drought.
" Plenty without them!" 143
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
hy 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 haveral ? 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 like, o'
beauty and bliss, o' licht and lauchter, o' ray-like 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 alike 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
lookin up, and ower, and through into the verra heart o'
heaven, when the lift is a' ae glorious glitter o' cloudless
stars ! You're no sleepy, sir ?
North. Sleepy! You may as well ask the leader in a
tandem if he be sleepy, when performing the match of twei ty-
eight miles in two hours without a break.
Shepherd. Ae spring there is — in a nook known but to me
144 TJie Shepherd's Past.
and anither, a bit nook greener than ony emerald — or even
the Queen Fairy's symar, as she disentangles it frae her feet
in the moonlight dance, enclosed wi' laigh broomy rocks,
amaist like a sheep-fauld, but at the upper end made lown in
a' weathers by ae single stane, like the last ruin o' a tower,
smelling 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' blind, 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 pres
ent, when sittin wi' the friend I love, and respect and ven
erate, especially if, like you, he be maist like a father, or at
least an elder brither, the past comes upon me wi' a' the power
oj the present, 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
iiane 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 —
Shepherd. I hate and despise ordinary qJbservcTs, and thank
u Ordinary Observers."
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, arid
severe misfortunes ; and hoo he had his heart weel-nigh
broken by the death o' twa wives, and the loss o' a third
evangelical miss, wha eloped, after her wedding-claes had
been taen aff at the haberdasher's, wi' a play-actor wha had
ance been a gentleman — that is, attached to the commissaw-
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 be
cause 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 sunshine darkened
by a black veil that flings a correspondin shadow ower the
seemingly disconsolate yearth.
North. Most of the good poets of my acquaintance have
light-colored 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 !
• 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.
146 The Tale of the Haunted Well.
North. But we have forgotten the Tale of the Haunted
Well.
Shepherd. It's nae Tale — for there's naething that could
be ca'd an incident in a' that I could say about that well !
Oh ! sir — she was only twa months mair than fifteen — and
though she had haply reached her full stature, and was some
what taller than the maist o' our Forest lassies, yet you saw
at ance that she was still but a bairn. 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 in
stant 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 aueath
my plaid, when a skirring shower gaed by — I had to wise *
her in within its faulds— arid her head had to be held down
by an affectionate 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 !.
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 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
* Wise— entice.
Disenchantment. 147
to be there, beside that well — sic happiness would noo turn
my brain — but nae fear, nae fear o' its ever returuin, for
that voice went wavering awa up to heaven from this mute
earth, and on the nicht when it was heard not, and never
more was to be heard, in the psalm, in my father's house, I
knew that a great change had been wrought within me, and
that this earth, this world, this life 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 shrub 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', enjoyin mysel at
Ambrose's — for, after a', the world's no a bad world, although
Mary Morisori 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. I have not seen any portrait of you, James, in any
late Exhibition ?
* 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, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
Vet still, beneath the hallovy'd soil,
The peasunt rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid
Where erst his simple fathers prayed."
Marmion, introd. to Canto II.
148 Frost and Whisky-toddy.
Shepherd. Nor me o' you, sir. What for doesna Watson
Gordon immortaleeze himsel by paintin a Portrait o' Christo
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. . . . But nae rnair about pictures 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 thing.
North. Done.
Shepherd. But wha'll decide ? Let's drink the jug, though,
in the first place. It's quite a nicht this for whusky toddy.
Dinna you observe that a strong frost brings out the flavor
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 understun, o' the cauld and heat, the frost and fire,
working 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
* 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 is. The portrait of the Ettrick Shepherd by the same artist is also
in Mr. Blackwood's possession.
Pride has a Fall. 149
crap-sick as he druve his chariot along the Great Turnpike
Road o' Heaven.
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 living poets
are loose and lumbering writers — and I will engage to point
out halt'-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 him' 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 shouldtia 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 feered the fresh air'll 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 ! ! drive to the devil. [Exeunt.
* The sun was totally eclipsed on Monday the 24th March 1652 ; hence the
expression Mirk Monday.
XII.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD PAINTS HIS 0 WN POR
TRAIT.
Scene, — Ambrose's ffotel, Picardy Place — Paper Parlor.
NORTH. — TICKLER. — SHEPHERD.
North. 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.
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 efficacy of their aid, and feel as if they
stood between us and death. There's our 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 arms, rather touchy in
the temper, and no easily satisfied wi' onything ane can get
to eat ; — tin*, second day, in bed, wi' a nicht-cap on, or a
150
The Delight of Recovery. 151
worsted stockin about the chafts, shiverin ilka half-hour
aneath the blankets, as if cauld water were pourin doun
your back ; a stamach that scunners at the very thocht o'
fude, and a sair sair head, amaist as if a wee deevil were
sittin in't knappin stanes wi' an airn hammer ; — the third
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
pancakes.
North. And the fourth day, James ?
Shepherd. Out wi' the grews 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 frae 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 delightfu' dirl o'
a fricht, when pussie starts wi' her lang horns.
North. Or the covey whirrs —
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
stane-monk keekin frae a niche in the corner 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'
innocent young maidens, trippin ower the tombs to the
152 Wordsworth drinks Water.
House o' Prayer ! Mr. North, sir, only look at the face o'
him !
North. Tickler, Tickler, give over that face — it is absolutely
getting like Hazlitt's. 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 ! 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 wonderfu'
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 o' 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 " Excursion." If he had just made the paragraphs
about ae half shorter, and at the end of every ane taen a
caulker, like ony ither man engaged in geyan sair and heavy
wark, think na ye that his " Excursion " would hae been
far less fatiguesome ?
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 pack
man, and the half-witted annuitant —
North. My friend Wordsworth has genius, but he has no
invention of character — no constructiveness, as we phrenolo
gists 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 preferrin speerits
— but —
North. Nobody is abusing you, my dear Shepherd —
Hogg prefers " Speerits" 153
Shepherd. Haud your tongue, Mr. North — for I'm geyan
angry the noo — and I canna thole being interrupted when
I'm angry, — sae haud your 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 !
Shepherd. Well, then, gentlemen, it cannot be unknown to
you that the water-drinking part of the community have not
scrupled to bestow on our meetings here, on the Noctes Am-
brosianae, the scurrilous 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 your's, 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 Roger de Coverley, and others, were accused of
wine-bibbing and other enormities by the dunces of those days ?
Shepherd. Confound their backbiting malignity ! Is there
a steadier hand than that in a' Scotland ? — see how the liquid
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 unfalteriu freedom ?
L54 TJie Shepherd's Life.
North. The tirst 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
idleness. 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, Washing 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 bits o' " Shepherd's Calendars,"
or the like ; — or, if study hae nae charms, playing wi' the
bairns, or hearing them their lessons, or crackin wi' a neigh
bor, or sittin happy wi' the mistress by our aiii twa sels,
sayin little, but thinkin a hantle, and feelin mair. For the
remaining third, frae ten at nicht to sax in the morning,
enjoying that sweet sound sleep that is the lot o' a gude con
science, an dout 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 licht, — 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
sinfu' 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' virtue —
North. I never left Altrive or Mount Benger, James, with
out feeling myself a better and a wiser man.
TJie Shepherd's Temperance. 155
Shepherd. Nae man shall ever stop a nicht 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 muir 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 assurance o' a lang and usefu' life, and
a large family o' children.
North. Replenish the dolphin, James.
Shepherd. She's no toom f 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
Rule of Three. I care little for soop — unless kail, or cocky-
leeky, or hare-soop, or mock-turtle, which is really, con-
siderin it's only mock, a pleasant platefu' ; or hodge-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 naething o', and they only serve to
spoil without satisfyin a gude appeteet, of which nae man
o' senses will ever tak aff the edge afore he attacks a dish
* Coqf—ninnj. t Toom— empty.
156 The Shepherd's Tolerance.
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 onything 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.
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 !
— 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. — It is not the duty of all men,
to the best o' their abilities to enlighten ane anither's under
standings ? And if I see my brethren o' mankind fa' into a'
sorts o' sins and superstitions, is't nae business o' mine, think
ye, to endeavor to set them right, and enable them to act
according to the dictates o' reason and nature ? — Hae ye read
Boaden's Life o' Siddons, sir ?
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
now at this blessed moment — yet what good man, were he
present now, would be severe upon old Christopher for
havering away about this, that, or t'other thing, so long as
there was heart in all he said, and nothing contra bonos
Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth. 157
mores ? Sarah was a glorious creature. Me thinks 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 distraction 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 never
theless been put up wi' a steady and nae uncarefu' haun
before the troubled Leddy had lain doun, for it behooved
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 con
fused glimmerin apprehension o' the great actress — glidin
wi' the ghostlike motion o' nicht-wandering unrest, uncon
scious o' surroundin objects, — for oh ! how could the glazed
yet gleamin een see aught in this material world ? — yet, by
some mysterious power o' instinct, never touchin ane o' the
impediments 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
frae 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
158 Pastoral Poetry.
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 dinna ken, because I never beheld ony woman, either
gentle or semple, walkin in her sleep after having committed
murder. 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 flesh 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 ?
North. James, I'll 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."
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.
Tickler ; — but you see, sir, you're just perfectly ignorant o'
what you're talkin about — for it's only kintra-folk that has
ony character ava, — and town'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 another shoal succeeds o' the same
empty race !
North. The passions in the country, methinks, James, are
Town and Country Passions- 159
[stronger and bolder, and more distinguishable from each
other, than in the towns ?
Shepherd. Deevil a passion's in the town, but envy, and
backbiting, and conceitedrtess. As for friendship, or love,
or hate, or revenge — ye never*meet wi' them where men and
women are a' jumbled throughither, in what is ca'd ceevi-
leesed 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. Are no robberies, murders, and adulteries perpe
trated in towns, 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, wi'
his plaid across his breast, would condescend to be a highway
robber, or by habit and repute a thief ? 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 breaking the seventh commandment ? As for committing
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, wearm
rough big-coats wi' a dizzen necks, and cuffin ane anither's
heads wi' boxin-gloves on their neives, — but nae real South-
kintra shepherd ever was known to commit murder, for
they're ower fond o' fechtin at fair, and kirns, and the like,
to tak the trouble o' puttiii ye to death in cool blood —
Tickler. James, would you seriously have North to write
dramas about the loves of the lower orders — men in corduroy
breeches, and women in linsey-woollen petticoats —
160 Tickler is chastised.
Shepherd. Wha are ye, sir, to speak o' the lower orders ?
Look up to the sky, sir, on a starry nicht, and puir, 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 dreadi'u' 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 wrath 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 this
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 widow'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 hopef u' thing, in the holy Psalm ?
If—
Tickler. James, you affect me, but less by the pictures
you draw, than by the suspicion — nay, more than the
A Hero in Corduroys. 161
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-woolleu
petticoats, 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 on
an immovable basis. Poor, lonely, humble people, who live
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 him
self—
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.
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 Cruick-Inn in Tweedsmuir.
The Yarrow Trouts are far better eatin — and they mak far
better sport, too — loupin out the linns in somersets like
tumblers frae a spring-brod , head-ower-heels, — and gin your
pirn doesna rin free, snappin aff your tackle, and doun wi' a
plunge four fathom deep i' the pool, or awa like the shadow
o' a hawk's wing alang the shallows.
North. Would you believe it, my dear Shepherd, that my
piscatory passions are almost dead within me ; and I like now
to saunter along the banks a*nd braes, eyeing the younkers
162 A Bloody-minded Angler.
angling, or to lay me clown 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 would grup wi' the worm or the mennon —
but a' gruppit wi' the flee — Phin's * delight, as you ca't, — a
killin inseck, — and on gut that's no easily broken, — witness
yon four-pounder aneath Elibank 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
* Phin was an approved artificer of fishing tackle. The shop still exists,
and sustains its ancient reputation.
Ambrose and the Oysters. 163
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.
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 " O 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
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 ! —
" Hi8 verra 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 neist half-hour.
Mr. Awmrose, we'll ring when we want the rizzers — and the
toasted 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.
XIII.
IN WHICH TICKLER SECURES THE CALF, AND THE
SHEPHERD THE BON ASS US.
SCENE I. — Porch of Buchanan Lodge. Time, — Evening.
Mrs. GENTLE. — Miss GENTLE. — 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 winna hide it a'thegither — for sure
amang sic a party o' freens as this, the young leddy'll 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
* Captain Thomas Hamilton, an early contributor to Blackwood's Maga
zine, and author of the admirable novel, The Youth and Manhood of Cyril
Thornton, was the younger brother of Sir William Hamilton, Bart., Pro-
fessor of Logic and Metaphysics in the University of Edinburgh. His other
works are, Alen and Manners in America, and Annals of the Peninsular
Campaigns. He died at Florence in 1842.
161
The Shepherd and the Wasp. 165
says things I sudna say, out o' the very fulness of my
heart.
Mrs. Gentle. Mary, fetch my smaller shuttle from the par
lor — 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,
under the blessirfg 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
an0, some o' ye. Wull nane o' ye either speak or stir ? Whilk
shouther, I say ? Confoun' ye, Tickler — ye great heigh ne'er
doweel, wunna ye say whilk shouther ? Is't aff ?
Tickler. Off ! No, James, that it isn't. How it is pricking
along, like 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 like 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 brairi-fevrer.
166 The Shepherd's Wig.
Shepherd. A verra proper death for a poet. But it's just
your ain vile, vapory, thick, dull, yellow, brown, dead,
drizzling, damned (beg you pardon, Mem) easterly haur o'
Embro' that gies me the rheumatics. In the country I think
naeihing o' daundering awa to the holms, without my bannet,
or onything around 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 you with such a
crop of hair in my life.
Shepherd. It's verra weel for you that's bald to tauk about
a crap o' hair. But the mair hair a man has on his head the
better, as lang's it's tousy — and no in candle-wick fashion.
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 patronize
Macassar.
Shepherd. What ? Macawser ile ? Deevel 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. 'Pon my honor, 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
SHEPHERD.) And I'll noo praise your beauty ony mair, for I
ken that maidens dinna like blushing, bonny as it makes
them ; but dinna think 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
Cyril Thornton. 167
the house, I cudna help saying to your Leddy Mother, hoc
happy and mair than happy would I be had I sic a dochter.
(Enter PETER.) Peter, my braw man, Mr. North is ordering
you to bring but * a bottle o' primrose wine. (Exit PETER.)
Wae's 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, Corrnall, 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 heen langer — but plenty o' life
let us houp, 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. Oh ! man ! but your Memoirs o'
your Youth and Manhood's maist interestin. I'm no speakin
as a critic, and hate phrasin onybody — but you's no a whit
inferior, as a whole, to my aiu " 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
compliment. Many faults in style and composition your
practised and gifted eye could not fail to detect, or I ought
rather, in all humility to say, many such faults must have
forced themselves upon it ; but I know well, at the same
time, that the genius which delights the whole world by its
own creations is ever indulgent to the crudities of an ordinary
mind, inheriting but feeble powers from nature, and those, as
you know, little indebted to art, during an active life that
afforded but too few opportunities for their cultivation.
Shepherd. Feeble poo'rs ! Ma faith, Corrnall, there's nae
* Bring but is bring out, as bring ben is bring in.
168 Cyril Thornton.
symptoms o' feeble poo'rs yonner — you're a strong-thinking^
strong-feeling, strong-writing, strong-actin, and let me add,
notwithstanding the want o' that airm that's missin, strong-
looking man as is in a' his Majesty's dominions — either in the
ceevil or military depairtment — and the cleverest fallow in a'
Britain micht be proud to father yon three volumes. Phrasin's
no my faut — it lies rather the ither way. They're just perfeckly
capital — and what I never saw afore in a' my born days, and
never houp 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 larig stories that are
seen gaun backwarts and forrits, no kennin what to do wi'
themsels, and loosin their gate as sune as it gets dark — grows
stouter and baulder, and mair confident in itsel as it proceeds
" Veerace aqueerit yeundo,"t
till at last it soums up a' its haill poo'rs for a satisfactory
catastrophe, 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 roarin thanks to the welkin for twa
great simultawneous victories baith 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, to try to review it in Blackwood; or gin you do, hae
the grace to avow that I gied you the germ o' the article, and
sen' out to Altrive in a letter the twenty guineas a sheet.
North. It shall be done,$ James.
* Ocht — aught, anything. t Vires acquirit eundo.
\ Cyril Thornton was reviewed by Professor Wilson in Blackwood's Maga-
tin«,No. CXXVII.
North on ns that he is a Miser. 169
Shepherd. Or rather suppose — to save yourself the trouble
D' writin, which 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. Oh, sir,- you're growin unco hard — just a verra Joseph
Hume. 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.f 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. Oh, struggle against it, sir ! As you love me —
struggle against it ! Dinna let your imagination settle on
the stocks. Pass the faldin-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 —
* Pocket-book. t Mowdieroarp— mole.
170 Mrs. G-entles Agitation.
Shepherd. There's nae punishment ower severe to inflick on
me, Mem. But may I never stir aff this firm,* 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.
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 lie awauk a' nicht, and
repent bringin the saut tear into your ee by my waur than
stupid nonsense about our benefactor.
Miss Gentle. Peter, take care of the kettle.
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 blis
ters. . . . But 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'll come out to
Yarrow wi' Mr. North, his 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.
* Firm— forrt, bench.
Tickler's Gambols. 171
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'*
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 Shad
ows,* who imagines every red-kuted f hizzie he meets to be a
shepherdess —
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 fixed 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 dee"il'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 rollin 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,
* The Lights and Shadows oj Scottish Life. By Professor Wilson.
t Red-kuted— red-ankled.
172 Tickler and the Calf.
till, flinging himself into a chair, with a long sigh he
will exclaim against the vanities of this weary world, and,
like the melancholy Jacques himself, moralize 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
— will you have the goodness, now that you are on your
legs, to tell the children 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 calf — 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. 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 ?
[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.
Shepherd. I canna lauch at that — I canna lauch at that ;
and yet I dinna ken either — yonner's Tickler a' his 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 tho
midriff. I never was more amused in piy life; and you
* Qitev — a young cow.
The Calf is captured. 173
had, within my very soul, a silent accompaniment to your
guffaw.
North. These, Cyril, are not the indolent gardens of Epi
curus. 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 have remembered
my name — for I never had the honor 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. Spreull.* Mr. Tickler
had carried some important mercantile case through your
law-courts here for Mr. Spreull, and greatly gratified the old
gentleman 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, his 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 BAULDT 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 morn's morning, and sae stiff
that he'll no be able to rise.
* One of the characters in Cyril Thornton.
174 The Ladies retire.
Mrs. Gentle. Mary, we must bid Mr. North and his friends
good-night. You know we are engaged at ten —
" A nd yon bright star has risen to warn us home."
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, '11 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 falling ; 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.
Shepherd, What! each?
North. Each. There comes Tickler, as grave's a judge—
make no allusion to the chase. (TICKLER rejoins the party.)
But it is chilly, so let us go into the parlor. I see Peter has
had the sense to light the candles — and there he goes with a
pan of charcoal.
SCENE II.— The Pitt Parlor.
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
generally contrived to hit and miss time about ; but I am a
North in Loch Awe. 175
devout disciple of IzaaE, and was grievously disappointed ou
my arrival t'other day in Kelso, to find another occupier in
Walton-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.
O
Shepherd. Watty Ritchie'll beat you baith with the May-
nee, if it be on, or ony length aneath the stanes.
North. You will be all sorry to hear that our worthy
friend 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 come 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
Newfoundland dog, or rather a seal or an otter, you needna,
had that crutch aneath your oxter. Corrnall 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, sinkin 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' him, sae that you wonnered how he could fling
the flee, till last o' a' he would plump richt out o' sicht, till
the Highlander on Ben Cruachan thocht him drooned ; but
he wasna born to be drooned — no he, indeed — &ie he taks to
the^oomin, and strikes awa wi' ae arm, like yoursel, sir — for
the tither had haud o' the rod — and, could ye believe't,
176 Tlie Shepherd punished.
though it's as true as Scriptur, fishin'g 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 gills,
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 him noo — wi' that auld-
f arrant 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 — his legs
like winnle-straes — and his knees but knobs, 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
hauding up baith your hauns — I aux your pardon, in hauding
up your richt haun — and compairing the past wi' the pres
ent, exclaim, amaist sobbin, and in tears, " Vanity o' vani
ties ! 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 ?
* Professor Wilson's mode of angling In his younger days is here painted
to the life. Even so late as 1849 he was in the habit of wading up to the loini
In the practice of his favorite pastime.
Brontes Ancestry. 177
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
John would have sung small, and Robin 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, Corrnall. I maun get Peter to bring me
some brown paper steep'd in vinegar, or the clour'll be like
a horn. I scarcely think, even already, that my hat would
stay on. Oh, 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. 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 like 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 instruc
tions.)
North. Bronte's mother, James, is a respectable female
who now lives 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
178 Bronte enters.
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.
O. 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 flogging 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
at him lauchin as he observes the empty punch-bowl. His
back's preceesely on a line wi' the edge o' the table. And
oh ! but he's bonnily marked — a white ring roun' the neck o'
him, a white breast, white paws, a white tip o' the tail, and a'
the rest black as nicht. O 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' ray haill waght
upon his back, and his spine bends nae mair than about the
same as Captain Brown's chain-pier at Newhaven 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' Wummell's Menagerie, or wi' the Lord o'
Creation, Man — by himsel Man ! How he would rug them
down — dowgs, or soos, or stirks, or lions, or rubbers ! He
*Bronte was a real character. His life and death are afterwards commeraor.
Bronte s Education. 179
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 Bernard 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' George the Fourth, and durin the Queer
Whig-and-Tory Administration, 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 runnin back for a glove, or standin on his hurdies, 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 Puggies (I
mean nae reflection on the Peebles Puggie withouten the
tail, nor yet Mr. Thomas Grieve's Peero), but respec' the
soul that rnaun be in that noble, that glorious frame ; and if
you maun chain him, let him understand that sic restraint is
no incompawtible wi' liberty ; and as for his kennel, I would
hae it sclated, and a porch ower the door, even a miniature
imitation o' the porch o' Buchanan Lodge.
North. James, we shall bring him 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
uew-dropt lamb.
180 The Bonassus.
Shepherd. Na, na — it's no the weans — for Jamie and hia
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 Woma?i, your purchase of the Bonassus seems
to me the most miraculous.
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 [ have nae doubt but that they wull
be gran' milkers, and if fattened, will rin fifty score a quarter.
But Bronte mauna come out to Altrive, sir, till the Bonassus
is dead.
North. But is the 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.
O. Cyril Thornton. How the deuce, Mr Hogg, did you get
The Bonassus. 181
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 tauked 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, T backet the waggon a wee doun hill, flang
open the end door, and out like 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
aff 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 comin 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 Bonas
sus when she was near the doun-lying, that has a fearsome
likeness till him in the face ; but noo he's weel kent, and,
I may say, liked 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 rumor 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 offi-
182 A Royal Command.
sher 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, lies beyond even the privi
leges of friendship. With you I have no reserve — but when
Majesty —
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 like 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 unwarranted^
remember, James — go no farther. Do you think, my dear
Shepherd, that all that passes within the penetralia of the
Royal breast finds an echo in the rumors 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 faytures. 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. But whisht — there's
thunner !
Another jug ? 183
Tickler. Only Mr. Ambrose with the coach I ordered to be
at the Lodge precisely at one.
Shepherd. I'm sorry she'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.
0. Cyril Thornton (rising}. God bless you, sir, good morn
ing — Mr. Ambrose may call it but one o'clock, if it gives him
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) Corrnall, 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 Row, — 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
o/*Mr. AMBROSE.
XIV.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD AND TICKLER TAKE TO
THE WATER,
SCENE I. — Two Bathing-machines in the Seaat PortobeUo.*
SHEPHERD. — TICKLER.
Shepherd. Halloo, Mr. Tickler, are you no ready yet, man ?
I've been a mother-naked man. in my machine here, for mair
than ten minutes. Hae your pantaloons got entangled amang
your heels, or are you saying your prayers afore you plunge ?
Tickler. Both. These patent long drawers, too, are a con
founded nuisance — and this patent short under-shirt. There
is no getting out of them without greater agility than is
generally possessed by a man at my time of life.
Shepherd. Confound a' pawtents. As for mysel, I never
wear drawers, but hae my breeks lined wi' flannen a' the year
through ; and as for thae wee short corded under-shirts, that
clasp you like ivy, I never hae had ane o' them on sin' List
July, when I was forced to cut it aff my back and breast wi'
a pair o' sheep-shears, after having tried in vain to get out o't
every morning for twa months. But are ye no ready, sir ?
A man on the scaffold wadna be allowed sae lang time for
preparation. The minister or the hangman wad be jugging t
him to fling the hankerchief.
• A bathing quarter near Edinburgh. f Jugging— jogging.
184
Tickler on the Brink. 185
Tickler. Hanging, I hold, is a mere flea-bite —
Shepherd. What ! tae dookin ? — Here goes.
[The SHEPHERD plunges into the sea.
Tickler. What the devil has become of James ? He is
nowhere to be seen. That is but a gull — that only a seal —
and that a mere pellock. James, James, James !
Shepherd (emerging.) Wha's that roaring ? Stop a wee till
I get the saut water out o' my een, and my mouth, and my nose,
and wring my hair a bit. Noo, where are you, Mr. Tickler ?
Tickler. I think I shall put on my clothes again, James.
The air is chill ; and I see from your face that the water is
as cold as ice.
Shepherd. Oh, man ! but you're a desperate cooart Think
shame o' yoursel, stannin naked there, at the mouth o* the
machine, wi' the haill crew o' yon brig sailin up the Firth
looking at ye, ane after anither, f rae cyuck to captain, through
the telescope.
Tickler. James, on the sincerity of a shepherd and the
faith of a Christian, lay your hand on your heart, and tell me,
was not the shock tremendous ? I thought you never would
have reappeared.
Shepherd. The shock was naething, nae mair than what a
body feels when waukenin suddenly during a sermon, or fa'in
ower a staircase in a dream. — But I am aff to Inchkeith.
Tickler. Whizz. [Flings a somerset into the sea.
Shepherd. Ane — twa — three — four — five — sax — seven —
aught — but there's nae need o' coontin — for nae pearl-diver,
in the Straits o' Madagascar or aff the coast o' Coromandel,
can haud in his breath like Tickler. Weel, that's surprisin.
Yon chaise has gane about half a mile o' gate towards Porty-
belly sin' he gaed fizz in ou tower the lugs like a verra rocket.
Safe us ! what's this gruppin me by the legs ? A sherk — a
sherk — a sherk !
186 They start for Inchkeith.
Tickler (yellowing to the surface}. Blabla — blabla — bla —
Shepherd. He's keept soomin aneath the water till he's
sick ; but every man for himsel, and God for us a' — I'm atf .
[SHEPHERD stretches away to sea in the direction of
Inchkeith — TICKLER in pursuit.
Tickler. Every sinew, my dear James, like so much whip
cord. I swim like a salmon.
Shepherd. Oh, sir ! that Lord Byron had but been alive
the noo, what a sweepstakes !
Tickler. A Liverpool gentleman has undertaken, James, to
swim four-and-twenty miles at a stretch. What are the odds ?
Shepherd. Three to one on Saturn and Neptune. He'll
get numm.
Tickler. James, I had no idea you were so rough on the
back. You are a perfect otter.
Shepherd. Nae personality, Mr. Tickler, out at sea. I'll
compare carcases wi' you ony day o' the year. Yet, you're
a gran' soomer — out o' the water at every stroke, neck,
breast, shouthers, and half-way doun the back — after the
fashion o' the great American serpent. As for me, my style
o' soomin's less showy — laigh and lown — less hurry, but mair
speed. Come, sir, I'll dive you for a jug o' toddy.
[TICKLER and SHEPHERD melt away like foam-bells
in the sunshine.
Shepherd. Mr. Tickler !
Tickler. James!
Shepherd. It's a drawn bate — sae we'll baith pay. — Oh,
sir ! isna Ernbro' a glorious city ? Sae clear the air, yonner
you see a man and a woman stannin on the tap o' Arthur's Seat !
I had nae notion there were sae mony steeples, and spires,
and columns, and pillars, and obelisks, and domes, in Embro' !
And at this distance the ee canna distinguish atween then)
that belangs to kirks, and them that belangs to naval mom*
A Dolphin or a Shark? 187
ments, and them that belangs to ile-gas companies, and them
that's only chimley-heids in the auld toun, and the taps o'
groves, or single trees, sic as poplars ; and aboon a' and ahint
a', craigs and saft-broo'd hills sprinkled wi' sheep, lichts and
shadows, and the blue vapory glimmer o' a midsummer day
— het, het, het, wi' the barometer at ninety ; but here, to us
twa, bob-bobbin amang the fresh, cool, murrnurin, and faemy
wee waves, temperate as the air within the mermaid's palace.
Anither dive !
Tickler. James, here goes the Fly- Wheel.
Shepherd. That beats a' ! He gangs round in the water
like a jack roastin beef. I'm thinkin he canna stop himsel.
Safe us ! he's fun' out the perpetual motion.
Tickler. What fish, James, would you incline to be, if put
into scales ?
Shepherd. A dolphin — for they hae the speed o' lichtnin.
They'll dart past and roun' about a ship in full sail before the
wind, just as if she was at anchor. Then the dolphin is a
fish o' peace — he saved the life o' a poet of auld, Arion, wi'
his harp — and. oh ! they say the cretur's beautifu' in death —
Byron, ye ken, comparin his hues to those o' the sun settin
ahint the Grecian Isles. I sud like to be a dolphin.
Tickler. I should choose to sport shark for a season. In
speed he is a match for the dolphin — and then, James, think
what luxury to swallow a well-fed chaplain, or a delicate mid
shipman, or a young negro girl occasionally —
Shepherd. And feenally to be grupped wi' a hyuck in a
cocked hat and feather, at which the shark rises as a trout
does at a flee, hauled on board, and hacked to pieces wi' cut
lasses and pikes, by the jolly crew or left alive on the deck,
gutted as clean as a dice-box, and without an inch o' bowels.
Tickler. Men die at shore, James, of natural deaths as bad
as that —
188 A Whale or the Sea-Serpent f
Shepherd. Let me see — I sud hae nae great objections to
be a whale in the Polar Seas. Gran' fun to fling a boatfu' o'
harpooners into the air — or, wi' ae thud o' your tail, to drive
in the stern-posts o' a Greenlandman.
Tickler. Grander fun still, James, to feel the inextricable
harpoon in your blubber, and to go snoving away beneath an
ice-floe with four mile of line connecting you with your dis
tant enemies.
Shepherd. But then whales marry but ae wife, and are pas
sionately attached to their offspring. There, they and I are
congenial speerits. Nae fish that swims enjoys so large a
share of domestic happiness.
Tickler. A whale, James, is not a fish.
Shepherd. Isna he ? Let him alane for that. He's ca'd
a fish in the Bible, and that's better authority than Buffon.
Oh, that I were a whale !
Tickler. What think you of a summer of the American Sea-
Serpent.
Shepherd. What ? To be constantly cruised upon by the
haill American navy, military and mercantile ! No to be able
to show your back aboon water without being libelled by the
Yankees in a' the newspapers, and pursued even by pleasure-
parties, playin the hurdy-gurdy and smokin cigars ! Besides,
although I hae nae objection to a certain degree o' singularity,
I sudna just like to be sae very singular as the American Sea-
Serpent, who is the only ane o' his specie noo extant ; and
whether he dees in his bed, or is slain by Jonathan, must in
cur the pain and the opprobrium o' defunckin an auld bache
lor. What's the matter wi' you, Mr. Tickler ? [Dives.
Tickler. The calf of my right leg is rather harder than is
altogether pleasant. A pretty business if it prove the cramp ;
and the cramp it is sure enough. — Hallo— James — James —
James — hallo — I'm seized with the cramp — James — the
Seized with Cramp. 189
sinews of the calf of my right leg are gathered up into a knot
about the bulk and consistency of a sledge-hammer —
Shepherd. Nae tricks upon travellers. You've nae cramp.
Gin you hae, streek out your richt hind leg, like a horse geein
a funk — and then ower on the back o' ye, and keep floatin for
a space, and your calf '11 be as saf t's a cushion. Lord safe us !
what's this ? Deevil tak me if he's no droonin. Mr. Tick
ler, are you droonin ? There he's doun ance, and up again —
twice, and up again ; — but it's time to tak haud o' him by tho
hair o' the head, or he'll be doun amang the limpets !
[SHEPHERD seizes TICKLER by the locks.
Tickler. Oho — oho — oho — ho — ho — ho — hra — hra — hrach
— hrach.
Shepherd. What language is that ? Finnish ? Noo, sir,
dinna rug me doun to the bottom alang wi' you in the dead-
thraws.
Tickler. Heaven reward you, James — the pain is gone —
but keep near me.
Shepherd. Whammle yoursel ower on your back, sir. Thax
111 do. Hoo are you now, sir ? Yonner's the James Watt *
steamboat, Captain Bain, within half a league. Lean on my
airm, sir, till he comes alangside, and it 'ill be a real happiness
to the captain to save your life. But what '11 a' the leddies do
when they're hoistin us aboard ? they maun just use their fans.
Tickler. My dear Shepherd, T am again floating like a
turtle, — but keep within hail, James. Are you to windward
or leeward?
Shepherd. Right astarn. Did you ever see, sir, in a' your
born days, sic a sky ? Ane can scarcely say he sees't, for it's
maist invisible in its blue beautifu* tenuity, as the waters o' a
well ! It's just like the ee o' a lassie I kent lang ago — the
*The" James Watt" plied between London and Edinburgh, under the
command of Captain Bain.
190 The Shepherd of the Sea.
langer you gazed intil't, the deep, deep, deeper it grew — the
cawmer and the mair cawm — composed o' a smile, as an
amythist is composed o' licht — and seeming something im
palpable to the touch, till you ventured, wi' fear, joy, and
tremmlin to kiss it — just ae hesitatin, pantin, reverential kiss
— and then, to be sure, your verra sowl kent it to be a bonny
blue ee, covered wi' a lid o' dark fringes, and drappin aiblins
a bit frichtened tear to the lip o' love.
Tickler. What is your specific gravity, James ? You float
like a sedge.
Shepherd. Say rather a Nautilus, or a Mew. I'm native to
the yelement.
Tickler. Where learned you the natatory art, my dear
Shepherd ?
Shepherd. Do you mean soomin ? In St. Mary's Loch.
For a haill simmer I kept plouterin alang the shore, and pittin
ae fit to the grim', knockin the skin aff my knees, and makin
uae progress, till ae day, the gravel haein been loosened by a
flood, I plowpt in ower head and ears, and in my confusion,
turnin my face to the wrang airt, I sworn across the loch at
the widest at ae stretch, and ever after that could hae soomed
ony man in the Forest for a wager, except Mr. David Ballan-
tyne, that noo leeves ower-by yonner, near the Hermitage
Castle.
Tickler. Now, James, you are, to use the language of
Spenser, the Shepherd of the Sea.
Shepherd. Oh that I had been a sailor ! To hae circum
navigated the warld ! To hae pitched our tents, or built our
bowers, on the shores o' bays sae glitterin wi' league-lang
wreaths o' shells, that the billows blushed crimson as they
murmured ! To hae seen our flags burnin meteor-like, high
up amang the primaeval woods, while birds bright as ony
buntin sat trimmin their plummage amang the cordage, sae
The Sailor's Life. 191
tame in that island, where ship had hapiy never touched afore,
nor ever might touch again, lying in a latitude by itsel, and
far out o' the breath o' the tredd-wunds ! Or to hae landed
wi' a' the crew, marines and a', excep a guard on shipboard
to keep aff the crowd o' canoes, on some warlike isle, tossin wi'
the plumes on chieftains' heads, and soun'-soun'-soundin wi'
gongs ! What's a man-o'-war's barge, Mr. Tickler, beautifu'
sicht though it be, to the hundred-oared canoe o' some savage
Island-king ! The King himsel lying in state — no dead, but
leevin, every inch o' him — on a platform — aboon a' his war
riors standin wi' war-clubs, and stane-hatchets, and fish-bane
spears, and twisted mats, and tattooed faces, and ornaments
in their noses, and painted een, and feathers on their heads
a yard heigh, a' silent, or burstin out o' a sudden intil shootin
sangs o' welcome or defiance, in a language made up o' a few
lang strang words — maistly gutturals — and gran' for the
naked priests to yell intil the ears o' their victims, when about
to cut their throats on the altar-stane that Idolatry had
encrusted with blood, shed by stormy moonlicht to glut the
maw of their sanguinary god. Or say rather — oh, rather
say, that the white-winged Wonder that has brought the
strangers frae afar, frae lands beyond the setting sun, has
been hailed with hymns and dances o' peace — and that a' the
daughters of the Isle, wi' the daughter o' the King at their
head, come a' gracefully windin alang in a figur, that, wi' a
thousan' changes, is aye but ae single dance, wi' unsandalled
feet true to their ain wild singin, wi' wings fancifully fastened
to their shouthers, and, beautifu' creturs ! a' naked to the
waist. — But whare the deevil's Mr. Tickler ? Has he sunk
during my soliloquy? or swum to shore? Mr. Tickler — Mr.
Tickler — I wush I had a pistol to fire into the air, that he
might be brought to. Yonner he is, playing at porpuss. Let
me try if 1 can reach him in twenty strokes — it's no aboon a
192 The Shepherd's Adventure.
hunder yards. Five yards a stroke — no bad soomin in dead
water. — There, I've done it in nineteen. Let me on my
back for a rest.
Tickler. I am not sure that this confounded cramp —
Shepherd. The cramp's just like the hiccup, sir — never
think o't, and it's gane. I've seen a white lace veil, sic as
Queen Mary's drawn in, lyin afloat, without stirrin aboon her
snawy broo, saftenin the ee-licht — and it's yon braided clouds
that remind me o't, motionless, as if they had lain there a'
their lives ; yet, wae's me ! perhaps in ae single hour to melt
away for ever !
Tickler. James, were a Mermaid to see and hear you mor
alizing so, afloat on your back, her heart were lost.
Shepherd. I'm nae favorite noo, I suspeck, amang the
Mermaids.
Tickler. Why not, James ? You look more irresistible than
you imagine. Never saw I your face and figure to more
advantage — when lying on the braes o' Yarrow, with your
eyes closed in the sunshine, and the shadows of poetical
dreams chasing each other along cheek and brow. You would
make a beautiful corpse, James.
Shepherd. Think shame o' yoursel, Mr. Tickler, for daurin
to use that word, and the sinnies o' the cauf o' your richt leg
yet knotted wi' the cramp. Think shame o' yoursel ! That
word's no canny.
Tickler. But what ail the Mermaids with the Shepherd ?
Shepherd. I was ance lyin half asleep in a sea-shore cave
o' the Isle o' Sky, wearied out by the verra beauty o' the
moonlicht that had keepit lyin for hours in ae lang line o'
harmless fire, stretchin leagues and leagues to the rim o' the
ocean. Nae sound, but a bit faint, dim plash — plash — plash
o' the tide — whether ebbin or flawin I ken not — no against,
but upon the weedy sides o' the cave —
With a Mermaid. 193
Tickler.—
11 As when some shepherd of the Hebride Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main ! '*
Shepherd. That soun's like Thamson — in his " Castle o'
Indolence." A' the haill warld was forgotten — and my ain
name — and what I was — and where I had come f rae — and why
I was lyin there — nor was I onything but a Leevin Dream.
Tickler. Are you to windward or leeward, James ?
Shepherd. Something — like a caulder breath o' moonlicht
fell on my face and breast, and seemed to touch all my body
and my limbs. But it canna be mere moonlicht, thocht I,
for at the same time there was the whisperin — or say, rather,
the waverin o' the voice — no alang the green cave wa's, but
close iritil my ear, and then within my verra breast, — sae, at
first, for the soun' was saft and sweet, and wi' a touch o'
plaintive wildness in't no unlike the strain o? an Eolian harp,
I was rather surprised than feared, and maist thocht that it
was but the wark o' my ain fancy, afore she yielded to the
dwawm o' that solitary sleep.
Tickler. James, I hear the Steamer.
Shepherd. I opened my een, that had only been half steekit
— and may we never reach the shore again, if there was not
I, sir, in the embrace o' a Mermaid !
Tickler. James — remember we are well out to Inchkeith.
If you please, no —
Shepherd. I would scorn to be drooned with a lee in my
mouth, sir. It is quite true that the hair o' the cretur is
green — and it's as slimy as it's green — slimy and sliddery as
the sea-weed that cheats your unsteady footing on the rocks.
Then what een ! — oh, what een ! — Like the boiled een o' a
cod's head and shouthers ! — and yet expression in them — an
expression o' love and fondness, that would hae garred an
Eskimaw scunner.
194 TJie Mermaid* Embrace.
Tickler. James, you are surely romancing.
Shepherd. Oh, dear, dear me ! — hech, sirs ! hech, sirs ! —
the fishiness o' that kiss ! — I had hung up my claes to dry on
a peak o' the cliff — for it was ane o' thae lang midsummer
nichts, when the sea-air itself fans ye wi' as warm a sugh as
that frae a leedy's fan when you're sittin side by side wi' her
in an arbor —
Tickler. Oh, James — you fox —
Shepherd. Sae that I was as naked as either you or me,
Mr. Tickler, at this blessed moment — and whan I felt mysel
enveloped in the hauns, paws, fins, scales, tail, and maw o'
the Mermaid o' a monster, I grued till the verra roof o' the
cave let doun drap, drap, drap upon us — me and the Mer
maid — and I gied mysel up for lost.
Tickler. Worse than Venus and Adonis, my dear Shepherd.
Shepherd. I began mutterin the Lord's Prayer, and the
Creed, and the hundred and nineteenth Psalm — but a' wudna
do. The Mermaid held the grup — and while I was splutterin
out her kisses, and convulsed waur than I ever was under the
warst nichtmare than ever sat on my stamach, wi' ae desper
ate wallop we baith gaed tapsalteerie — frae ae sliddery ledge
to anither — till, wi' accelerated velocity, like twa stanes, in-
creasin accordin to the squares o' the distances, we played
plunge like porpusses into the sea, a thousan' f adorn deep —
and hoo I gat rid o' the briny Beastliness nae man kens till
this day ; for there was I sittin in the cave chitterin like
a drookit cock, and nae Mermaid to be seen or heard ; al
though, wad ye believe me, the cave had the smell o' crabs
and labsters, and oysters, and skate, and fish in general,
aneuch to turn the stamach o' a whale or a sea-lion.
Tickler. Ship ahoy ! — Let us change our position, James
Shall we board the Steamer ?
Shepherd. Only look at the waves, hoo they gang welterin
Ship ahoy ! 1 95
frae her prow and sides, and widen in her wake for miles aff !
Gin we venture ony nearer, we'll never wear breeks mair.
Mercy on us ! she's bearin doun upon us. Let us soom fast,
and, passing across her bows, we shall bear up to windward
out o' a' the commotion. — Captain Bain ! Captain Bain ! it's
me and Mr. Tickler, taking a soom for an appeteet — stop the
ingine till we get past the bowsprit.
Tickler. Heavens ! James, what a bevy of ladies on deck !
Let us dive.
Shepherd. You may dive — for you swim improperly high ;
but as for me, I seem in the water to be a mere Head, like a
cherub on a church. A boat, captain — a boat !
Tickler. James, you aren't mad, sure ? Who ever boarded
a steamer in our plight ? There will be fainting from stem
to stern, in cabin and steerage.
Shepherd. I ken that leddy in the straw bannet and green
veil, and ruby sarsnet, wi' the glass at her ee. Ye ho —
Miss —
Tickler. James — remember how exceedingly delicate a
thing is a young lady's reputation. See, she turns away in
confusion.
Shepherd. Captain, I say, what news frae London ?
Captain Bain (through a speaking-trumpet). Lord Welling
ton's amendment on the bonding clause in the Corn Bill
again carried against Ministers by 133 to 122.* Sixty-six
shillings !
Tickler. What says your friend M'Culloch to that, Captain ?
Shepherd. Wha cares a bodle about corn bills in our
situation ? What's the Captain routin about noo out o'
* The Duke cf Wellington's amendment on the Ministerial measure was, that
* no foreign grain in bond shall be taken out cf bond until the average price
of corn shall have reached 66s."— See Alison's History of Europe from 1815 to
1852, vol. iv. p. 110 ; also Annual Kegister, 1827, p. 147.
196 Rough Water.
his speakin-trumpet ? But he may just as weel haud hia
tongue, for I never understand ae word out o' the mouth o'
a trumpet.
Tickler. He says the general opinion in London is that the
Administration will stand — that Canning and Brougham—
Shepherd. Canning and Brougham, indeed ! do you think,
sir, if Canning and Brougham had been soomin in the sea,
and that Canning had taen the cramp in the cauf o' his richt
leg, as you either did, or said you did, a short while sin' syne,
that Brougham wad hae safed him as I safed you ? Faith,
no he indeed ! Hairy wad hae frhocht nathing o' watching
till George showed the croon o' his head aboon water, and
then hittin him on the temples.
Tickler. No, no, James. They would mutually risk lives for
each other's sake. But no politics at present ; we're getting
into the swell, and will have our work to do to beat back
into smooth water. James, that was a facer.
Shepherd. Dog on it, ane wad need to be a sea-maw, or
kitty-wake, or stormy petrel, or some ither ane o' Bewick's
birds —
Tickler. Keep your mouth shut, James, till we're out of
the swell.
Shepherd. Em — hem — umph — humph — whoo — whoo —
whurr — whurr — herrachvacherach.
Tickler. Wh sy — whsy — whsy — whugh — whugh — shugh —
shugh — prugh — ptsugh — prgugh.
Shepherd. It's lang sin' I've drank sae muckle saut water
at ae sittin — at ae soomin, I mean — as I hae dune, sir, sin'
that steamboat gaed by. She does indeed kick up a deevil
o' a rumpus.
Tickler. Whoo — whoo — whoof — whroo — whroo— whroof--
proof — ptroof — sprtf !
Shepherd. Ae thing I maun tell you, sir, and that's, gin
Arrival of Bronte. 197
you tak the cramp the noo, you maunna expeck ony assist
ance frae me — no, gin you were my ain father. This bates
a' the swalls ! Confoun' the James Watt, quoth I.
Tickler. Nay, nay, James. She is worthy of her name —
and a better seaman than Captain Bain never boxed the
compass. He never comes below except at meal times, and
a pleasanter person cannot be at the foot of the table. All
night long he is on deck, looking out for squalls.
Shepherd. I declare to you, sir, that just noo, in the
trough o' the sea, I didna see the top o' the Steamer's
chimley. See, Mr. Tickler, — see, Mr. Tickler — only look
here — only look here — HERE'S BRONTE! MR. NORTH'S
GREAT NEWFUNLAN' BRONTE !
Tickler. Capital — capital. He has been paying his father
a visit at the gallant Admiral's, * and come across our steps
on the sands.
Shepherd. Puir fallow — gran' fallow — did ye think we was
droonin ?
Bronte. Bow — bow — bow — bow, wow, wow — bow, wow,
wow.
Tickler. His oratory is like that of Bristol Hunt versus
Sir Thomas Lethbridge.f
Shepherd. Sir, you're tired, sir. You had better take haud
o' his tail.
Tickler. No bad idea, James. But let me just put one arm
round his neck. There we go. Bronte, my boy, you swim
strong as a rhinoceros !
Ifronte. Bow, wow, wow — bow, wow, wow.
Shepherd. He can do onything but speak.
Tickler. Why, I think, James, he speaks uncommonly well
* Admiral Otway.
t Henry Hunt, a mob orator and Radical reformer, M. P. for Preston, 1830-
31 ; died in 1835. Sir T. Lethbridge, a Tory M. P., and large landed proprie
tor.
198 Immortality of Bronte.
Few of our Scotch Members speak better. He might lead
the Opposition.
Shepherd. What for will ye aye be introducin politics, sir ?
But, really, I hae fund his tail very useful in that swall ; and
let's leave him to himsel noo, for twa men on ae dowg's a
sair doundraucht.*
Tickler. With what a bold kind eye the noble animal
keeps swimming between us, like a Christian !
Shepherd. I hae never been able to persuade my heart and
my understandin that dowgs haena immortal sowls. See
how he steers himsel', first a wee towarts me, and then a wee
towarts you, wi' his tail like a rudder. His sowl maun be
immortal.
Tickler. I am sure, James, that if it be, I sliall be extremely
happy to meet Bronte in any future society.
Shepherd. The minister wad ca' that no orthodox. But
the mystery o' life canna gang out like the pluff o' a cawnle.
Perhaps the verra bit bonny glitterin insecks that we ca'
ephemeral, because they dance out but ae single day, never
dee, but keep for ever and aye openin and shuttin their wings
in mony million atmospheres, and may do sae through a'
eternity. The universe is aiblins wide aneuch.
Tickler. Eyes right ! James, a boatful of ladies — with
umbrellas and parasols extended to catch the breeze. Let
us lie on our oars, and they will never observe us.
Bronte. Bow, wow, wow — bow, wow, wow.
[Female alarms heard from the pleasure-boat. A
gentleman in the stern rises with an oar, and
stands in a threatening attitude.
Tickler. Ease off to the east, James — Bronte, hush !
Shepherd. I howp they've nae fool ing-pieces — for they may
tak us for gulls, and pepper us wi' swan-shots or slugs. I'll
* f'oundruucht — down-drag.
Tliey reach the Shore. 199
live at the flash. Yon's no a gun that chiel has in his
haun ?
Tickler. He lets fall his oar into the water, and the " boatie
rows — the boatie rows." — Hark, a song !
[Song from the retiring boat.
Shepherd. A very gude sang, and very well sung — jolly
companions, every one.
Tickler. The fair authors of the Odd Volume!
Shepherd. What's their names ?
Tickler. They choose to be anonymous, James ; and that
being the case, no gentleman is entitled to withdraw the
veil.
Shepherd. They're sweet singers, howsomever, and the
words o' their sang are capital. Baith Odd Volumes are
maist ingenious, well written, and amusing.
Tickler. The public thinks so — and they sell like wildfire.
Shepherd. I'm beginning to get maist desperat thursty,
and hungry baith. What a denner wull we make ! How
mony miles do you think we hae sworn ?
Tickler. Three — in or over. Let me sound. — Why, James,
my toe scrapes the sand. " By the Nail, six ! "
Shepherd. I'm glad o't. It 'ill be a bonny bizziness, gif
ony neerdoweels hae run aff wi' our claes out o' the machines.
But gif they hae, Bronte 'ill sune grup them — wunna ye,
Bronte ?
Bronte. Bow, wow, wow — bow, wow, wow.
Shepherd. Now, Tickler, that our feet touch the grun', I'll
rin you a race to the machines for anither jug.
tickler. Done — but let us ha-ve a fair start. — Once,
twice, thrice !
[TICKLER and the SHEPHERD start, with BRONTE in the
van, amid loud acclamations from the shore. — Scene closes •
SCENE II.— Inside of Portobetto Fly.
Mrs. GENTLE. — Miss GENTLE.
Miss Gentle. My dear mother ! I declare there comes Mr,
Tickler and Mr. Hogg ! Do let me kiss my hand to them—
perhaps they may —
Tickler. Ha ! ladies — I am delighted to find we shall have
your company to Edinburgh. —Hogg, ascend.
Shepherd. Hoo are ye the day, Mrs. Gentle ? — and hoo are
you, Miss Mary ? God bless your bonny gentle een. Come
in, Mr. Tickler — come in. — Coachman, pit up the steps. But
gif you've ony parshels to get out o' the office, or ony honest
outside passengers to tak up, you had better wait a wee while
on them, and, as it's unco het, and a' up-hill, and your beasts
wearied, tak your time, my man, and hurry nae man's cattle.
Miss Mary, you'll hae been doun to the dookin ?
Miss Gentle. No, Mr. Hogg ; I very seldom bathe in the sea.
Bathing is apt to give me a headache, and to induce sleepiness.
Shepherd. That's a sign the dookin disna agree wi' your
constitution. Yet though you have that kind o' complexion,
my dear Mem, that the poet was dreaming o' when he said,
"O call it fair, not pale," I howp devoutly that your health's
gude. I howp, Mrs. Gentle, your dochter's no what's ca'd
delicate.
Mrs. Gentle. Mary enjoys excellent health, Mr. Hogg, and is
much in the open air, which, after all, is the best of baths.
Miss Gentle. I am truly happy, sir, to meet with you again
so soon after that charming evening at Buchanan Lodge. I
hope you are all well at Mount Benger ?
Shepherd. Better than well ; and next moon the mistress
expects to see your mother and you alang wi' Mr. North,
A Poet's Instincts. 201
according to your promise. You're no gaun to break it ?
What for are you lookin sae grave, baith o' you ? I dinna
understan' this — I am verra near about gaun to grow a wee
angry.
Miss Gentle. When my dear sister shall have recovered
sufficient strength for a little tour in the country, her physi
cian has recommended —
Shepherck No anither word. She sail come out wi' you to
Yarrow. I've seen near a dizzen o' us in Mr. North's coach
afore noo, and no that crooded neither. You fower 'ill ilka ane
hae your corner — and you, Mem, Mrs. Gentle, and Mr. North,
'ill be taken for the mother and the father — and Miss Mary
and Miss Ellenor for your twa dochters ; the ane like Bessy
Bell, and the ither like Mary Gray.
Miss Gentle. Most extraordinary, Mr. Hogg — why, my dear
friend's name absolutely is Elliuor !
Shepherd. The moment I either see a young leddy, or lassie
indeed o' ony sort, or even hear them spoken o' by ane that
lo'es them, that moment I ken their Christian name. What
process my mind gangs through I canna tell, except that it's
intuitive like, and instantawneous. The soun' o' the unpro-
nounced name, or raither the shadow o' the soun', comes
across my mind, and I'm never wrang, ony majr than if I had
heard the wean baptized in the kirk.
Miss Gentle. What fine apprehensions are given to the
poet's gifted soul and senses !
Shepherd. A July at Mount Benger will add twenty years
to Miss Ellenor's life. She sail hae asses' milk — and a stool
to sit on in the byre every riicht when the " kye come hame "
to be milked — for there's naething better for that complaint
than the balmy breath o' kine.
Miss Gentle. God bless you, sir, you are so considerate !
Shepherd. And we'll tak care no to let her walk on thegerse
202 July at Mount Benger.
when the dews are on, — and no to stay out ower late in the
gloamin ; and in case o' a chance shower — for there's nae
countin on them — she sail hae my plaid — and bonny she'll
look in't, gif she be onything like her freen Miss Mary
Gentle — and we'll row in a boatie on St. Mary's Loch in the
sunshine — and her bed sail be made cozy every nicht wi' our
new brass warmin-pan, though there's no as much damp
about a' the house as to dim a lookin-glass — and her food
sail be Yarrow truits, and Eltrive chickens, and licht barley-
scones, wi' a glass o' the mistress's currant-wine. — But I'm
gettin wearisome, Mems — and, gude safe us ! there's Bronte
fechtin wi' a carter's mastiff. We're a mile frae Portybelly,
and I never was sensible o' the Fly ha'in steered frae the
cotch-omsh. Driver — driver, stop, or thae twa dowgs 'ill
devoor ane anither. There's nae occasion — Bronte has
garred him flee, and that carter 'ill be wise to haud his haun;
for faith, gif he strikes Bronte wi' his whup, he'll be on the
braid o' his back in a jiffy, wi' a haill set o' teeth in his
wizand, as lang's my fingers, and as white as yours, Miss
Mary ; — but wull ye let me look at that ring, for I'm unco
curious in precious stanes ?
[SHEPHERD takes Miss GENTLE'S hand into his.
Miss Gentle. It has been in our family, sir, for several
centuries, and I wear it for my grandmother's sake, who
took it off her finger and put it on mine a few days before
she died.
Shepherd. Mrs. Gentle, I see your dochter's haun's just like
your ain — the back narrowish, but rather a wee plumpy —
fingers sma* and taper, without being lang — and the beautifu'
wee member, pawm an* a', as saft and warm as velvet, that
has been no verra far aff the fire. Happy he whom Heaven
ordains, on some nae distant day, to put the thin, unadorned,
•jnrubied ring on this finger — my dear Mary — this ane, the
Tickler asleep. 203
neist to the wee finger o' the left haun — and gin you'll ask
me to the wedding, you shall get, my bonny doo, warm frao
this heart o' mine, a faither's blessing.
Mrs. Gentle. Let me promise for Mary, Mr. Hogg ; and on
that day, you, Mr. North, and Mr. Tickler will dine with me
at Trinity Cottage.
Shepherd. I'll answer for Mr. Tickler. But hoosh — speak
lown, or we'll wauken him. I'm never sae happy in his
company as when he's sleepin — for his animal spirits, at
times, is maist outrawageous — his wut incessant — and the
verra een o' him gleg as wummles, mair than I can thole, for
hours thegither fixed on mine, as gin he wushed to bore a
hole through a body's head, frae oss frontis to cerebellum.
Mrs. Gentle. Well, Mr. Hogg, this is the first time in my
life I ever saw Mr. Tickler asleep. I fear he has been over
powered by the sun.
Shepherd. No, Mem — by soomin. He and I, and Bronte
there, took a soom nearly out to Inchkeith — and no being
accustomed to it for some years, he's unco comatose. There's
no ae single thing in a' this warld that he's sae severe on in
other folk as fa'in asleep in company — let them even hae sat
up the haill nicht afore, ower bowl or book ; — but that trance
is like a judgment on him, and he'll be real wud * at me for
no waukenin him, when lie opens his een as the wheels stop,
and he fin's that I've had baith the leddies a' the way up to
mysel. But you can see him at ony time — whereas a sight
o' me in Awmrose's is guid for sair een, on an average only
but ance a season. Mrs. Gentle, did you ever see ony person
sleep mair like a gentleman?
Mrs. Gentle. Everything Mr. Tickler does, Mr. Hogg, is
like a gentleman.
Shepherd. When he's dead he'll look like a gentleman.
* Wild— angry.
204 Tictcler in the Drawing- Room.
Even if ane could for a moment mak sic a supposition, he
would look like a gentleman if he were hanged.
Mrs Gentle. Oh, shocking ! — My dear sir —
Shepherd. My admiration o' Mr. Tickler has nae bounds,
Msm. He would look like a gentleman in the stocks — or
the jougs — or the present Ministry —
Mrs. Gentle. I certainly never saw any person enter a draw
ing-room with an air of more courteous dignity, more heart
felt politeness, more urbanity, sir, — a word, I believe, derived —
Shepherd. It's no ae man in fifty thousan' that's entitled
to hae what's ca'd a mainner. Maist men, on entering a
room, do weel just to sit doun on the first chair they lay
their haun on — or to gang intil the window — or lean against
the wa' — or keep lookin at pictures on a table — till the
denner-bell rings. But Mr. Tickler there — sax feet four —
threescore and ten — wi' heigh feturs * — white hair — ruddy
cheeks — paircin een — naturally eloquent — fu' o' anecdote o'
the olden time — independent in sowl, body and estate — geyan
proud — a wee mad — rather deafish on the side of his head
that happens to be neist a ninny — he, Mem, is entitled by
nature and art to hae a mainner, and an extraordinar mainner
sometimes it is f —
Mrs. Gentle. I think Mr. Tickler is about to shake off his
drowsiness.
Tickler. Has that lazy fellow of a coachman not got all his
parcels and passengers collected yet ? Is he never going to
set off? Ay, there we go at last. This Portobello, Mrs.
Gentle, is really a wonderful place. That building reminds
me of the Edinburgh Post-Office.
Shepherd. We're in Embro', sir, we're in Embro', and
you've been snorin like a bittern or a frog in Tarras MOSR.
Tickler. Ladies — can I hope ever to be pardoned for having
fallen asleep in such presence ? Yet, could I think that the
* Feturs— features t Mr. Robert Sym is here painted to the life.
Thermometer at Eighty. 205
£irilt of sleep had been aggravated by being habit and repute
a snorer, suicide alone could —
Mrs. Gentle. During your slumber, sir, you drew your breath
as softly as a sleeping child.
Tickler. My offence, then, is not inexpiable.
Shepherd. I am muckle obliged to you, sir, for sleepin — and
I drew up the window on your side, that you michtna catch
cauld ; for, sir, though you draw your breath as saftly as a
sleepin child, you hae nae notion how wide open you haud
your mouth. You'll do the same for me another time.
[ The coach stops, and the SHEPHERD hands out Miss GENTLE
— Mr. TICKLER gallantly performing the same office to the
Lady Mother.
Bronte. Bow, wow, wow — bow, wow, wow. [Scene closes.
SCENE TIL — Mr. Ambrose's Hotel, Picardy Place— Pitt Parlor.
Mr. NORTH lying on a sofa, and Mr. AMBROSE fanning him
with a peacock's tail.
North. These window-ventilators, Mr. Ambrose, are indeed
admirable contrivances, and I must get them adopted at the
Lodge. No wind that blows suits this room so well as the
south-east. Do you think I might venture on another water-
ice before dinner ? The pine-apple we shall reserve. Thank
you, Ambrose — that fan almost makes me melancholy.
Demetrius was truly a splendid — a gorgeous — a glorious bird
— and methinks I see him now affronting Phoebus with his
thousand lidless eyes intensely bright within the emerald haze
by which they were all encircled and overshadowed. Hark !
the timepiece sweetly strikes, as with a silver bell, the hour
of five ! — Cease your fanning, mine host most worthy, and
let the dinner appear — for ere a man, with moderate haste,
206 "A Cauld Denner:'
might count a hundred, Tickler and the Shepherd will be in
the presence. Ay, God bless his honest soul, there is my
dear James's laugh in the lobby.
(Enter SHEPHERD and TICKLER and BRONTE.)
Shepherd. Here I am, sir, gloriously hungry. My stamach,
Mr. North, as weel's my heart, 's in the richt place. I'm nae
glutton — nae gormandeezer — but a man o' a gude, a great
appeteet — and for the next half-hour I shall be as perfectly
happy as ony man in a' Scotland.
Tickler. Take a few biscuits, James, till —
Shepherd. Biskits ! I could crunch the haill tot o' them like
sae monv wafers. Rax me ower ane o' thae cabin-biskits o' a
man-o'-war — there — smash into flinders flees it at ae stroke o'
my elbow — but here comes the ROOND !
North. Mr. Ambrose, I ordered a cold dinner —
Shepherd. A cauld denner ! Wha the deevil in his seven
senses wad condescend to sit doun till a cauld denner ! Hail,
Hotch-potch ! What a Cut o' Sawmon ! That maun hae been
a noble fish ! Come forrit, my wee chiel, wi' the chickens,
and you bigger callant, wi' the tongue and ham. Tak tent,
ye auld dominee, and no scale the sass o' the sweet-breads !
Curry's a gran thing, geyan late on in a denner, when the
edge o' the appeteet's a wee turned, and you're rather be-
ginnin to be stawed.* Mr. Awmrose, I'll thank ye to lend
me a pocky-haundkershief, for I've forgotten mine in my
wallise, and my mouth's waterin. There, Mr. North, there-
set in his fit-stule aneath the table. I ca' this, sir, a tastefu'
and judicious denner for three. Whisht, sirs. " God bless
us in these mercies, and make us truly thankful. Amen ! "
Tickler. Hodge-podge, Hogg ?
Shepherd. Only three ladlefu's. — Mair peas. Dip deeper
—That's it.
* Stowed— satiated.
The First Tory Rector. 207
North. Boiling broth, with the thermometer at eighty !
Shepherd. I carena if the fermometer war at aught hunder
and aughty. I'll eat het hotch-potch against Mosshy Shau-
bert* — only I'll no gae intil the oven — neither will I eat
arsenick or phosphorus. Noo, Mr. Tickler, my hotch-potch is
dune, and I'll drink a pint o' porter wi' you frae the tap.
[Mr. AMBROSE places the pewter.
Shepherd. Wha wull the College laddies make Rector neist ?
I'll tell you wha they should eleck.
North. Whom, James ?
Shepherd. Just yoursel. They've had a dynasty o' Whigs
— Jaffrey, and Sir James Mackintosh, and Brougham, and
Cammell — and noo they should hae a dynasty o' Tories.
THE FIRST GREAT TORY RECTOR SHOULD BE CHRISTOPHER
NORTH.
North. No — no — no, James. Nolo Episcopari.
Shepherd. What for no ? Hand your tongue. I'll mak an
appeal to the laddies, and your election is sure. First, you're
the auldest Tory in Scotland — secondly, you're the bauldest
Tory in Scotland — thirdly, you're the wuttiest Tory in Scot
land — fourthly, you're the wisest Tory in Scotland. That
Tammas Cammell is a mair popular poet than you, sir, I
grant ; but that he has ae tenth pairt o' your poetical genius
I deny. As a miscellawneous writer on a' subjects, human
and divine, he is no to be named wi' you, sir, in the same
lifetime — and as an EDITOR, he is, compared wi' CHRISTO
PHER NORTH — but as a spunk to the Sun !
Tickler. Rector ! a glass of hock or sauterne ?
North. Mr. Ambrose, the Peacock's Tail, if you please.
The room is getting very hot.
Shepherd. Oh, sir, but you look bonny when you blush. I
* A fire-eater of those days. He could handle, it is said, red-hot iron, and
enter with impunity an oven in which beef-steaks were cooking.
JOS North as a Vegetarian.
can conceeve a virgin o' saxteen fa'in in love wi' you. — Rec
tor, your good health. Mr. Awmrose, fill the Rector's glass.
Oh, sir, but you wad Ink gran' in your robs. Jaffrey and
CammelFs but pechs * to you — the verra stoop o' your
shouthers would be dignified aneath a goon — the gait o' the
gout is unco philosophical — and wi' your crutch in your
nieve, you would seem the champion o' Truth, ready either
to defend the passes against the wily assaults of Falsehood,
or to follow her into her ain camp, storm the intrenchments,
and slaughter her whole army o' sceptics. — Mr. Awmrose,
gie me a clean plate — I'm for some o' the curried kernels.
North. I have some thoughts, James, of relinquishing
animal food, and confining myself, like Sir Richard Phillips,
to vegetable matter.
Shepherd. Ma troth, sir, there are mony millions o' Sir
Richard Phillipses in the world, if a' that's necessary to
make ane be abstinence frae animal food. It's my belief that
no aboon ane in ten o' mankind at large pree animal food
frae week's end to week's end. Sir Richard Phillips, on
that question, is in a great majority.
Tickler. North, accustomed, James, all his life, to three
courses — fish, flesh, and fowl — would think himself an abso
lute phenomenon or miracle of man, were he to devote the
remainder of his meals to potatoes and barley bannocks,
pease-soup, maccaroni, and the rest of the range of bloodless
but sappy nature. How he would be laughed at for his
heroic resolution, if overheard by three million strapping
Irish beggars, with their bowels yearning for potatoes and
potheen !
North. No quizzing, boys, of the old gentleman.
Shepherd. I agree wi' him in thinkin Sir Isaac Newton out
o' his reckonin entirely about gravitation. There's nae sic
* Pechs — pigmies.
Gravitation unnecessary. 209
thing as a law o' gravitation ! What would be the use o't ?
vVull onybody tell me that an apple or a stane wudna fa' to
the grun' without sic a law ? Sumphs that say sae ! They
fa' to the grun' because they're heavy.
North. Gentlemen, cheese ?.
Shepherd. Na, na — nae cheese. Cheese is capital in the
forenoons, or the afternoons either, when you've had nae
ither denner, especially wi' fresh butter and bread ; but nane
but gluttonous epicures wad hae recourse to it after they hae
been stuffin themsels, as we hae noo been doin for the last
hour, wi' three coorses, forbye hotch-potch and puddins. —
Draw the cloth, Mr. Awmrose, and down wi' the Deevil's
Punch-Bowl.
North. You will find, I trust, that it breathes the very
Spirit of the West. St. Mungo's Cathedral, you know, is at
the bottom — and near it the monument of John Knox —
almost as great a reformer in his day as I in mine ; and had
the West India trade then flourished, no doubt he had been
as religiously devoted to cold Glasgow Punch. I'll answer
.for him that he was no milksop.
[MR. AMBROSE and assistants deposit the Devil's
Punch- Bowl in the centre of the circular table.
North. THE KING.
Shepherd. I took the hips frae you last time, Mr. North,—
tak you the hips frae me this time. . . .
North. The wickedness of the whole world, James, is fear
some. Many a sleepless night I pass thinking of it, and
endeavoring to digest plans for the amelioration of my
species.
Shepherd. A' in vain, a' in vain ! The bit wean at its
mother's breast, lang afore it can speak, girns like an imp o'
sin ; and the auld man, sittin palsied and pillow-prapped in
his arm-chair at the neuk o' the fire, grows black i' the face
210 Ingralititde.
wi' rage, gin his parritch is no richt biled, or the potawtiea
ower hard ; and prefaces his mummied prayer wi' a mair
mummied curse.
Tickler. Your language, James, has been particularly strong
all this evening. The sea is bracing.
Shepherd. The lassie o' saxteen 'ill rin awa wi' a tinkler,
and break her father's heart. He dees, and his poor discon
solate widow, wha has worn a deep black veil for a towmont,
that she mayna see or be seen by the sun, marries an Eerish
sodger ; and neist time you see her, she has naething on her
head but a dirty mutch, and she's gaun up and doun the
street half-fou, wi' an open bosom, sucklin twuns !
Tickler. Ephesian matron !
Shepherd. Gie an advocate bizziness whan he's starvin at
the tap o' a common stair, wull he help you to fit out your
son for India when he has become a Judge, inhabiting a
palace in Moray Place ? Gie a preacher a kirk, and in three
months he insults his pawtron. Buy up a naitural son, stap
by stap, in the airmy, till he's a briggadeer, and he'll disoun
his ain father, and pretend that he belangs to a distant
branch o' the stem o' some noble family — although, aiblins,
he never had on stockins till he was ensign, and up to the
date o' his first commission herded the kye. 'Get a reprieve
for a rubber the nicht afore execution, and he sail celebrate
the anniversary o' his Free Pardon in your pantry, carryin
aff wi' him a silver trencher and the branching cawnlesticks.
In short, do a' the gude you can to a' mankind, and naebody
'ill thank you. But come nearer to me, Mr. North — lend me
your ear, sir, it's richt it sud be sae — for, let a man luk into
his ain heart — the verra man — me — or you — or Mr. Tickler
there — that has been lamentin ower the original sin o' our
fellow-creturs, — and oh ! what a sicht does he see there —
just a mass o' corruption ! We're waur than the warst o'
North out of his Depth! 211
them we hae been consignin to the pit, and grue to peep
ovver the edge o't, lest Satan, wha is stannin girnin ahint
our back, gie us a dunge when we're no mindin, and bury us
in the brimstone.
Tickler. Oh, ho, gents — from libelling individuals, you
two are now advancing to libel human nature at large. For
my own part, I have a most particular esteem for human
nature at large — and —
Shepherd. Your views is no scriptural, Mr. Tickler.
North. Perhaps, Tickler, we are getting out of our depths.
Shepherd. Gettin out o' your deepth ! Ma faith, Mr.
North, when ye get out o' your deepth, ither folk '11 be
drooning — when the water's up to your chin, there '11 be a sair
jinglin in maist throats ; and when it's risen out-ower your
nose, sir, there'll be naething less than a universal deluge.
North. May I believe, sir, what I hear from so many quar
ters, that you are about editing the SOUTHSIDE PAPERS ?
Tickler. You may. The Preface is at press.
Shepherd. That's gran' news ! — But, pity me, there's John
Knox's moniment and the Glasgow Cathedral reappearin
aboon the subsidin waves ! Auither bowl, sir ?
North. Not a drop. We have timed it to a minute — nine
o'clock. You know we are all engaged — and we are not
men to neglect an engagement.
Shepherd. Especially to sooper wi' leddies — let's aff. Oh,
man! Bronte, but you have behaved weel — never opened
your mouth the haill nicht — but sat listenin there to our
conversation. Mony a Christian puppy micht take a lesson
frae thee.
Bronte. Bow — wow— wow.
Shepherd. What spangs ! [Exeunt omnes.
XV.
THE SHEPHERD IS ATTACKED BY TIC-DO ULOUREUX,
ANGINA PECTORIS, AND JAUNDICE.
SCENE I. — Picardy Place — South-East Drawing-room.
The SHEPHERD solus.
Shepherd. Perfeck enchantment ! Ae single material coal-
fire multiplied by mirrors into a score o' unsubstantial reflec
tions, ilka image burnin awa as brichtly up its ain shadowy
chimley as the original Prototeep ! — Ma faith, you're a maist
magnificent time-piece, towerin there on the mantel,* mair
like a palace wi' thae ivory pillars, or the verra temple o'
Solomon ! Mony, certes, is the curious contrivance for notin
time ! The hour-glass — to my mind the maist impressive,
perhaps, o' them a* — as ye see the sand perpetually dreep-
dreepin awa momently, and then a' dune, just like life.
Then, wi' a touch o' the haun, or whammle in which there's
aye something baith o' feel in and o' thocht, there begins
anither era, or epoch of an hour, during which ane o' your
ain bairns, wha has been lang in a decline, and visited by the
doctor only when he's been at ony rate passin by, gies a
groanlike sich, and ye ken in a moment that he's dead ; or
an earthquake tumbles down Lisbon, or some city in Cala
bria, while a' the folk, men, women, and children, fall down
* Mantel— cliimney-piece.
212
Poetry of the Sun-dial. 213
on their knees, or are crushed aiblins by falling churches.
" The dial-stane aged and green," — ane a' Caramel's fine
lines ! Houses change families not only at Michaelmas, but
often, on a sudden summons frae death, there is a general
flittin, awa a'thegither frae this side o' the kintra, nane o'
the neebors ken whare ; and sae, ye see, dial-stanes get
green, for there are nae bairns' hauns to pick aff the moss,
and it's no muckle that the Robin Redbreast taks for his
nest, or the Kitty- Wren. It's aften been a mournfu' thocht
wi' me, that o' a' the dial-stanes I ever saw, stanin in a sort
o' circle in the middle o' a garden, or in a nyeuck o' grun' *
that might ance hae been a garden, just as you gang in or
out o' the village, or in a kirkyard, there was aye something
wrang wi' them, either wi' the finger or the face, sae that
Time laughed at his ain altar, and gied it a kick in the by-
gaun, till it begood to hang a' to the tae side, like a neg-
leckit tombstane ower the banes o' some ane or ither buried
lang afore the Covenant. — Isna that a fiddle on the brace-
piece ? Let's hawnle f her. — Ay, just like a' the lave — ae
string wantin — and something or ither wrang wi' twa-three
o' the pegs — sae that whan ye skrew up, they'll no haud J
the grip. Neertheless, I'll play mysel a bit tune. Got, she's
no an ill fiddle — but some folk can bring music out o' a
boot-jack. — (Sings, " 0 mother, tell the la,ird o't.") — I'm no
in bad vice the nicht — and oh ! but the Saloon's a gran'
ha' for singin ! Here's your health and sang, sir. Dog
on't, if I didna believe for a minute that yon Image was
anither Man ! I dinna a'thegither just like this room, for
it's getting unco like a Pandemonium. It would be a fear
some room to get fou in — for then you would sit glowerin
in the middle o' forty fires, and yet fear that you were nae
• NyeitcJc o' grun'— nook of ground. • f Hawnle— handle,
t Hand— hold.
214 A Present from Russia.
Salamander. You wud be frichtened to stir, in case you
either walked iutil the real ribs, or gaed crash through a
lookin-glass, thinkm't the trance.* I'm beginnin to get a
wee dizzy — sae let me sit down on this settee. Oh ! wow,
but this is a sonsy sofa ! It wad do brawly for a honey
moon.
{Enter MR. AMBROSE with some Reindeer tongues.)
Mr. Ambrose. A present, Mr. Hogg, from the Emperor of
Russia to Mr. North. The Emperor, you remember, sir,
when Duke Nicholas,! used to honor Gabriel's Road. —
Asleep, with his eyes open ! \_Exit retrogrediens.
Shepherd. Was Awmrose no in the room the noo ? Pre
serve us ! what a tot o' tongues ! And it' me that used to
fin' faut wi' Shakespeare for putting long soliloquies into the
mouths of his chief characters ! But I'm gettin as hoarse as
a craw — and had better ring the bell for a jug. Deevil tak
the worsted bell-rape — see if it hasna bracken short aff,
leaving the ring in my haun ! Mercy on us, whatten a feet
o' flunkeys in the trance !
(Door flies open — and enter TICKLER — NORTH,
supported by MR. AMBROSE.)
Shepherd. What a queer couple o' auld fallows, a' covered
wi' cranreuch ! $ Is't snawin, sirs ?
Tickler. Snowing, my dear James ! — Sleeting, hailing,
raining, driving, and blasting, all in one unexpected coalition
of parties, to the utter discomfort and dismay of all his
Majesty's loyal subjects.
Shepherd. And hae you walked up, like twa fules, frae
Bawhannan Lodge, in sic an eerie nicht, knee-deep in mire,
glaur, and sludge ?
• Trance— passage.
t The late Emperor of Russia visited Edinburgh in 1816.
$ Cranreuch — hoar-frost.
" Two Bright and Aged Snakes:' 215
Tickler. One of North's coach-horses is sick, and the other
lame — and —
Shepherd. Catch me keepin a cotch. It costs Mr. North
five guineas every hurl — and him that's getting sae narrow,
too — but Pride ! hech, sirs, Pride gets the maister o' Avarice
— and he'll no condescend to hire a haickney. Dinna melt
in the Saloon, sirs — gang in til the trance, and cast your
outer skins, and then come back glitterin like twa serpents
as you are, twa Boa-Constrictors, or rather Rattlesnakes, wi'
your forked tongues, and wee red piercin een, growin aye
mair and mair venomous, as ye begin to bask and beek in the
hearth-heat, and turn about the heads o' you to spy whom
you may- fasten on, lick a' ower wi' glue, and then draw
them into your jaws by suction, crashin their b!lnes like egg
shells, and then hissin to ane anither in weel-pleased fierce
ness, after your ain natur, which mony a puir tortirt cretur
has kent to his cost to be without pity and without ruth — ye
Sons o' Satan !
North. Thank ye, my dear James, for all your kind in
quiries. — Quite well, except being even deafer than usual,
or —
Shepherd. Ne'er mind, sir ; I'll mak you hear on the deaf
est side o' your head. But what's he fummlin at yonner ? Od,
he's just, for a' the warld, like a wee bit corn-stack, frosted
and pouthered ower wi' rime. Noo Mr. Awmrose has gotten
him out o' the theekin, — and oh ! but he looks genteel, and
like a verra nobleman, in that speck-and-span-new blue coat,
wi' big yellow buttons ; nor wad that breast ill become a star.
Reel roun' his throne, Mr. Awmrose.
[Mr. AMBROSE wheels Mr. NORTH in the Patent Chair to
the off-door side of the Fire, setting his Footstool, and
depositing the Crutch in its own niche, leaning on the
pedestal of Apollo.
216 Tickler in the, Dissecting-room.
Tickler. Heaven and earth ! James, are you well, my dear
friend ? — you seem reduced to a mere shadow.
Shepherd. Reduced to a mere shadow ! — I'm thinkin, sir,
you'll hae been mistakin your nain figure in the glass for me
the noo —
North. Thank ye, Mr. Ambrose. — Family all well ? That's
right — that's right. Where's the Shepherd ? Lord bless me,
James, are you ill ?
Shepherd. Me ill ? What the deevil's to mak me ill ? —
But you're baith jokin noo, sirs.
Tickler. Pardon my weakness, James, but I had a very
ugly dream about you — and your appearance.
Shepherd. Ma appearance ? What the deevil's the matter
wi' ma appearance ? Mr. North, am I luckiu ony way out o'
health ? — (Aside) — Ay, ay, my lads, I see what you're ettlin
at noo — but I'm no sae saf t and simple's I look like. — (Aloud)
— You had an ugly dream, Mr. Tickler ?— what was't about ?
Let's hear't.
Tickler. That you were dead, James, — laid out — coffined —
biered — buried — superscribed — and —
Shepherd. Houkit * up by half-a-dizzen resurrection-men —
driven by nicht in a gig to Embro', and selt for three pounds
ten shillings to a lecturin surgeon for a subject o' demonstra
tion afore a schule o' young doctors ; and after that, an atomy
in Surgeons' Ha'. Do ye ken, Mr. Tickler, that I wud like
gran' to see you disseckit ? That is, after you was dead — for
I'm no wishin you dead yet, although you plague me sairly
sometimes ; and are aye try in, I winna say wi' what success,
to be witty at my expense. I wish you a' happiness, sir, and
a lang life — but I howp I may add without offence, that gin
ye was fairly and bonny feedy dead — I wud like to see the
corp disseckit, no on a public table, afore hunuers o' glower-
* Houkit— dug.
North bequeaths his Skull. 217
ing gawpuses, but in a parlor afore a few chosen peers, sic
as Mr. North there, and O'Doherty, and A ; * who, by the
way, would be happy, I dinna doubt, to perform the operation
himsel, and I could answer for his doin't wi' a haun at ance
firm and tender, resolute and respectfu', for ae man o' genius
is aye kind to anither on a' sic occasions ; and A would cut
you up, sir, as delicately as you were his ain faither.
Tickler. Is it to give a flavor to the oysters, James, that
you talk so ? Suppose we change the subject.
Shepherd. We shall leave that to A, sir. There's nae
need for changin the subject yet ; besides, didna ye introduced
yoursel, by offerin to receet your ugly dream about my de
cease ? But —
North. My dear James, I have left you, b£ my last will
and testament, my Skull.
Shepherd. Oh ! my dear sir, but I take that verra, verra
kind. I'll hae't siller-munted, — the tap o't — that is, the organ
o' veneration, which in you is enormous — sawn aff like that
o' a cocko-nit, and then fastened on for a lid by a hinge, — and
I'll keep a' ma manuscrippsin't — and also that wee stereoteep
Bible you gied me that beautiful Sunday simmer night we
spak sae seriously about religion, when the sun was settin sae
gloriously, and the profound hush o' nature seemed o' itsel an
assurance o' immortality. Mr. Tickler, will ye no leave me
your skull too, as weel's the cremona that I ken's in a codicil,
to staun cheek-by-jowl wi' Mr. North's, on the tap o' my
mahogany leebrary ?
Tickler. Be it so, James — but the bequest must be mutual.
Shepherd. I hae nae objection — there's my thumb, I'll ne'er
beguile you. Oh, sir ! but I wad look unco gash f on a bit
* D. M. Moir, the " Delta " of Blackwood's Magazine, was an eminent medi
cal practitioner at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. He died in 1851.
t Unco gash— uncommonly sagacious.
218 " Alas, poor Yorick ! "
pedestal in the parlor b' Southside, when you were enter-
teenin your sma' snug pairties wi' anecdots o' the Shepherd.
There's something pleasant in the thocht, sir, for I'm sure ye
wad tell nae ill o' me — and that you wud every Saturday
nicht wipe the dust frae my skull wi' a towel, mutterin per
haps at a time, " Alas, poor Yorick ! "
Tickler. James — you affect me — you do indeed —
Shepherd. Silly fules, noo, were they to owerhear us jockin
and jeerin in this gate about ane anither's skulls, wud ca' us
Atheists, and deny our richt to Christian burial. But what
signifies a skull ? The shell of the flown bird, said Simonides,
a pensive poet of old — for whose sake would that I could read
Greek — though I fancy there are o' him but some sma' and
uncertain remains.
North. James, many a merry Christmas to us all. What a jug!
Shepherd. It's an instinck wi' me noo, makin het whisky
toddy. A' the time o' our silly discourse about our skulls,
was I steerin about the liquid, plumpin in the bits o' sugar,
and garrin the green bottle gurgle — unconscious o' what I
was about — yet, as ye observe, sir, wi' your usual sagacity,
u What a jug ! "
Tickler. There is no such school of temperance as Ambrose's
in the world — a skreed * in any room of his house clears my
head for a month, and re-strings my stomach to such a pitch
of power, that, Mke an osti ich, I can digest a nail or a cork
screw. — I scarcely think, James, that you are in your usual
spirits to-night. Come, be brilliant.
Shepherd. Oh, man, Mr. Tickler, wha wad hae expeckit
sic a sumphish speech frae you, sir ? Wha was ever brilliant
at a biddin ? Bid a sleepin fire bleeze — wulPt ? Na. But ripe
the ribs, and then gie the central coal a smash wi' the poker,
and lo ! a volcano vomits like Etna or Vesuvius.
* A skreed— a. liberal allowance of anything.
Christmas Melancholy. 219
Tickler. After all, my dear James, I believe the truth to
be, that Christmas is not a merry season.
Shepherd. Aiblins scaircely sae to men like us, that's gettin
raither auld. But though no merry, it needna be melancholy
— for after a', death, that taks awa the gude — a freen or twa
drappin awa ilka year — is no so very terrible, except when he
comes to our ain fireside, our ain bed, or our ain cradle — and,
for my ain part, I can drink, wi' an unpainfu' tear, or without
ony tear at a', to the memory o' them I loved dearly, uaething
doubtin that Heaven is the trystin-place where all friends
and lovers will feenally meet at last, free frae a' jealousies,
and heart-burnings, and sorrows, and angers — sae, why should
our Christmas be melancholy, though we three have buried
some that last year lauched, and sang, and danced in our
presence, and because of our presence, and looked as if they
had been destined for a lang, lang life ? . . . But do you ken,
in spite o' a' that, I'm just desperate fond o' Christmas
minshed pies. Sirs — in a bonny bleeze o' brandy, burnin
blue as snapdragon — I can devoor a dizzen.
Tickler. Christmas geese are prime birds, James, with
onions and sage sufficient, and each mouthful accompanied
by its contingent of rich red apple-sauce.
Shepherd. A guse aye gives me the colic — yet I canna help
eatin't for a' that — for whan there's nae sin nor iniquity, it's
richt and reasonable to purchase pleasure at the expense o'
pain. I like to eat a' sorts o' land or fresh-water wild-fools —
and eke the eggs. Pease-weeps' * eggs is capital poached.
Tickler. James, whether do you like eating or drinking
best ? Is hunger or thirst the preferable appetite ?
Shepherd. Why, you see, I, for ane, never eat but when
I'm hungry — and hunger's soon satisfied if you hae plenty
o' vittals. Compare that wi' drinkin when your thursty —
* Pease-weep — lapwing.
220 Hunger or Thirst f
either clear well-water, or sour-milk, or sma' yill, or porter,
or speerits half-and-half, and then I wad say that eatin and
drinkin's pretty much of a muchness — very nearly on a par,
wi' this difference, that hunger wi' me's never sae intense as
thurst. I never was sae hungry that I wad hae devoured a
bane frae the gutter, but I hae often been sae thursty, on the
muirs, that I hae drank black moss-water wi' a green scum
on't without scunnerin.
North. I never was hungry in my life.
Shepherd. That's a confounded lee, sir, beggin your par
don —
North. No offence, James — but the instant I begin to eat,
my appetite is felt to be excellent.
Shepherd. Felt and seen baith, sir. A how-towdie's a
mere laverock to you, sir, on the day the Magazine's finished
aff — and Mr. Awmrose himsel canna help lauchin at the re
lays o* het beef-stakes that ye keep yokin to, wi' pickled in-
gans or shallotts, and spoonfu's o' Dickson's mustard, that
wad be aneuch to blin' a Lynx.
Tickler. I have lost my appetite —
Shepherd. I howp nae puir man 'ill find it, now that wages
is low and wark scarce ; — but drinkin, you see, Mr. North,
has this great advantage over eatin, that ye may drink a*
nicht lang without being thursty — tummler after tummler —
jug after jug — bowl after bowl — as lang's you're no sick —
and you're better worth sittin wi' at ten than at aucht, and
at twal than at ten, and during the sma' hours you're just
intolerable good company — scarcely bearable at a', ane waxes
sae truly wutty and out o' a' measure deevertin ; whereas I'll
defy ony man, the best natural and acquired glutton that
ever was born and bred at the feet o' a father that gaed aff
at a city feast, wi' a gob o' green fat o' turtle half-way down
his gullet, in an apoplexy, to carry on the eatin wi1 ony
The Shepherd's Constitution. 221
spunk or speerit after three or four courses, forbye toasted
cheese, and roasted chestnuts, and a dessert o' filberts, prunes,
awmons, and raisins, ginger-frute, guava jeelly, and ither
Wast Indian preserves. The cretur coups ower * comatose.
But only tak tent | no to roar ower loud and lang in speakin
or singin, and you may drink awa at the Glenlivet till past
midnight, and weel on to the morning oj the day after to
morrow.
Tickler. Next to the British, Hogg, I know no such consti
tution as yours — so fine a balance of powers. I daresay you
never had an hour's serious illness in your life.
Shepherd. That's a" you ken — and the observe comes weel
frae you that began the nicht wi' giein the club my death
like prognosis.
Tickler. Prognosis ?
Shepherd. Sirntoms like. This back-end $ I had a' three
at ance, the Tick Dollaroose, the Angeena Pectoris, and the
Jaundice.
North. Tames — flames — James !
Tickler. Hogg — Hogg — Hogg !
Shepherd. I never fan' ony pain like the Tick Dollaroose.
Ane's no accustomed to a pain in the face. For the tooth
ache's in the inside o' the mouth, no in the face ; and you've
nae idea hoo sensitive's the face. Cheeks are a' fu' o' nerves
— and the Tick attacks the haill bunch o' them, screwing
o
them up to sic a pitch o' tension that you canna help screechirv
out, like a thousan' ools, and clappin the pawms o' your hauns
to your distrackit chafts, and rowin yoursel on the floor on
your groof, § wi' your hair on end, and your een on fire, and
a general muscular convulsion in a* your sinnies, sae piercin,
and searchin, and scrutinisin, and diggin, and houkin, and
* Coups ower— tumbles over. t Tak tent— take care,
t Back-end— close of the year. § Groof— belly.
222 Tic Douloureux.
tearin is the pangfu' pain that keeps eatin awa and manglin
the nerves o' your human face divine. Draps o' sweat, as
big as beads for the neck or arms o' a lassie, are pourin doun
to the verra floor, so that the folk that hears you roarin thinks
you're greetin, and you're aye afterwards considered a bairnly
chiel through the haill kintra. In ane o' the sudden fits I
gruppit sic haud o' a grape that I was helpin our Shusey *
to muck the byre wi' that it withered in my fingers like a
frush | saugh-wand \ — and 'would hae been the same had it
been a bar o' airn. Only think o' the Tick Dollaroose in a
man's face continuing to a' eternity !
North. Or even for a few million ages —
Shepherd. Angeena Pectoris is even waur, if waur may be,
than the Tick Dollaroose. Some say it's an ossified condition
o' the coronary arteries o' the heart ; but that' no necessarily
true — for there's nae ossification o' these arterial branches o
my heart. But oh ! sirs, the fit's deadly, and maist like till
death. A' at ance, especially if you be walkin up-hill, it
comes on you like the shadow o' a thunder-cloud ower smilin
natur, silencin a' the singin birds, as if it threatened earth
quake, — and you canna doubt that your last hour is come,
and that your sowl is about to be demanded of you by its
Maker. However aften you may have it, you aye feel and
believe that it is, this time — death. It is a sort o' swoon,
without loss o' sense — a dwawm, in which there still is con
sciousness — a stoppage o' a' the animal functions, even o'
breathin itsel, which, if I'm no mista'en, is the meaning o' a
syncope — and a' the while something is rug-ruggin § at the
heart itsel, something cauld and ponderous, amist like the
forefinger and thoom o' a heavy haun — the haun o' an evil
speerit ; and then you expeck that your heart is to rin doun,
* Shusen— Susan. f Frush— brittle.
t Sauf/h-wand— willow-wand. § Rug-ruggin— tear-tearing,
Angina Pectoris. 223
just like a clock, wi' a dull cloggy noise, or rumble like that
o' disarranged machinery, and then to beat, to tick nae mair !
The collapse is dreadfu'. Ay, Mr. North, collapse is the
word.
North. Consult Uvvins on Indigestion, James — the best
medical work I have read for years, of a popular yet scientific
character.
Shepherd. Noo for the Jaundice. The Angeena Pectoris,
the Tick Dollaroose, are intermittent — " like angel visits, few
and far between " — but the jaundice lasts for weeks, when it
is gatherin or brewin in the system — for weeks at its yellowest
height, — and for weeks as the disease is ebbin in the blood —
a- disease, if I'm no sair mista'en, o' the liver.
North. An obstructed condition of the duodenum, James —
Shepherd. The mental depression o' the sowl in the jaundice
is most truly dretidfu'. It would hae sunk Samson on the
morning o' the day that he bore aff on his back the gates o'
Gaza.
Tickler. Tell us all about it, James.
Shepherd. You begin to hate and be sick o' things that used
to be maist delightfu' — sic as the sky, and streams, and hills,
and the ee and voice, and haun and breast o' woman. You
dauner about the doors, dour and dowie, and are seen sittin
in nyeucks and corners, whare there's little licht, no mindin
the cobwabs, or the spiders themselves drappin doun amang
your unkempt hair. You hae nae appeteet ; and if by ony
chance you think you could tak a mouthfu' o' a particular
dish, you splutter't out again, as if it were bitter ashes. You
canna say that you are unco ill either, but just a wee sickish
— tongue furry, as if you had been licking a muff or a
mawkin — and you observe, frae folk stannin weel back when
you happen to speak to them — which is no aften — that your
breath's bad, though a week before it was as caller as clover.
224 Jaundice.
You snore mair than you sleep — and dream wi'youreen open
— ugly, confused, mean, stupid, unimaginative dreams, like
those of a drunk dunce imitatin a Noctes — and that's aboot
the warst thing o' a* the complaint, that you're ashamed o*
yoursel, and begin to fear that you're no the man you ance
thocht yoursel, when in health shootin groose on the hills, or
listerin sawmon.
North. The jaundice that, James, of a man of genius — of
the author of the Queens Wake.
Shepherd. Wad ye believe it, sir, that I was ashamed of
" Kilmeny " ? A' the poems I ever writ seemed trash —
rubbish — fuilzie ; and as for my prose — even my verra articles
in Maga — " Shepherd's Calendar" and a' — waxed havers —
like something in the Metropolitan Quarterly Magazine, the
stupidest o' a' created periodicals, and now deader than a' the
nails in Nebuchadnezzar's coffin.
North. The disease must have been at its climax then, my
dear James.
Shepherd. Na, na, na ; it was far frae the cleemax. I tuk
to the bed, and never luckit out frae the coortains for a fort
night — gettin glummier and glummier in sense and sowl,
heart, mind, body, and estate — eating little or naething, and
— wad ye believe it ? — sick, and like to scunner at the very
name o' whusky.
North. Thank God, I knew nothing of all this, James. I
could not have borne the thought, much less the sight, of such
total prostration, or rather perversion of your understanding.
Shepherd. Wearied and worn out wi' lyin in the bed, I got
up wi' some sma* assistance frae wee Jamie, God bless him !
and telt them to open the shutters. What a sicht ! A' faces
as yellow's yellow lilies, like the parchment o' an auld drum
head ! Ghastly were they, ane and a', when they leuch ;* yet
* Leuch— laughed.
Progress of the Disease. 225
seemed insensible o' their corp-like hue — I mean, a corp that
has died o' some unnatural disease, and been keepit ower lang
aboon grun' in close weather, the carpenter having gotten
drunk, and botched the coffin. I ca'd for the glass — and my
ain face was the warst o' the haill set. Whites o' een ! They
were the color o' dandelions, or yellow-yoldrins.*! was feared
to wash my face, lest the water grew ochre. That the Jaundice
was in the house was plain ; but whether it was me only that
had it, or a' the rest likewise, was mair than I could tell.
That the yellow I saw wasna in them, but in me, was hard to
believe, when I luckit on them ; yet I thochton green specks,
and the stained wundows in Windermere Station, and reasoned
wi' mysel that the discoloration must be in my lens, or pupil,
or optic nerve, or apple, or ba' o' the ee ; and that I, James
Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was The Jaundice.
Tickler. Your portrait, colored from nature, James, would
have been inestimable in after ages, and given rise to much
argument among the learned about your origin — the country
of your birth. You must have looked cousin-german to the
Green Man and Still.
Shepherd. I stoitered to the door, and, just as I feared, the
Yarrow was as yellow as a rotten egg — a' the holms the color
o' a Cockney's play-going gloves — the skies like the dirty
ochre wa's o' a change-house — the cluds like buckskin breeks
— and the sun, the michty sun himsel, wha lends the rainbow
its hues, and is never the poorer, looked at me wi' a discon
solate aspeck, as much as to say, " James, James, is it thou
or I that has the Jaundice ? "
Tickler. Better than the best bits of Abernethy f in the
Lancet, North.
* Yellow-yoldrln— yellow-hammer.
t This eminent practitioner, celebrated no less for his eccentricity of
manner than for his medical skill, was born in 1764, and died in 1831. He
was the author of Surgical Observations. Physiological Essays, etc.
226 The Shepherd's Recovery.
Shepherd. Just as I was gaun to answer the sun, the Tick
Dollaroose attacked baith o' ray cheeks — a' my face, lips, chin,
nose, brow, lugs, and crown and back o' my head, — the An-
geena Pectoris brought on the Heart-Collapse — and there the
three, the Tick, the Angeena, and the Jaundice, a' fell on me
at ance, like three English, Scotch, and Eerish regiments
stormin a fort, and slaughterin their way wi' the beggonet on
to the citadel
N rth. That you are alive at this blessed hour, my dearest
James, almost exceeds belief, and I begin to suspect that you
are not flesh and blood — a mere Appearance.
Shepherd. Na, faith, a'm a reality ; an Appearance is apuir
haun at a jug. Yet, sir, the recovery was weel worth a' I
paid for it in sufferins. The first time I went out to the
knowe yonner, aboon the garden, and gazed and glowered,
and better gazed and glowered, on the heavens, the earth,
and the air, the three bein blent thegither to mak up that
mysterious thing — a Day o' Glory — I thocht that my youth,
like that o' the sun-staring eagle, had been renewed, and that I
was ance mair in the verra middle o' the untamed licht and
music o' this life, whan a' is fancy and imagination, and
friendship and love, and howp, — oh, howp, sir, howp, worth
a' the ither blisses ever sent frae Heaven, like a shower o'
sunbeams, for it canna be darkenit, far less put out by the
mirkest midnight o' meesery, but keeps shinin on like a star,
or rather like the moon hersel — a spiritual moon, sir, that " 13
never hid in vacant interlunar cave."
Tickler. Mixed metaphors these, James.
Shepherd. Nane the waur o' that, Timothy — I felt about
ane-and-twunty — and oh, what an angelical being was a lassie
then comin wadin through the ford ! At every step she took,
after launin wr her white feet, havin letten doun fa' her
cloudlike claes wi' a blush, as she keepit lookin roun' and
Literary Men in the Country. 227
roun' for a whyleock, to see gin ony ee had been on her, as
her limbs came silvery in through the water —
North. The Ladies, James, in a bumper.
Shepherd. The leddies. — A track o' flowers keepit length-
enin alang the greensward as she walked awa', at last, quite
out o' sicht.
Tickler. And this you call recovering from the Tic-Do u-
loureux, the Angina Pectoris, and the Jaundice, James ?
[Enter MR. AMBROSE, with copper-kettle No. /]
North. Who rung ?
Ambrose. I have taken note of the time of the last foui
jugs, sir, and have found that each jug gains ten minutes on
its predecessor — so ventured —
Shepherd. Oh, Mr. Ambrose, but you wad be a gran*
observer o' the motions o' the heavenly bodies in an Astro
nomical Observatory ! — The jug's this moment dead. There
— in wi' a' the sugar, and a' the whusky, — fill up, Awmrose,
fill up. That stroop's *^ gran' pourer, and you're a prime
experimenter in hydrostatics.
[Exit MR. AMBROSE, smurrans.]
North. A mere literary man, James, is a contemptible
creature. Indeed, I often wish that I had flourished before
the invention of printing or even of writing. What think
you, James, of a Noctes in hieroglyphics ?
Shepherd. I scarcely ken ; but I think ane wadna look
amiss in the Chinese. Wi' respeck to mere literary men, oh
dear me, sir ! hoo T do gauntt when they come out to Mount
Benger ! They canna shute, they canna fish, they canna
loup, they canna warsle, they canna soom, they canna put
the stane, they canna fling the hammer, they canna even
drive a gig, they canna kiss a lassie in an aff-haun and
pleasant manner, without off en din her feelins, as through the
* Stroop — spout. t Gaunt — yawn
228 North in his Dotage.
dews she " comes wadin all alane ;" and what's perhaps the
maist coutemptible o' a', they canna, to ony effeck, drink
whusky. Ae glass o' pure speerits on the hill afore breakfast
wad gie them a sick headache ; and after denner, although
the creturs hae nae objections to the jug, oh, but their heads
are wake,1* wake — before the fire has got sun-bricht, they are
lauchin-fou — you then fin' them out to be rejected contribu
tors to BLackwood ; and you hear that they're Whigs frae
their wee, sharp, shrill, intermittin, dissatisfied, and rather
disgustin snore, like a souii' ane aften hears at nicht in moors
and mosses, but whence proceedin ane knows not, except it
be frae some wild-foul distressed in sleep by a stamach fu' o'
slug-worms mixed wi' mire — for he aiblins leeves by suction.
Where's Mr. Tickler ?
North. I saw him slip away a little ago— just as he had
cleared his boards —
Shepherd. I never missed him till the noo.
North. How delightful for a town-talk teazed poor old man,
like me, to take refuge, for a month or so, in a deeper solitude
even than Buchanan Lodge — the House at the head of the
Glen, which, know it ever so well, you still have to search for
among so many knolls, some quite bare, some with a birk or
two, and some of them each in itself a grove or wood, — self-
sown all the trees, brushwood, coppice, and standards.
Shepherd. You're getting desperate descriptive in your
dotage, sir — dinna froon — there's nae dishonor in dotage,
when nature's its object. The aulder we grow, our love for
her gets tenderer and mair tender, for this thocht aften
comes across our heart, '* In the bosom o' this bonny green
earth, in how few years — shall I be laid — dust restored to
dust ! " That's a' I mean by dotage. . . . What are ye
hummin at, sir. You're no gaun to sing ?
* Wake— weak.
North as a Vocalist. 229
(NORTH sings.)
Why does the sun shine on me,
When its light I hate to see ?
Fain I'd lay me down and dee,
For o' life I'm weary !
Oh, 'tis no thy frown I fear —
'Tis thy smile I canna bear —
' Tis thy smile my heart does tear,—
When thou tiiest to cheer me.
Ladies fair hae smiled on me—
A^ their smiles nae joy could gie—
Never lo'ed I ane but thee,
And I lo'e thee dearly 1
On the sea the moonbeams play
Sae they'll shine when I'm away —
Happy then thou'lt be, and gay,
When I wander dreary !
Shepherd. Some auld fragmentary strain, remindin him,
nae doubt, o' joys and sorrows lang ago ! He has a pathetic
vice — but sing what tune he may, it still slides awa into
" Stroud Water."
North. Oh, James ! a dream of the olden time —
Shepherd. Huts ! huts ! I wush you maunna be gettin
rather a wee fuddled, sir — hafflins fou. Preserve me ! are ye
greetin ? The whusky's maist terrible strong — and I suspect
has never been chrissened. It's time we be aff ! Oh ! what
some o' them he has knouted wad gie to see him in this
condition ! But there's the wheels o' the cotch. Or is't a
fire-engine ?
(Enter AMBROSE, to announce the arrived of the coach.)
Dinna look at him, Mr. Ambrose — he's gotten the toothache
— and likewise some ingan in his een. This is aye the way
wi' him noo, — he fa's aff a' on a sudden — and begins greetin
it naething, or at things that's rather amusin as itherwise.
230 The Shepherd consoles North.
There's mony thousan' ways o' gettin fou — and I ken nae
mair philosophical employment than, in sic cityations, the
study o' the varieties o' human character.
North. Son James —
Shepherd. Pardon, Father — 'twas but a jeest. I've kent
you noo the better pairt o' twunty years — and never saw I
thae bricht een — that bricht brain obscured, — for wi' a' our
daffin — our weel-timed daffin — our dulce est desipere in loco
— that's Latin, you ken — we return to our hame, or our
lodgings, as sober as Quakers — and as peace fu', too — well-
wishers, ane and a', to the haill human race — even the verra
Wheegs.
North. Sometimes, my dear Shepherd, my life from
eighteen to twenty-four is an utter blank, like a moonless
midnight — at other times, oh ! what a refulgent day ! Had
you known me then, James, you would —
Shepherd. No hae liked you half as weel's I do noo — for
then, though you was doubtless tall and straucht as a tree,
and able and willin baith to fecht man, dowg, or deevil, wi'
een, tongue, feet, or hauns, yet, as doubtless, you was
prouder nor Lucifer. But noo that you're bent doun no that
muckle, just a wee, and your " lyart haffits wearing thin
and bare," sae pleesant, sae cheerfu', sae fu' o' allooances for
the fauts and frailties o' your fellow-creturs, provided only
they proceed na frae a bad heart — it's just perfeckly im
possible no to love the wise, merry auld man —
North. James, I wish to consult you and Mr. Ambrose
about the propriety and prudence of my marrying —
Shepherd. Never heed ye propriety and prudence, sir, i i
mairrying, ony mair than ither folk. Mairry her, sir —
mairry her — and I'll be godfather — for the predestined
mither o' him will be an Episcopaulian — to wee Christopher.
Let us off to Southside — and sup with Tickler.
Off to Southside. 231
— .for three voices.
Fall de rail de,
Fall, lall, lall de,
Fall de lall de,
Fall, fell le, &c.
[Exeunt ambo et AMBROSE.
XVI.
IN WHICH, AFTER NORTH IS HANGED AND DRO WNED
IN A DREAM, THE SHEPHERD IS TEMPTED
AND FALLS.
Scene, — Large Dining-room. — Time uncertain. — NOKTH dis~
covered sitting upright in his easy-chair, with arms akimbo
on his crutch, asleep.
Enter the SHEPHERD and Mr. AMBROSE.
Shepherd. Lord safe us ! only look at him sitting asleep.
What'n a face ! — Dinna leave the parlor, Mr. Awmrose, for
it would be fearsome to be alane wi' the Vision.
Ambrose. The heat of the fire has overcome the dear old
gentleman — but he will soon awake ; and may I make so
bold, Mr. Hogg, as to request that you do not disturb —
Shepherd. What ! Wad ye be for my takin aff my shoon,
and glidin ower the Turkey carpet on my stockin soles, like
a pard or panther on the Libyan sands ?
Ambrose (suaviter in modo). I beg pardon, sir, but you have
got on your top-boots * this evening.
Shepherd. Eh ! sae I hae. And trying to rug them aff, tae
an' heel, aneath the fit o' a chair, wad be sure to wauken him
wi' ane o' thae froons o' his, aneuch to daunt the deevil.
Ambrose. I never saw Mr. North frown, Mr. Hogg, since
* Top-boots, at this period not uncommon, were a favorite attire of the
Shepherd.
232
North asleep. 233
we came to Picardy. I hope, sir, you think him in his usual
health ?
Shepherd. That's a gude ane, Awmrose. You think him
near his latter end, 'cause he's gien up that hellish froon that
formerly used sae aften to make his face frichtsome ? Ye
ne'er saw him froon sin' ye cam to Picardy ? — Look there-
only look at the cretur's face —
A darkness comes across it, like a squall
Blackening the sea.
Ambrose. I fear he suffers some inward qualm, sir. His
, stomach, I fear, sir, is out of order.
Shepherd. His stamach is ne'er out o' order. It's an
ingine that aye works sweetly. But what think you, Mr.
Awmrose, o' a quawm o' conscience ?
Ambrose. Mr. North never, in all his life, I am sure, so
much as injured a fly. Oh! dear me! he must be in very
great pain.
Shepherd. —
So frooned he ance, when in an angry parle
He smote the sliding Pollock on the ice.
Ambrose. You allude, sir, to that day at the curling on
Duddingston Loch. But you must allow, Mr. Hogg, that the
brute of a carter deserved the crutch. It was pretty to see
the old gentleman knock him down. The crack on the ice
made by the carter's skull was like a star, sir.
Shepherd. The clud's blawn aff — and noo his countenance
is pale and pensive, and no without a kind o' reverend beauty,
no very consistent wi' his waukin character. But the faces
o' the most ferocious are a' placid in sleep and in death. That
is an impressive fizziological and sykological fack.
Ambrose. How can you utter the word death in relation
to him, Mr. Hogg ? Were he dead, the whole world might
shut up shop.
234 Portrait of North.
Shepherd. Na, na. Ye micht, but no the warld. There
never leeved a man the warld missed, ony mair than a great,
green, spreading simmer tree misses a leaf that fa's doun on
the moss aneath its shadow.
Ambrose. Were you looking round for something, sir ?
Shepherd. Ay ; gie me that cork aff yon table — I'll burn't
on the fire, and then blacken his face wi' coom.
Ambrose (placing himself in an imposing attitude between
NORTH and the SHEPHERD). Then it must be through my
body, sir. Mr. Hogg, I am always proud and happy to see
you in my house ; but the mere idea of such an outrage —
such sacrilege — horrifies me ; the roof would fall down — the*
whole land —
Shepherd. Tuts, man, I'm only jokin. Oh ! but he wad
mak a fine pictur ! I wish John Watson Gordon were but
here to pent his face in iles. What a mass o' forehead ! an
inch atween every wrinkle, noo scarcely visible in the calm
o' sleep ! Frae eebree to croon o' the head a lofty mountain
o' snaw — a verra Benledi — wi' rich mineral ore aneath the
surface, within the bowels o' the skull, copper, silver, and gold !
Then what a nose ! Like a bridge, along which might be driven
cart-loads o' intellect ; — neither Roman nor Grecian, hookit
nor cockit, a wee thocht inclined to the ae side, the pint being
a pairt and pendicle o' the whole, an object in itsel, but at the
same time finely smoothed aff and on intil the featur ; while
his nostrils, small and red, look as they would emit fire, and
had the scent o' a jowler or a vultur.
Ambrose. There never were such eyes in a human head —
Shepherd. I like to see them sometimes shut. The instant
Mr. North leaves the room, after denner or sooper, it's the
same thing as if he had carried aff wi' him twa o' the fowre
cawnles.
Ambrose. I have often felt that, sir, — exactly that, — but
Poaching on Hogg's Preserves. 235
never could express it. If at any time he falls asleep, it is
just as if the waiter or myself had snuffed out —
Shepherd. Let my image alane, Mr. Awmrose, and dinna
ride it to death — double. But what I admire maist o' a' in
the face o' him, is the auld man's mouth. There's a warld's
difference, Mr. Awmrose, atween a lang mouth and a wide ane.
Ambrose. There is, Mr. Hogg, there is — they are two
different mouths entirely. I have often felt that, but could
not express it —
Shepherd. Mr. Awmrose, you're a person that taks notice
o' a hantle o' things — and there canna be a stronger proof, or
a better illustration, of the effeck o' the conversation o' a man
o' genius like me, than its thus seeming to express former
feelings and fancies of the awditor — whereas the truth is,
that it disna wauken them for the second time, but com
municates them for the first — for believe me, that the idea
o' the cawnles, and eke o' the difference wi' a distinction
atween wide mouths and lang anes, never entered your
mind afore, but are baith, bonafeedy, the property o' my ain
intelleck.
Ambrose. I ask you many pardons, Mr. Hogg. They are
both your own, I now perceive, and I promise never to make
use of them without your permission in writing — or —
Shepherd. Poo — I'm no sae pernickitty * as that about my
original ideas ; only when folk do mak use o' my obs, I think
it but fair they should add, " as Mr. Hogg well said," " as the
Ettrick Shepherd admirably remarked," "as the celebrated
author o' the Queen's Wake, wi' his usual felicity, observed "
— and so forth — and ma faith, if some folk that's reckoned
yeloquent at roots and petty soopers were aye to do that
when they're what's ca'd maist brilliant, my name wad be
seldom out o' their mouths. Even North himsel —
* Pernickitty — particular.
236 The Doctrine of Dreams
Ambrose. Do not be angry with me, sir — but it's most
delightful to hear Mr. North and you bandying matters across
the table ; ye take such different views always of the same
subject ; yet I find it, when standing behind the chair, impos
sible not to agree with you both.
Shepherd. That's just it, Mr. Awmrose. That's the way
to exhowst a subject. The ane o' us ploughs down the rig,
and the ither across, then on wi' the harrows, and the field
is like a garden.
Ambrose. See, sir, he stirs !
Shepherd. The crutch is like a very tree growin out o' the
earth — so straucht and steddy. I daursay he sleeps wi't in
his bed. Noo — you see his mouth to perfection — just a wee
open — showing the teeth — a smile and no a snarl — the thin
lips o' him slightly curled and quiverin, and the corners
drawn doun a wee, and then up again wi' a swirl, giein won-
derfu' animation to his yet ruddy cheeks — a mouth unitin in
ane Mr. Jaffray's and that o' Canning's and Cicero's busts.
Ambrose. No young lady — no widow — could look at him
now, as he sits there, Mr. Hogg, God bless him, without
thinking of a first or second husband. Many is the offer he
must have refused !
Shepherd. Is that your fashun in Yorkshire, Mr. Awmrose,
for the women to ask the men to marry ?
Ambrose (susurrans). Exceptio probat regulam, sir.
Shepherd. Faith, ye speak Latin as weel's mysel. Do you
ken the Doctrine o' Dreams ?
Ambrose. No, sir. Dreaming seems to me a very unin
telligible piece of business.
Shepherd. So thinks Mr. Coleridge and " Kubla Khan." *
But the sowl, ye see, is swayed by the senses — and it's in
my power the noo, that Mr. North's half-sleepin and half-
* A poem said by Coleridge to have been composed in bis sleep.
?ELIX FLUQEL
Proved by drowning North 237
waukin, to mak him dream o' a' sorts o' deaths — nay, to
dream that he is himsel dreein * a' sorts o' deaths — ane
after the ither in ruefu' succession, as if he were some great
criminal undergoing capital punishments in the wild warld
o' sleep.
Ambrose. That would be worse than blacking my dear
master's face — for by that name I love to call him. You
must not inflict on him the horror of dreams.
Shepherd. There can be nae such thing as cruelty in a
real philosophical experiment. In philosophy, though not in
politics, the end justifies the means. Be quiet, Awmrose.
There, noo, I hae drapt some cauld water on his bald pow—
and it's tricklin doun his haffits to his lugs. Whisht ! wait
a wee ! There na, ye see his mouth openin, and his chest
heavin, as if the waters o' the deep sea were gullering in his
throat. He's now droonin !
Ambrose. I cannot support this — Mr. Hogg — I must —
Shepherd. Haud back, sir ! Look how he's tryin to streik
out his richt leg as if it had gotten the cramp. He's tryin
to cry for help. Noo he has risen to the surface for the third
and last time. Noo he gies ower strugglin, and sinks doun
to the broon-ribbed sand amang the crawlin partens ! f
Ambrose. I must — I shall waken him —
Shepherd. The dreamed death-fit is ower, for the water's
dried — and he thinks himsel walkin up Leith Walk, and then
straucht intil Mr. Blackwood's shop. But noo we'll hang
him —
Ambrose. My God ! that it should ever have come to this !
Yet there is an interest in such philosophical experiments,
Mr. Hogg, which it is impossible to resist. But do not, I
beseech you, keep him long in pain.
Shepherd. There — I just tichten a wee on his wizen hiti
* Dreeiii— suffering. t Partens-*- crabs.
238 And by hanging him.
black neck-hankerchief, and in a moment you'll see him get
blue in the face. Quick as the " lightning on a collied
night," the dream conies athwart his sowl ! He's on the
scaffold, and the grey-headed, red-eyed, white-faced hang
man's lean, shrivelled hands are fumblin about his throat,
fixing the knot on the juglar ! See how puir North clutches
the cambric, naturally averse to fling it frae him, as a signal
for the drap ! It's no aboon a minute since we began the
experiment, and yet during that ae minute has he planned
and perpetrated his crime — nae dout murder — concealed
himsel for a month in empty hovels and tombs, in towns, — •
in glens, and muirs, and woods, in the kintra, — been appre
hended, for a reward o' one hundred guineas, by twa red-
coated sheriff' s-officers, — imprisoned till he had nearly run
his letters, — stood his trial frae ten in the mornin till twelve
o'clock at nicht — examination o' witnesses, the speech o' the
croon coonsel, and that o' the coonsel for the panel too, and
the soumin up o' the Lord Justice-Clerk, wane o' the three
shorter than twa hours, — been prayed till, frae daybreak to
breakfast, by three ministers, — oh, sickenin breakfast! — sat'n
in a chair on account o' his gout — a lang, lang time on the
scaffold — and then aff he goes with a swing, a swirl, and a
general shriek — and a' within the space o' some forty seconds
o' the time that passes in the outer air world which we
wauken creatures inhabit ; — but which is the true time, and
which is the fause, it's no for me to say, for I'm nae meta
physician, and judge o' time either by the shadows on the
hill, or on the staue sun-dial, or by the short and lang haun
o' our aught-day clock.
Ambrose. Mr. Hogg, it is high time this were put an end
to, — my conscience accuses me of a great crime, — and the
moment Mr. North awakes, I will make a clean bosom of it,
and confess the whole.
Ambrose to the Rescue ! 239
Shepherd. What ! you'll peach, will you ? In that case, i(
is just as weel to proceed to the last extremity. Rax me
ower the carvin-knife, and I'll guillotine him —
Ambrose. Shocking, shocking, Mr. Hogg !
( The SHEPHERD and AMBROSE struggle violently for the
possession of the carving-knife, amid cries from the
latter of " Thieves ! Robbers ! Fire ! Murder ! " —
and in the struggle they fall against the chimney-piece
to the clash of shovel, poker, and tongs. BRONTE,
who has been sleeping under NORTH'S chair, bursts out
with a bull-bellow, a tiger-growl, and a lion-roar — and
NORTH awakes — collaring the SHEPHERD.)
Bronte. Bow — wow — wow — wow — wow — wow —
Shepherd. Ca' aff your dowg, Mr. North — ca' aff your
dowg ! He's devourin me —
North (undisturbed from his former posture). Gentlemen,
what is the meaning of all this — you seem discomposed ?
James ! engaged in the duello with Mr. Ambrose ? Mr.
Ambrose ! [Exit Mr. AMBROSE, retrogrediens, much confused*
Shepherd. I'll ca' him out — I'll ca' him out wi' pistols ! He
was the first aggressor.
North. Arrange your dress, James, then sit down, and
narrate to me truly these plusquam civilia bella.
Shepherd. Why, ye see, sir, a gentleman in the hotel, a
Russian General, I believe, was anxious to see you sleepin,
and to take a sketch o' you in that predicament for the
Emperor, and Mr. Awmrose insisted on bringin him in,
whether I would or no, — and as I know you have an an
tipathy against having your head taken aff — as naebody can
hit the face, and a' the likenesses yet attempted are mere
caricatures — I rose to oppose the entrance o' the General.
Mr. Awmrose put himsel into what I could not but construe
a fechtin attitude, though I daursay it was only on the
'240 -K° °n his Mettle.
defensive ; we yokit, and on me tryin to hough him, we
tumbled again' the mantel-piece, arid you awoke. This is
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
(NoRTH rings the bell violently, and Mr. AMBROSE appears?)
North. Show in the Russian General, sir !
Ambrose. The Russian General, sir !
North. How dare you repeat my words ? I say, sir, show
in the Russian General.
Shepherd. Haw — haw — haw — haw — haw — haw — haw — •
haw ! I'm like to spleet ! Haw — haw — haw — haw — haw —
haw!
North (with dignity). These manners, sir, may do in Ettrick
— or the Forest — where the breed of wild boars is not wholly
extirpated — but in Edinburgh we expect —
Shepherd. Na — gin that be the way o't, I maun be on my
mettle too. As for your wutticism, sir, about the boars, it's
just perfectly contemptible, and, indeed, at the best, nae
better than a maist meeserable pun. And as to mainners, I'll
bet you a ten-gallon cask to a half-mutchkin, that I'll show
an elder in Yarrow Kirk, ony Sabbath atween this and
Christmas, that shall outmainner your ainsel, wi' a* your
high breedin, in everything that constitutes true natural
dignity — and as for female mainners, seleck the maist
yelegant and fashionable leddy that you see walkin alang
Princes Street, wi' a bonnet bigger than a boyne,* atween
three and four o' the afternoon, when the street's like a
stream, and gin I dinna bring frae the Forest, within a mile's
range, wi' Mount Benger the centre of the circle, a bare-
leggit lassie, wi' hauns, aiblins, red and hard wi' mil kin the
coos, wi' naething on her head but a bit pinchbeck kame,
that shall outmainner your city madam, till she blush black
through the red pent on her cheeks — my name's no James
* Boyne—a, large wooden tub.
High Jinks. 241
Hogg — that's a'. And whether you tak the wager or no, let
me tell you to the face o' you, that you're a damned arrogant,
upsettin, impudent fallow, and that I do not care the crack o'
my thoom for you, or your Magazin, or your Buchanan Lodge,
were you and they worth ten thousand million times mair than
what you ever will be, as lang's your name's Christopher North!
North. James, you are a pretty fellow. Nothing will satisfy
you, it seems, but to insult most grossly the old man whom
you have first drowned in his sleep, then hanged, and, but for
my guardian angel, Ambrose, would have guillotined !
Shepherd. What ! and you were pretending to be asleep a*
the while o' the pheelosophical experiments ? What a horrid
heepocrit ! You're really no fit company for plain, simple,
honest folk like the like o' me ; but as we've been baith to
blame, especially you, who began it a' by shammin sleep, let's
shake hauns, and say nae mair about it. Do you ken I'm
desperate hungry — and no a little thursty.
(Re-enter Mr. AMBROSE, in trim apparel and downcast
eyes, with a board of oysters.)
North. Bless you, James ! You wheel me round in my chair
to the table with quite a filial touch. Ay, my dear boy, take
a pull at the porter, for you are in a violent perspiration.
Shepherd. Naething like draft !
North. Mr. Ambrose, confine the Russian General to his
chamber — and see that you keep him in fresh train-oil.
[Exit MR. AMBROSE, smiling through his tears.
North. James, I shrewdly suspect Mr. Ambrose is up to our
high- jinks.
Shepherd. I really begin to jalouse he is. He was sair
frichtened at first — but I thocht I heard him geein a bit grunt
o' a lauch, a sort o' suppressed nicher. ahint the door, to the
flunkeys in the trance, wha had a' flocked thegitherin acrood
at the cry o' Fire and Murder.
242 North's Attack of Cholera.
North. I feel as if an oppressive weight were taken from
my heart.
Shepherd. Then that's mair than I do — mair than you or
ony ither man should say, after devoorin half a hunder eisters
— and siccan eisters — to say naething o' a tippenriy loaf, a
quarter o' a pund o' butter — and the better pairt o' twa pots
o' porter.
North. James ! I have not eat a morsel, or drank a drop,
since breakfast.
Shepherd. Then I've been confusioning you wi' mysel. A'
the time that I was sookin up the eisters frae out o' their
shells, ilka ane sappier than anither in its shallow pool of
caller saut sea-water, and some o' them takin a stronger sook
than ithers to rug them out o' their cradles, — I thocht I saw
you, sir, in my mind's ee, and no by my bodily organs, it
would appear, doin the same to a nicety, only dashin on mair
o' the pepper, and mixing up mustard wi' your vinegar, as if
gratifying a fause appeteet.
North. That cursed cholera —
Shepherd. I never, at ony time o' the year,hae recourse to
the cruet till after the lang hunder — and in September — after
four months' fast frae the creturs — I can easily devoor them
by theirsels just in their ain liccor, on till anither fifty — and
then to be sure, just when I am beginning to be a wee
stawed,* I apply first the pepper to a squad, and then, after a
score or twa in that way, some dizzen and a half wi' vinegar,
and finish aff, like you, wi' a wheen to the mustard, till the
brodd's naething but shells.
North. The cholera has left me so weak, that —
Shepherd. I dinna ken a mair perplexin state o' mind to be
in than to be swithering about a further brodd o' eisters, when
you've devoored what at ae moment is felt to be sufficient,
* Stawed— surfeited.
Hoggs Insensibility. 243
and anither moment what is felt to be very insufficient—
feelin stawed this moment, and that moment yaup * as ever
— noo sayin into yoursel that you'll order in the toasted
cheese, and then silently swearin that you maun hae anither
yokin at the beardies —
North. This last attack, James, has reduced me much — and
a few more like it will deprive the world of a man whose poor
abilities were ever devoted to her ser —
Shepherd. I agree wi' ye, sir, in a' ye say about the diffee-
culty o' the dilemma. But during the dubiety and the
swither, in comes honest Mr. Awmrose, o' his ain accord, wi'
the final brodd, and a body feels himsel to have been a great
suinph for suspecking ae single moment that he wasna able
for his share o' the concluding Centenary o' Noble Inventions.
There's really no end in natur to the eatin o' eisters.
North. Really, James, your insensibility, your callousness
to my complaints, painfully affects me, arid forces me to be
lieve that Friendship, like Love, is but an empty name.
Shepherd. An empty wame ? f It's your ain faut gin it's
empty — but you wadna surely be for eatin the very shells ?
Oh ! Mr. North, but o' a' the men I ever knew you are the
most distinguished by natural and native coortesy and polite
ness — by what Cicero calls Urbanity. Tak it — tak it. For,
I declare, were I to tak it, I never could forgie mysel a' my
days. Tak it, sir. — My dear sir, tak it.
North. What do you mean, James ? What the devil can
you mean ?
Shepherd. The last eister — the mainners eister — it's but a
wee ane, or it hedna been here. There, sir, I've douked it in
an amalgamation o' pepper, vinegar, and mustard, and a wee
drap whusky. Open your mouth, and tak it aff the pint o'
my fork — that's a gude bairn.
* Yaup— hungry. f jjrame— stomach.
244 North's Confession.
North. I have been very ill, my dear James.
Shepherd. Haud your tongue — nae sic thing. Your cheeks
are no half that shrivelled they were last year ; and there's a
circle o' yeloquent bluid in them baith, as ruddy as Robin's
breast. Your lips are no like cherries — but they were aye
rather thin and colorless since first I keiit you ; and when
chirted thegither — oh ! man, but they have a scornfu', and
savage, and cruel expression, that ought seldom to be on a
face o' clay. As for your een, there's twenty guid year o' life
in their licht yet. But, Lord safe us ! — dinna, I beseech you,
put on your specks ; for when you cock up your chin, and lie
back on your chair, and keep fastenin your lowin een upon a
body through the glasses, it's mair than mortal man can
endure — you look so like the Deevil Incarnate.
North. I am a much injured man in the estimation of the
world, James, for I am gentle as a sleeping child.
Shepherd. Come, now — you're wushin me to flatter you —
ye're desperate fond, man, o' flattery.
North. I admit — confess — glory that I am so. It is im
possible to lay it on too thick. All that an author has to do
to secure a favorable notice —
Shepherd. What'n an avooal !
North. Why, James, are you so weak as ever to have
imagined for a moment that I care a pin's point for truth,
in the praise or blame bestowed or inflicted on any mortal
creature in my Magazine ?
Shepherd. What's that you say ? — can I believe my lugs ?
North. I have been merely amusing myself fora few years
back with the great gawky world. The truth is, James, that
I am a misanthrope, and have a liking only for Cockneys.
Shepherd. The chandaleer's gaun to fa' doun on our heads.
Eat your words, sir, eat your words, or —
North. You would not have me lie, during the only time
The Shepherd's Horror. 245
that, for many years, I have felt a desire to speak the truth ?
The only distinctions I acknowledge are intellectual ones.
Moral distinctions there are none — and as for religion — it is
alia—
Shepherd (standing up). And it's on principles like these
— boldly and unblushingly avoo'd here — in Mr. Awmrose's
paper-parlor, at the conclusion o' the sixth brodd, on the
evening o' Monday the 22d o' September, Anno Dominie
aughteen hunder and twunty-aught, within twa hours o' mid-
nicht — that you, sir, have been yeditin a Maggasin that has
gone out to the uttermost corners o' the yerth, wherever
civilization or uncivilization is known, deludin and distrackin
men and women folk, till it's impossible for them to ken their
right hand frae their left — or whether they're standin on their
heels or their heads — or what byeuk ought to be perused,
and what byeuk puttin intil the bottom o' pie-dishes and
trunks — or what awthor hissed, or what awthor hurraa'd — or
what's flummery and what's philosophy — or what's rant and
what's religion — or what's monopoly and what's free tredd —
or wha's poets or wha's but Pats — or whether it's best to be
drunk, or whether it's best to be sober a' hours o' the day and
nicht — or if there should be rich church establishments as in
England, or poor kirk ones as in Scotland — or whether the
Bishop o' Canterbury, wi' twunty thousan' a year, is mair like
a primitive Christian than the Minister o' Kirkintulloch wi'
twa hunder and fifty — or if folk should aye be readin sermons
or fishin for sawmon — or if it's best to marry or best to burn
— or if the national debt hangs like a millstone round the
neck o' the kintra or like a chain o' blae-berries — or if the
Millennium be really close at haun, or the present Solar
System be calculated to last to a' eternity — or whether the
people should be edicated up to the highest pitch o' perfec
tion, or preferably to be all like trotters through the Bog o'
246 TJte Shepherd is tempted.
Allen — or whether the Government should subsideeze foreign
powers, or spend a' its siller on oursels — or whether the
Blacks and the Catholics should be emancipawted or no afore
the demolition o' Priest and Obis — or whether — God forgie
us baith for the hypothesis — man has a mortal or an im
mortal sowl — be a Phoenix — or an Eister !
North. Precisely so, James. You have drawn my real
character to a hair — and the character, too, of the baleful
work over which I have the honor and happiness to preside.
Shepherd. I canna sit here ony langer, and hear a' things,
visible and invisible, turned tapsy-turvy and tapsalteerie —
I'm aff — I'maff — I'm ower to the Auld Toon to tak toddy wi'
Christians, and no wi' an Atheist, that would involve the
warld in even-doun Pyrrhonism — and disorder, if he could,
the verra coorses o' the seven Planets, and set the central Sun
adrift through the sky. Gude-nicht to ye, sir — gude-nicht. —
Ye are the maist dangerous o' a' reprobates — for your private
conduct and character is that o' an angel, but your public
that o' a fiend ; and the honey o' your domestic practice can
be nae antidote to the pushion o' your foreign principles. I'm
aff— I'm aff.
(Enter Mr. AMBROSE with a Howtowdie, and KING PEPIN
with Potatoes and Ham.)
Shepherd (in continuation). What brought ye intil the room
the noo, Mr. Awmrose, wi' a temptation sic as that — nae flesh
and bluid can resist ? Awa back to the kitchin wi' the sa
vory sacrifice — or clash doun the Towdie afore the Bagman
in the wee closet-room ayont the wainscot. What'n a bonny,
brown, basted, buttery, iley, and dreepin breast o' a roasted
Earock. O' a' the smells I ever fan, that is the maist in-
supportably seducin to the palate. It has gien me the water-
brash. Weel, weel, Mr. North, since you insist on't, we'll
resume the argument after supper.
The Shepherd's Fall 247
North. Good-night, James. — Ambrose, deposit theTowdie,
and show Mr. Hogg down stairs. Lord bless you, James —
good-night.
Shepherd (securing his seat). Dinna say anither word, sir.
Nae farther apology. I forgie you. Ye wasna serious.
Come, be cheerfu' — I'm sune pacified. Oh, man, but ye cut
up a fool * wi' incredible dexterity ! There — a leg and a
wing to yoursel — and a leg and a wing to me — then, to you
the breast — for I ken ye like the breast — and to me the back
— and I dinna dislike the back, — and then, Howtowdie!
" Farewell ! a long farewell to all thy fatness." Oh, sir! but
the taties are gran' the year! How ony Christian creature
can prefer waxies to mealies, I never could conjecture.
Anither spoonfu' or twa o' the gravy. Haud — haud — what
a deluge !
North. This, I trust, my dear Shepherd, will be a good
season for the poor.
Shepherd. Nae fear o' that, sir. Has she ony eggs ? But I
forgot — the hens are no layin the noo ; they're mootin.f
Faith, considering ye didna eat mony o' the eisters, your
appeteet's no amiss, sir. Pray, sir, will ye tell me gin there
be ony difference atween this new-fangled Oriental disease,
they ca' the Cholera, and the gude auld-fashion'd Scottish
complent, the colic ? For gudesake, dinna drain the dolphin !
North. A mixture of Giles's and Berwick — nectar worthy
an ambrosial feast !
Shepherd. It gars my een water, and my lugs crack. Noo
for the toasted cheese.
(Enter TAFFY with two Welsh Rabbits, and exit.)
* Fool— fowl. t Mootin— moulting.
XVII.
THE HAGGIS DELUGE.
SCENE I. — The Octagon. — Time, — Ten.
NORTH. — SHEPHERD. — TICKLER.
North. Thank Heaven ! my dear Shepherd, Winter is come
again, and Edinburgh is beginning once more to look like
herself, like her name and her nature, with rain, mist, sleet,
haur, hail, snow I hope, wind, storm — would that we could
but add a little thunder and lightning — the Queen of the
North.
Shepherd. Hoo could you, sir, wi' a' your time at your ain
command, keep in and about Embro' f rae May to December ?
The city, for three months in the dead o' simmer, is like a tomb.
Tickler (in a whisper to the Shepherd). The widow — James
— the widow.
Shepherd (aloud). The weedow — sir — the weedow ! Couldna
he hae brocht her out wi' him to the Forest? At their time
o' life, surely scandal wad hae held her tongue.
Tickler. Scandal never holds her tongue, James. She
drops her poison upon the dew on the virgin's untimely grave
— her breath will not let the grey hairs rest in the mould —
Shepherd. Then, Mr. North, marry her at ance, and bring
her out in Spring, that you may pass the hinney-moon on the
sunny braes o' Mount Benger.
North. Why, James, the moment I begin to press matters,
A Tender Topic. 249
she takes out her pocket-handkerchief — and through sighs
and sobs recurs to the old topic — that twenty thousand times
told tale— the dear old General.
Shepherd. Deevil keep the dear old General ! Hasna the
man been dead these twunty years ? And if he had been
leevin, wuldna he been aulder than yoursel, and far mair in
firm ? You're no in the least infirm, sir.
North. Ah, James ! that's all you know. My infirmities
are increasing with years —
Shepherd. Wad you be sae unreasonable as to expect them
to decrease with years ? Are her infirmities —
North. Hush— she has no infirmities.
Shepherd. Nae infirmities ! Then she's no worth a brass
button. But let me ask you ae interrogatory. — Hae ye ever
put the question ? Answer me that, sir.
North. Why, James, I cannot say that I ever have —
Shepherd. What ! and you expeck that she wull put the
question to you? That would indeed be puttin the cart
before the horse. If the women were to ask the men, there
wad be nae leevin in this warld. Yet let me tell you, Mr.
North, that it's a shamefu' thing to keep playin in the way
you hae been doin for these ten years past on a young woman's
feelings —
Tickler. Ha — ha — ha — James ! — A young woman ! Why,
she's sixty, if she's an hour.
North. You lie.
Shepherd. That's a douss * on the chops, Mr. Tickler.
That's made you as red in the face as a bubbly-jock, sir. Oh,
the power o' ae wee bit single monosyllabic syllable o' a word
to awauken a' the saf ter and a' the fiercer passions ! Dinna
keep bitin your thoomb, Mr. Tickler, like an Itawlian ! Make
an apology to Mr. North —
* Douss— a blow, a stroke.
250 North and Tickler embrace.
North. I will accept of no apology. The man who calls
a woman old deserves death.
Shepherd. Did you call her auld, Mr. Tickler ?
Tickler. To you, sir, I will condescend to reply. I did not.
I merely said she was sixty if she was an hour.
Shepherd. In the first place, dinna " Sir " me — for it's not
only ill-bred, but it's stupit. In the second place, dinna talk
o' " condescending " to reply to me — for that's language I'll no
thole even f rae the King on the throne, and I'm sure the King
on the throne wadna mak use o't. In the third place, to ca' a
woman saxty, and then maintain that ye didna ca' her auld,
is naething short o' a sophism. And in the fourth place, you
shudna hae accompanied your remark wi' a loud haw — haw —
haw, — for on a tender topic a guffaw's an aggravation — and
marryin a widow, let her age be what it wull, is a tender topic,
depend on't — sae that on a calm and dispassionate view o' a'
the circumstances o' the case, there can be nae dout that you
maun mak an apology ; or, if you do not, I leave the room, and
there is in end of the Noctes Ambrosiaiiae.
North. An end of the Noctes Ambrosianae !
Tickler. An end of the Noctes Ambrosianae !
Shepherd. An end of the Noctes Ambrosianae.
Omnes. An end of the Noctes Ambrosianae ! ! !
North. Rather than that should happen, I will make a
thousand apologies —
Tickler. And I ten thousand —
Shepherd. That's behavin like men and Christians. Em
brace — embrace. [NORTH and TICKLER embrace.
North. Where were we, James ?
Shepherd. I was nbusin Embro' in simmer.
North. Why ?
Shepherd. Whey ? — a' the lums * smokeless ! No ae f jack
• Lums— chimneys. t No ae— not one.
Edinburgh in Summer. 251
turnin a piece o' roastin beef afore ae fire in ony ae kitchen in
a' the New Toon ! Streets and squares a' grass-grown, sae
that they micht be mawn ! Shops like beehives that hae
dee'd in wunter! Coaches settin aff for Stirlin, and Perth,
and Glasgow, and no ae passenger either inside or out — only
the driver keepin up his heart wi' flourishing his whip, and
the guard sittin in perfect solitude, playin an eerie spring on
his bugle-horn ! The shut-up playhouse a' covered ower wi'
bills that seem to speak o' plays acted in an antediluvian
world ! But to return to the near approach o' wunter.
Mankind hae again putten on worsted stocking, and flannen
drawers — white jeans and yellow nankeen troosers hae dis
appeared — dooble soles hae gotten a secure footen ower pumps
— big-coats wi' fur, and mantles wi' miniver, gie an agreeable
rouchness to the picturesque stream o' life eddyin alang the
channel o' the streets — gloves and mittens are sae general
that a red hairy haun looks rather singular — every third body
ye meet, for fear o' a sudden blash, carries an unbrella — a*
folk shave noo wi' het water — coal-carts are emptyin theirsels
into ilka area — caddies at the corners o' the streets and drivers
on coach-boxes are seen warmin themsels by blawin on their
fingers, or whuskin themsels wi' their open nieves across the
shouthers — skates glitter at shop-wundows, prophetic o' frost
— Mr. Phin may tak in his rod noo, for nae mair thocht o'
anglin till spring, — and wi' spring hersel, as wi' ither o' our
best and bonniest freens, it may be said, out o' sicht out o'
mind. — you see heaps o' bears hung out for sale — horses are
a hairier o' the hide — the bit toon bantam craws nane, and
at breakfast you maim tak tent no to pree an egg afore
smellin ut it, — you meet hares carryin about in a' quarters —
and ggemkeepers proceedin out into the kintra wi' strings o'
grews, — sparrows sit silent and smoky wi' ruffled feathers,
waiting for crumbs on the ballustrawds — loud is the cacklin
252 Womankind in Winter.
in the fowl-market o' Christmas geese that come a month at
least afore the day, just like thae Annuals the Forget-me-
Nots, Amulets, Keepsakes, Beejoos, Gems, Anniversaries,
Souvenirs, Friendship's Offerings, and Wunter- Wreaths —
Tickler. Stop, James — stop. Such an accumulation of
imagery absolutely confounds— perplexes —
Shepherd. Folk o' nae fancy. Then for womankind —
Tickler. Oh ! James, James ! I knew you would not long
keep off that theme —
Shepherd. Oh, ye pawkie auld carle ! What ither theme
in a' this wide weary warld is worth ae single thocht or feelin
in the poet's heart — ae single line frae the poet's pen — ae
single—
North. Song from the Shepherd's lyre — of which, as of the
Teian Bard's of old, it may be said : —
'A 3a3iTO(; 6e
Do, my dear James, give us John Nicholson's daughter.
Shepherd. Wait a wee. The womankind, I say, sirs, never
look sae bonny as in wunter, excepp indeed it may be in
spring—
Tickler. Or summer or autumn, James —
Shepherd. Haud your tongue. You old bachelors ken
naething o' womankind — and hoo should ye, when they
treat you wi' but ae feelin, that o' derision ? Oh, sirs ! but
the dear creturs do look weel in muffs — whether they haud
them, wi' their invisible hauns clasped thegither in their
beauty within the cosy silk linin, close prest to their innicent
waists, just aueath the glad beatins o' their first-love-touched
hearts —
Tickler. There again, James !
Shepherd. Or haud them hingin frae their extended richt
* The harp with its strings sounds only love.
A dear little Laplander. 253
arms, leavin a' the feegur visible, that seems taller and
slimmer as the removed muff reveals the clasps o' the pelisse
a' the way douu frae neck till feet !
North. Look at Tickler— James — how he moves about in
his chair. His restlessness —
Shepherd. Is no unnatural. Then, sir, is there, in a' the
beautifu' and silent unfauldins o' natur amang plants and
flowers, onything sae beautifu' as the white, smooth, saft
chafts o' a bit smilin maiden o' saxteen, aughteen, or twunty
blossomin out, like some bonny bud o' snaw-white satin, frae
a co verm o' rough leaves, — blossomin out, sirs, frae the edge
o' the fur tippet, that haply a lover's happy haun had deli
cately hung ower her gracefu' shouthers — oh, the dear de-
lightfu' little Laplander !
Tickler. For a married man, James, you really describe—
North. Whisht!
Shepherd. I wush you only heard the way the bonny
croodin-doos * keep murmuring their jeists f to ane anither,
as soon as a nest o' them gets rid o' an auld bacheleer on
Princes Street.
Tickler. Gets rid o' an auld bachelor !
Shepherd. Booin and scrapinto them after the formal and
stately fashion o' the auld school o' politeness, and thinkio
himsel the very pink o' courtesy, wi' a gold-headed cane,
aiblins, nae lest, in his haun, and buckles on's shoon — for
buckles are no quite out yet a'thegither — a frill like a fan at
the shirt-neck o' him — and, wad the warld believe't, knee-
breeks ! — then they titter — and then they lauch — and then,
as musical as if they were singin in pairts, the bonny,
bloomin, innicent wicked creturs break out into — I maunna
say, o' sic rosy lips, and sic snawy breasts, a guffaw $ —
» Croodin-doos— cooing-doves. t Jeists— jeata.
t Guffaw— a broad laugh
254 The Haggis is introduced.
but a guffay, sirs, a guffay — for that's the feminine o'
guffaw — '•
North. Tickler, we really must not allow ourselves to be
insulted in this style any longer —
Shepherd. And then awa they trip, sirs, flingin an antelope's
or gazelle's ee ower their shouther, diverted beyond measure
to see their antique beau continuing at a distance to cut
capers in his pride — till a' at ance they see a comet in the
sky — a young offisher o' dragoons, wi'' his helmet a' in a low
wi' a flicker o' red feathers — and as he " turns and winds his
fiery Pegassus," they are a' mute as death — yet every face at
the same time eloquent wi' mantling smiles, and wi' blushes
that break through and around the blue heavens of their
een, like crimson clouds to sudden sunlight burning beauti
ful for a moment, and then melting away like a thocht or a
dream !
North. Why, my dear James, it does one's heart good even
to be ridiculed in the language of Poetry. Does it not,
Tickler ?
Tickler. James, your health, my dear fellow.
Shepherd. I never ridicule onybody, sirs, that's no fit to
bear it. But there's some sense and some satisfaction in
makin a fule o' them, that, when the fiend's in them, can mak
fules o' a'body, like North and Tickler
(Enter Mr. AMBROSE with a hot roasted Round of Beef—
KING PEPIN with a couple of boiled Ducks — SIR
DAVID GAM with a trencher of Tripe a la Meg Dods — and
TAPPYTOORIK with a Haggis. Pickled Salmon, Welsh
Rabbits, fyc., frc. — and, as usual, Oysters, raw, stewed
scolloped, roasted, and pickled, of course — Rizzards,
Finzeans, Red Herrings.)
Shepherd. You've really served up a bonny wee neat bit
eooper for three, Mr. Awmrose. I hate, for my ain pairt, to
The Haggis overflows. 255
see a table overloaded. It's sae vulgar. I'll carve the hag
gis.*
North. I beseech you, James, for the love of all that is
dear to you, here and hereafter, to hold your hand. Stop—
stop — stop !
{The SHEPHERD sticks the Haggis, and the Table is
instantly overjloived.)
. Shepherd. Heavens and earth ! is the Haggis mad?
Tooels ! f Awmrose — tooels ! Safe us ! we'll a' be drooned !
[PiCARDY and his Tail rush out for towels.
North. Rash man ! what ruin have you wrought ! See
how it has overflown the deck from stem to stern — we shall
all be lost.
Shepherd. Sweepin everything afore it ! Whare's the puir
biled $ dyucks ? Only the croon-head o' the roun' visible !
Tooels — tooels — tooels ! Send roun' the fire-drum through
the city.
(Re-enter PICARDY and " the Rest '' with napery.}
Mr. Ambrose. Mr. North, I look to you for orders in the
midst of this alarming calamity. Shall I order in more
strength ?
Shepherd. See — see — sir ! it's creeping alang the carpet !
We're like men left on a sandbank, when the tide's comin
in rampaugin. Oh ! that I had insured my life ! Oh ! that
I had learned to soom ! § What wull become o' my widow
and my fatherless children ?
North. Silence ! Let us die like men.
Shepherd. 0 Lord ! it's ower our insteps already ! Open
a' the doors and wundows — and let it find its ain level. I'll
up on a chair in the meantime.
* Atiagyis is the stomach of a sheep filled with the lungs, heart, and liver
of the same animal, minced with suet, onions, salt, and pepper.
t Tooels — towels, $ Biled — boiled. § Soom— swim.
2_/6 TJte Haggis rises.
{The SHEPHERD mounts the back of The Chair,
and draws Mr. NORTH up after him.)
Sit on my shouthers, my dear — dear— dearest sir. I insist
on't. Mr. Tickler, Mr. Awmrose, King Pepin, Sir David,
and Tappitourie — you wee lazy deevil — help Mr. North up—
help Mr. North up on my shouthers !
(Mr. NORTH is elevated, Crutch and all, astride on the
SHEPHERD'S shoulders.)
North. Good God ! Where is Mr. Tickler?
Shepherd. Look — look — look, sir, — yonner he's staunin on
the brace piece — on the mantel ! Noo, Awmrose, and a' ye
waiters, make your escape, and leave us to our fate. Oh !
Mr. North, gie us a prayer. — What for do you look so mees-
erable, Mr. Tickler ? Death is common — 'tis but " passing
through Natur' to Eternity ! " And yet — to be drooned in
haggis 'ill be waur than Clarence's dream ! Alack and alas-
a-day ! it's up to the ring o' the bell-rope ! Speak, Mr.
Tickler — oh, speak, sir — men in our dismal condition — Are
you sittin easy, Mr. North ?
North. Quite so, my dear James, I am perfectly resigned.
Yet, what is to become of Maga —
Shepherd. Oh my wee Jamie !
North. I fear I am very heavy, James.
Shepherd. Dinna say't, sir — dinna say't. I'm like the pious
^Eneas bearin his father Ancheeses through the flames o*
Troy. The similie doesna haud gude at a' points — I wish it
did — oh, haud fast, sir, wi' your arms roun' my neck, lest the
cruel tyrant o' a haggis swoop ye clean awa under the side
board to inevitable death !
North. Far as the eye can reach it is one wide wilderness
of suet !
Tickler. Hurra! hurra! hurra!
Shepherd. Do you hear the puir gentleman, Christopher ?
TJie Haggis subsides. 257
It's affeckin to men in our condition to see the pictur we hae
baith read o' in accounts o' shipwrecks realeezed ! Timothy's
gane mad ! Hear till him shoutin wi' horrid glee on the
brink o' eternity !
Tickler. Hurra ! hurra ! hurra !
North. Horrible ! most horrible !
Tickler. The haggis is subsiding — the haggis is subsiding !
It has fallen an inch by the surbase * since the Shepherd's
last ejaculation.
Shepherd. If you're tellin a lee, Timothy, I'll wade ower
to you, and bring you doun aff the mantel wi' the crutch. —
Can I believe my een ? It is subseedin. Hurraw ! hurraw !
hurraw ! Nine times nine, Mr. North, to our deliverance—
and the Protestant ascendancy.
Omnes. Hurra ! hurraw ! hurree !
Shepherd. Noo, sir, you may dismunt.
(Re-enter the Household, with the immediate neighborhood.)
Shepherd. High Jinks ! High Jinks ! High Jinks ! The
haggis has putten out the fire, and sealed up the boiler —
( The SHEPHERD descends upon all-fours, and lets
Mr. NORTH off gently.}
North. Oh, James, I am a daft old man!
Shepherd. No sae silly as Solomon, sir, at your time o' life.
Noo for sooper.
Tickler. How the devil am I to get down ?
Shepherd. How the deevil did you get up ? Oh, ho, by
the gas ladder ! And it's been removed in the confusion.
Either jump down — or stay where you are, Mr. Tickler.
Tickler. Come now, James — shove over the ladder.
Shepherd. Oh that Mr. Chantrey was here to sculpturhim
in that attitude ! Streitch out your richt haun ! A
grain heicher! Hoo gran' he looks in basso-relievo !
* Surbase— the moulding at the upper edge of the wainscot.
258 Tickler— High and Dry.
Tickler. Shove over the ladder, you son of the mist, or I'll
brain you with the crystal.
Shepherd. Sit doun, Mr. North, opposite to me — and Mr.
Awmrose, tak roun' my plate for a shave o' the beef. — Isna
he the perfeck pictur o' the late Right Honorable William
Pitt ? — Shall I send you, sir, some o' the biled dyuck ?
North. If you please, James. — Rather " Like Patience on
a monument smiling at Grief."
Shepherd. Gie us a sang, Mr. Tickler, and then you shall
hae the ladder. I never preed a roasted roun' afore — it's
real savory.
North. —
" Oh ! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The height where Fame's proud temple shines afar ! "
Shepherd. I'll let you doun, Mr. Tickler, if you touch the
ceilin wi' your fingers. Itherwise, you maun sing a sang.
(TICKLER tries and fails.)
Tickler. Well, if I must sing, let me have a tumbler of toddy.
Shepherd. Ye shall hae that, sir.
(The SHEPHERDESS a tumbler from the jug, and balancing it
on the cross of the crutch, reaches it up to Mr. TICKLER.
TICKLER sings " The Twa Magicians.")
Shepherd. Noo — sir — here is the ladder to you — for which
you're indebted to Mr. Peter Buchan, o' Peterhead, the
ingenious collector o' the Ancient Ballads, frae which ye
have chanted so speeritedly the speerited " Twa Magicians."
It's a capital collection — and should be added in a' libraries,
to Percy, and Ritson, and Headley, and the Minstrelsy of
the Border, and John Finlay, and Robert Jamieson, and
Gilchrist and Kinloch, and the Quarto o' that clever chiel,
Motherwell * o' Paisley, wha's no only a gude collector and
* William Motherwell, born in 1798, the author of some spirited ballada
Jid editor of Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern. He died in 1835.
Tickler s Ailments. 259
commentator o' ballads, but a gude writer o' them too —
as he has proved by that real poetical address o' a Northman
to his Swurd in ane o' the Annals. Come awa doun, sir —
come awa doun. Tak tent, for the steps are gey shoggly.*
Noo — sir — fa' to the roun'.
Tickler. I have no appetite, James. I have been suffering
all night under a complication of capital complaints, — the
toothache, which like a fine attenuated red-hot, steel-sting,
keeps shooting through an old rugged stump, which to touch
with my tongue is agony — the tongue-ache, from a blister on
that weapon, that I begin to fear may prove cancerous —
the lip-ache, from having accidentally given myself a labial
wound in sucking out an oyster — the eye-ache, as if an
absolute worm were laying eggs in the pupil — the ear-ache,
tinglin and stouninf to the very brain, till my drum seems
beating for evening parade — to which add a headache of the
hammer-and-anvil kind — and a stomach-ache, that seems to
intimate that dyspepsy is about to be converted into cholera
morbus ; and you have a partial enumeration of the causes
that at present deaden my appetite — and that prevented me
from chanting the ballad with my usual vivacity. However
— I will trouble you for a duck.
Shepherd. You canna be in the least pain, wi' sae mony
complaints as these — for they maun neutraleeze ane anither.
But even if they dinna, I believe mysel, wi' the Stoics, that
-pain's nae evil. — Dinna you, Mr. North ?
North. Certainly. But Tickler, you know, has many odd
crotchets.
Ambrose (entering with his suavest physiognomy). Beg par
don, Mr. North, for venturing in unrung, but there's a young
lady wishing to speak with you —
Shepherd. A young lady ! — show her ben.
* Shoggly — shaky. t Sfounin — aching.
260 North's Nightcap.
North. An anonymous article ?
Ambrose. No, sir, — Miss Helen Sandford, from the Lodge.
North. Helen ! — what does she want ?
Ambrose. Miss Sandford had got alarmed, sir —
Shepherd. Safe us ! only look at the timepiece ! Four
o'clock in the mornin !
Ambrose. And has walked up from the Lodge —
North. What ? Alone !
Ambrose. No, sir. Her father is with her — and she bids
me say — now that she knows her master is well — that here
is your Kilmarnock nightcap.
[Mr. NORTH submits his head to PICAKDY, who
adjusts the nightcap.
Shepherd. What a cowl !
North. A capote — James. Mr. Ambrose, — we three must
sleep here all night.
Shepherd. A' mornin, ye mean. Tak care o' Tickler amang
ye — but recolleck it's no safe to wauken sleepin dowgs. —
Oh! man! Mr. North! sir! but that was touchin attention
in puir Eelen. She's like a dochter, indeed. — Come awa,
you auld vagabon, to your bed. I'll kick open the door
o' your dormitory wi' my fit, as I pass alaug the transe in
the mornin ! The mornin ! Faith, I'm beginnin already to
get hungry for breakfast ! Come awa, you auld vagabon
—come awa.
[Exeunt NORTH and SHEPHERD, followed by the Height
of TICKLER, to Roost.
NORTH (singing as they go)—
" Early to bed, and early to rise,
IB the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise ! "
Da Capo.
XVIII.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD, HAVING SKATED FROM
YARROW, TAKES A PLOUTER.
SCENE I. — The Snuggery. Time, — Nine in the Evening.
NORTH and TICKLER.
Tickler. Replenish. That last jug was most illustrious. 1
wish James were here.
North. Hush ! hark ! It must be he ! — and yet 'tis not just
the pastoral tread either of the Bard of Benger. " Alike, but
oh ! how different ! "
Tickler. " His very step has music in't as he comes up the
stair ! "
Shepherd (bursting in with a bang). Huzzaw ! Huzzaw 1
Huzzaw !
North. God bless you, James ; your paw, my dear Sus.
Shepherd. Fresh frae the Forest, in three hours —
Tickler. What ! thirty-six miles ?
North. So it is true that you have purchased the famous
American trotter ?
Shepherd. Nae trotters like my ain trotters ! I've won ray
bate, sirs.
North. Bet?
Shepherd. Ay, — a bate, — a bate o' twenty guineas.
Tickler. What the deuce have you got on your feet, James ?
261
262 The Shepherd arrives.
Shepherd. Skites.* I've skited frae St. Mary's Loch to
the Canawl Basin in fowre minutes and a half within the
three hours, without turnin a hair.
Tickler. Do keep a little farther off, James, for your face
has waxed intolerably hot, and I perceive that you have
raised the thermometer a dozen degrees.
Shepherd (Jlinging a purse of gold on the table). It 'ill
require a gey strang thaw to melt that, chiels ; sae tak your
change out o' that, as Josephf says, either in champagne, or
yill, or porter, or Burgundy, or cedar, or Glenlivet — just what-
somever you like best to drink or devoor ; and we shanna
be lang without supper, for in coming alang the transe 1
shooted to Tappy toorie forthwith to send in samples o' all the
several eatables and drinkables in Picardy. I'm desperate
hungry. Lowse my skites, Tickler.
[TICKLER succumbs to unthong the SHEPHERD'S skates.
Tickler. What an instep !
Shepherd. Ay, nane o' your plain soles, that gang shiffle-
shaffling amang the chuckystanes assassinatin a' the insects ;
but a foot arched like Apollo's bow when he shot the Python
— heel, of a firm and decided but unobtrusive character — and
taes, ilka ane a thocht larger than the ither, like a family o
childer, or a flight o' steps leading up to the pillared portico
o' a Grecian temple.
(Enter Signer AMBROSIO susurrans with IT below his arm.)
Shepherd. That's richt — 0 but Greeny has a gran' gurgle !
A mouthfu' o' Millbank never comes amiss. Oh ! but it's
potent ! (gruing). I wuss it be na ile o' vitrol.
North. James, enlighten our weak minds.
Shepherd. An English bagman, you see — he's unco fond o'
poetry and the picturesque, a traveller in the soft line — paid
me a visit the day just at dermer-time, in a yellow gig,
* Skites— skates. t Joseph Hume.
His Bet with the Bagman. 263
drawn by a chestnut blude meer ; and after we had discussed
the comparative merits o' my poems, and Lord Byron's, and
Sir Walter's, he rather attributin to me, a' things considered,
the superiority over baith, it's no impossible that my freen
got rather fuddled a wee, for, after roosin his meer to the
skies, as if she were fit for Castor himsel to ride upon up and
doun the blue lift, frae less to mair he offered to trot her in
the gig into Embro', against me on the best horse in a' my
stable, and gie me a half-hour's start before puttin her into
the shafts ; when, my birses being up, faith I challenged him,
on the same condition, to rin him intil Embro' on shank's
naigie.*
North. What ! biped against quadruped ?
Shepherd. Just. The cretur, as sune as he came to the
clear understandin o' my meanin, gied ane o' these bitcreenk-
lin cackles o' a Cockney lauch, that can only be forgiven by
a Christian when his soul is saften'd by the sunny hush o' a
Sabbath morning.
North. Forgotten, perhaps, James, but not forgiven.
Shepherd. The batef was committed to black and white ;
and then on wi' my skites, and awa like a reindeer.
Tickler. What ? down the Yarrow to Selkirk — then up the
Tweed.
Shepherd. Na, na ! naething like keepin the high-road for
safety in a ski ting-match. There it was — noo s-tretchin
straught afore me, noo serpenteezin like a great congor eel,
and noo amaist coilin itself up like a sleepin adder ; but
whether straught or crooked or circling, ayont a' imagina
tion sliddery, sliddery !
Tickler. Confound me — if I knew that we had frost.
Shepherd. That comes o' trustin till a barometer to tell you
when things hae come to the freezin-pint. Frost ! The ice
* On shank's naigie—on foot. t Bate— bet.
264 The Shepherd's Velocity.
is fourteen feet thick in the Loch — and though you hae nae
frost about Embro' like our frost in the Forest, yet I wadna
advise you, Mr. Tickler, to put your tongue on the airn-rim
o' a cart or cotch-wheel.
North. I remember, James, being beguiled — sixty-four
years ago ! — by a pretty little, light-haired, blue-eyed lassie,
one starry night of black frost, just to touch a cart-wheel for
one moment with the tip of my tongue.
Shepherd. What a gowmeril ! *
North. And the bonny May had to run all the way to
the manse for a jug of hot water to relieve me from that
bondage*
Shepherd. You had a gude excuse, sir, for geein the cutty
a gude kissin.
North. How fragments of one's past existence come sud
denly flashing back upon —
Shepherd. Hoo I snooved alang the snaw ! Like a verra
curlin-stane, when a dizzen besoms are soopin the ice afor't
and the granite gangs groanin gloriously alang, as if in
stinct wi' spirit, and the water-kelpie below strives in vain
to keep up wi' the straight-forrit planet, still accompanied
as it spins wi' a sort o' spray, like the shiverin atoms of
diamonds, and wi' a noise to which the hills far and near
respond, like a water-quake — the verra ice itself seeinin at
times to sink and swell, just as if the Loch were a great
wide glitterin tin-plate, beaten out by that cunnin white
smith, Wunter — and —
Tickler. And every mouth, in spite of frost, thaws to the
thought of corned beef and greens.
Shepherd. Hoo I snooved alang ! Some collies keepit
geyan weel up wi' me as far's Traquair manse — but ere I
crossed the Tweed my canine tail had drapped quite away,
* Gowmeril — fool.
Between the Loch and Edinburgh. 265
and I had but the company of a couple of crows to
Peebles.
North. Did you dine on the road, James ?
Shepherd. Didn't I tell you I had dined before I set off ? I
ettled at a cauker at Eddlestone — but in vain attempted to
moderate my velocity as I neared the village, and had merely
time to fling a look to my worthy friend the minister, as I
flew by that tree-hidden manse and its rill-divided garden,
beautiful alike in dew and in cranreuch !
Tickler. Helpless as Mazeppa !
Shepherd. It's far worse to be ridden aff wi' by ane's ain
sowl than by the wildest o' the desert loon.
North. At this moment, the soul seems running away with
the body, — at that, the body is off with the soul. Spirit and
matter are playing at fast and loose with each other — and at
full speed you get skeptical as Spinoza.
Shepherd. Sometimes the ruts are for miles thegither regular
as railroads — and your skite gets fitted intil a groove, sae that
you can baud out ane o' your legs like an opera dancer playin
a peeryette, and on the ither glint by, to the astonishment o'
toll-keepers, who at first suspect you to be on horseback —
then that you may be a bird — and feenally that you must be
a ghost.
Tickler. Did you upset any carriages, James ?
Shepherd. Nane that I recollect. I saw severals — but
whether they were coming or going — in motion or at rest, it
is not for me to say — but they, and the hills, and woods, and
clouds, seemed a' to be floatin awa tbegither in the direction
o' the mountains at the head o' Clydesdale.
Tickler. And where all this while was the bagman ?
Shepherd. Wanderin, nae doubt, a' a-foam, leagues ahint ;
for the chestnut meer was weel cauked, and she ance won a
king's plate at Doncaster. You may hae seen, Mr. North, a
266 Pulls up at the Pentlands.
cloud-giant on a stormy day striding alang the sky, coverin a
parish wi' ilka stretch o' his spawl,* and pausin, aiblins, to
tak his breath now and then at the meetin o' twa counties ;
if sae, you hae seen an image o' me — only he was in the
heavens, and I on the yearth — he an unsubstantial phantom,
and I twal stane wecht — he silent and sullen in his flight, I
musical and merry in mine —
Tickler. But on what principle came you to stop, James ?
Shepherd. Luckily, the Pentland Hills came to my succor.
By means of one of their ridges I got gradually rid of a por
tion of my velocity — subdued down into about seven miles an
hour, which rate got gradually diminished to about four ; and
here I am, gentlemen, after having made a narrow escape
from a stumble, that in York Place threatened to set me off
again down Leith Walk, in which case I must have gone on
to Portobello or Musselburgh.
North. Well, if I did not know you, my dear James, to be
a matter-of-fact man, I should absolutely begin to entertain
some doubts of your veracity.
Shepherd. What the deevil's that hingin f rae the roof ?
North. Why, the chandelier.
Shepherd. The shandleer ? It's a cage, wi' an outlandish
bird in't. A pawrot, I declare ! Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll !
Pretty Poll!
Parrot. Go to the devil and shake yourself.
Shepherd. Heaven preserve us ! — heard you ever the likes
o' that ? — A bird cursin ! What sort o' an education must
the cretur hae had ? Poor beast, do you ken what you're
sayin ?
Parrot. Much cry and little wool, as the devil said when
he was shearin the Hog.
Shepherd. You're gettin personal, sir, or madam, for I
dinna pretend to ken your sex.
* Spawl— shoulder.
North's Familiars. 267
North. That e¥erybody does, James, who has anything to
do with Blackwood's Magazine.
Shepherd. True enough, sir. If it wad but keep a gude
tongue in its head — it's really a bonny cretur. What plum-
mage ! What'ill you hae, Polly, for sooper ?
Parrot. —
Molly put the kettle on,
Molly put the kettle on,
Molly put the kettle on,
And I shall have some punch,
Shepherd. That's fearsome — yet, whisht ! What ither vice
was that speakin ? A gruff vice. There again ! whisht !
Voice. —
The devil he came to olir town,
And rode away wi' the exciseman.
Shepherd. This room's no canny. I'm aff (rising to go).
Mercy me ! A raven hoppin aneath the sideboard ! Look at
him, how he turns his great big broad head to the ae side,
and keeps regardin me wi' an evil eye ! Satan 1
North. My familiar, James.
Shepherd. Whence cam he ?
North. One gloomy night I heard him croakin in the
garden.
Shepherd. You did wrang, sir, — it was rash to let him in ;
wha ever heard o' a real raven in a surburban garden ? It's
some demon pretendin to be a raven. Only look at him wi'
the silver ladle in his bill. Noo he draps it, and is ruggin at
the Turkey carpet, as if he were colleckin lining for his nest.
Let alane the carpet, you ugly villain !
Raven. The devil would a wooin go — ho-ho ! the wooin, ho ! *
* Dickens' incomparable raven in Barnaby Rudge would have been quite
at home in this party ; and appears, indeed, to have taken a lesson in house
hold economy from North's parrot.
268 A Serenade by " Sooty."
Shepherd. Ay — ay — you hear how it is, gentleman — " Love
is a* the theme " —
Jtaven. " To woo his bonny lassie when the kye come
hame ! "
Shepherd. Satan singin ane o' my sangs ! Frae this hour
I forswear poetry.
Voice. —
O love— love— love,
lovn's like a dizziness.
Shepherd. What ! another voice ?
Tickler. James — James — he's on your shoulder.
Shepherd (starting up in great emotion). Wha's on my
shouther ?
North. Only Matthew.
Shepherd. Puir bit bonny burdie ! What ! you're a Stirling,
are you ? Ay — ay — just pick and dab awa there at the hair
in my lug. Yet I wad rather see you fleein and tiutterin in
and out o' a bit hole aneath a wall-flower high up on some
auld and ruined castle standin by itsel among the woods.
Haven. —
O love— love— love,
Love's like a dizziness.
Shepherd. Rax me ower the poker, Mr. North— or lend me
your crutch, that I may brain Sooty.
Starling' —
It wunna let a puir bodie
Gang about his bissiness.
Parrot. Fie, whigs, awa — fie, whigs, awa.
Shepherd. Na — the bird doesna want sense.
Raven. —
The deil sat girnin in a neuk,
Riving sticks to roast the Duke.
Shepherd. Oh ho ! you are fond of picking up Jacobite relics.
The Shepherd retires. 269
Raven. Ho ! blood — blood — blood — blood — blood !
Shepherd. What do you mean, you sinner ?
Raven. Burke him — Burke him — Burke him. Ho— ho
bo — blood — blood — blood !
Bronte. Bow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow. — Bow
wow — wow.
Shepherd. A complete aviary, Mr. North. Weel, that's a
sight worth lookin at- Bronte lying on the rug — never per-
ceivin that it's on the tap o' a worsted teegger — a raven,
either real or pretended, amusin himsel wi' ruggin at the
dowg's toosey tail — the pawrot, wha maun hae opened the
door o' his cage himsel, sittin on Bronte's shouther — and the
Stirling, Matthew, hidin himsel ahint his head — no less than
four irrational creturs, as they are called, on the rug — each
wi' a natur o' its ain ; and then again four rational creturs,
as they are called, sittin round them on chairs — each wi' his
specific character too — and the aught makin ane aggregate
— or whole — of parts not unharmoniously combined.
North. Why, James, there are but three of the rationals.
Shepherd. I find I was countin mysel twice over.
Tickler. Now be persuaded, my dear Shepherd, before
supper is brought ben, to take a warm bath, and then rig
yourself out in your Sunday suit of black, which Mr. Ambrose
keeps sweet for you in his own drawer, bestrewed with sprigs
of thyme, whose scent fadeth not for a century.
Shepherd. Faith, I think I shall tak a plouter. *
[SHEPHERD retires into the marble bath adjoining the Snug
gery. The hot water is let on with a mighty noise.
North. Do you want the flesh-brushes, James ?
Shepherd (from within). I wish I had some female slaves,,
wi' wooden swurds to scrape me wi', like the Shah o' Persia.
Tickler. Are you in, James ?
* Plouter — a bathe accompanied with splashing.
270 " Apollo in the Het Bath:9
Shepherd. Hearken ! —
[rl sullen plunge is heard, as of a huge stone into the deep-down
waters of a draw-well.
North (looking at his watch). Two minutes have elapsed.
I hope, Tickler, nothing apoplectical has occurred.
Shepherd. Blow — o — wo — ho — wro !
Tickler. Why, Janies —
" You are gurgling Italian half-way down your throat."
North. What temperature, James ?
Shepherd. Nearly up at egg-boiling. But you had better,
sirs, be makin anither jug — for that ane was geyan sair dune
afore I left you — and I maun hae a glass of het-and-het as
sune as I come out, to prevent me takin the cauld. I hope
there's nae current o' air in the room. Wha's this that bled
himsel to death in a bath ? Wasna't Seneca ?
North. James, who is the best female poet of the age ?
Shepherd. Female what ?
Tickler. Poet.
Shepherd. Hand your tongue, ye sinner. What ! you are
for drawin a pictur o' me as Apollo in the het bath surrounded
wi' the Muses ? That would be a fine subject for Etty.
North. Isn't his " Judith and Holofernes," my dear Shep
herd, a noble, a majestic performance ?
Shepherd. Yon's colorin ! Judith's richt leg's as flesh-like
as my ain, noo lyin on the rim o' the bath, and maist as
muscular.
Tickler. Mot so hairy, though, James.
Shepherd. I'm geyan weel sodden noo, and I think I'll
come out. Ring the bell, sir, for my black claes.
North. I have been toasting your shirt, James, at the fire.
— Will you come out for it ?
Shepherd. Fling't in at the door. Thank you, sir. Ho !
here's the claes, I declare, hingiu on the tenters. Is that
The Shepherd in Sables. 271
sooper coming in ? Noo, I'm rubbed down — ae stockin on —
anither — noo, the flannen drawers — and noo, the breeks. —
Oh ! but that turkey has a gran' smell ! Mr. Awmrose, ma
slippers ? Noo for't.
{The SHEPHERD reappears in full sables, blooming)
like a rose.)
North. Come away, my dear Shepherd. Is he not, Tickler,
like a black eagle that has renewed his youth ?
\They take their seats at the Supper-table. — Mulliga
tawny — Roasted Turkey — Fillet of Veal — Soles —
a Pie — and the Cold Round — Potatoes — Oysters,
frc. frc. Sfc. frc. frc.
North. The turkey is not a large one, James, and after a
thirty-six miles' run, I think you had better take it on your
plate.
Shepherd. Na, na, sir. Just set the ashet afore me — tak
you the fillet — gie Tickler the pie — and noo, let us hae some
discourse about the fine airts.
(Supper.)
Shepherd. In another month, sirs, the Forest will be as green
as the summer sea rolling in its foam-crested waves in moon
light. You maun come out — you maun baith come out this
spring.
North. I will. Every breath of air we draw is terrestrial-
ized or etherealized by imagination. Our suburban air, round
about Edinburgh, especially down towards the sea, must be
pure, James ; and yet, my fancy being haunted by these
easterly haurs,* the finest atmosphere often seems to me afloat
with the foulest atoms. My mouth is as a vortex, that en
gulfs all the stray wool and feathers in the vicinity. In the
country, and nowhere more than on the Tweed or the Yar
row, I inhale always the gas of Paradise. I look about me
* ffaur—a. chill, foggy, easterly wind.
272 The Dawn of Day.
for flowers, and I see none — but I feel the breath of thousands.
Country smoke from cottages or kilns, or burning heather, is
not like town smoke. It ascends into clouds, on which angels
and departed spirits may repose.
Shepherd. O' a' kintra soun's, which do you like best, sir ?
North. The crowing of cocks before, at, and after sunrise.
They are like clocks all set by the sun. Some hoarsely
scrauching, James, — some with a long, clear, silver chime — •
and now and then a bit bantam crowing twice for the statelier
chanticleer's once — and, by fancy's eye, seen strutting and
sliding up, in his impudence, to hens of the largest size, not
una verse to the flirtation of the feathery -legged coxcomb.
Shepherd. Few folk hae seen oftener than me Natur gettin
up i' the mornin. It's no possible to help personifyin her
first into a goddess, and then into a human —
Tickler. There again, James.
Shepherd. She sleeps a' nicht in her claes, yet they're never
runkled ; her awakening face she turns up dewy to the sun,
and Zephyr wipes it wi' his wing without disturbin its
dreamy expression never see ye her hair in papers, for crisp
and curly, far-streamin, and wide-waven are her locks, as
alternate shadows and sunbeams dancin on the daucin music
o' some joyous river rollin awa to the far-aff sea ; her ee is
heaven — her brow the marble clouds ; and after a lang doun-
gazing, serene, and spiritual look o' hersel, breathin her
orison-prayers, in the reflectin magic o' some loch like an
inland ocean, stately steps she frae the east, and a' that meet
her — mair especially the Poet, wha draps doun amid the
heather in devotion on his knees — kens that she is indeed the
Queen of the whole Universe.
Tickler. Incedit Regina.
North. Then, what a breakfast at Mount Benger, after a
stroll to and fro' the Loch ! One devours the most material
« Caller Eggs and Caller ffaddies." 273
breakfast spiritually ; and none of the ethereal particles are
lost in such a meal.
Shepherd. Ethereal particles ! What are they like ?
North. Of the soul, James. Wordsworth says, in his own
beautiful way, of a sparrow's nest : —
" Lck)k, five blue eggs are gleaming there I
Few visions have I seen more fair,
Nor many prospects of delight
More touching than that simple sight ! "
But five or six, or perhaps a dozen, white hen-eggs gleaming
there — all on a most lovely, a most beautiful, a most glorious
round white plate of crockery — is a sight even more simple
and more touching still.
Tickler. What a difference between caller eggs and caller
baddies !
North. About the same as between a rural lassie stepping
along the greensward, like a walking rose or lily endued
with life by the touch of a fairy's wand, and a lodging-house
Girrzzie laying down a baikie* fu' o' ashes at the mouth of a
common stair.
Shepherd. North, you're a curious cretur.
Tickler. You must excuse him — for he is gettin into his
pleasant though somewhat prosy dotage.
Shepherd. A' men begin to get into a kind o' dotage after
five-and-twunty. They think theirsels wiser, but they're
only stupider. The glory o' the heaven and earth has a*
flown by ; there's something gane wrang wi' the machinery o'
the peristrephic panorama, and it 'ill no gang roun', — nor
is there ony great matter, for the colors hae faded on
the canvas, and the spirit that pervaded the picture is
dead.
Tickler Poo, poo, James. You're haverin.
* Baikie — a kind of scuttle for ashes.
274 The Vision and Faculty Divine.
North. Do you think, my dear James, that there is lesi
religion now than of old in Scotland ?
Shepherd. I really canna say, sir. At times I think there
is even less sunshine. . . . Ony new poets spurtin up, sir,
amang us, like fresh daisies amang them that's withered ?
Noo that the auld cocks are cowed, are the chickens beginning
to flap their wings and craw ?
Tickler. Most of them mere poultry, James.
North. Not worth plucking.
Shepherd. It's uncomprehensible, sir, to me altogether,
what that something is that ae man only, amang many million,
has that makes him poetical, while a' the lave remain to the
day o' their death prosaic ? I defy you to put your finger on
ae pint o' his mental character or constitution in which the
secret lies — indeed, there's aften a sort o' stupidity about the
cretur that maks you sorry for him, and he's very generally
laucht at ; — yet there's a superiority in the strain o' his
thochts and feelings that places him on a level by himsel
aboon a' their heads ; he has intuitions o' the truth, which,
depend on't, sir, does not lie at the bottom of a well, but
rather in the lift o' the understanding and the imagination —
the twa hemispheres ; and knowledge, that seems to flee
awa frae ither men the faster and the farther the mair eagerly
it is pursued, aften comes o' its ain sweet accord, and lies
doun at the poet's feet.
North. Just so. The power of the soul is as the expression
of the countenance — the one is strong in faculties, and the
other beautiful in features, you cannot tell how — but so it is,
and so it is felt to be ; and let those not thus endowed by
nature either try to make souls or make faces, and they
only become ridiculous, and laughing-stocks to the world.
This is especially the case with poets, who must be made of
finer clay.
The Sorrows of the Poor. 275
Tickler. Generally cracked —
Shepherd. But transpawrent —
Tickler. Yea, an urn of light.
North. There is something most affecting in the natural
sorrows of poor men, my dear Shepherd, as, after a few days'
wrestling with affliction, they appear again at their usual
work — melancholy, but not miserable.
Shepherd. You ken a gude deal, sir, about the life and
character o' the puir ; but then it's frae philosophical and
poetical observation and sympathy — no frae art-and-part
participation, like mine, in their merriment and their
meesery. Folk in what they ca' the upper classes o' society
a' look upon life, mair or less, as a scene o' enjoyment,
and amusement, and delicht. They get a' selfish in their
sensibilities, and would fain mak the verra laws o' natur
obedient to their wull. Thus they cherish and encourage
habits o' thocht and feeling that are inaist averse to
obedience and resignation to the decrees o' the Almighty
— when these decrees dash in pieces small the idols o' their
earthly worship.
North. Too true, alas ! my dearest Shepherd.
Shepherd. Pity me ! how they moan, and groan, and greet
and wring their hauns, and tear their hair, even auld folk
their thin grey hair, when death comes into the bed-room, or
the verra drawing-room, and carries aff in his clutches some
wee bit spoiled bairn, yaummerin * amang its playthings, or
keepin its mither awake a'nicht by its perpetual cries !
North. Touch tenderly, James — on —
Shepherd. Ane wad think that nae parents had ever lost a
child afore — yet hoo mony a sma' funeral do you see ilka day
pacin alang the streets unheeded on, amang the carts and
hackney-coaches ?
* Yaummerin — fretting.
276 Undemonstrative Sorrow.
North. Unheeded, as a party of upholsterer's men carrying
furniture to a new house.
Shepherd. There is little or naething o' this thochtless.
this senseless clamor in kintra-houses, when the cloud o*
God's judgment passes ower them, and orders are gien for
a grave to be dug in the kirkyard. A' the house is hushed
and quate — just the same as if the patient were still sick,
and no gane * awa — the father, and perhaps the mother, the
brothers, and the sisters, are a' gaun about their ordinary
business, wi' grave faces nae doubt, and some o' them now
and then dichtin the draps frae their eeii ; but, after the
first black day, little audible greetin, and nae indecent and
impious outcries.
North. The angler calling in at the cottage would never
know that a corpse was the cause of the calm.
Shepherd. Rich folk, if they saw sic douce,f composed
ongoings, wad doubtless wonder to think hoo callous, hoo
insensible were the puir ! — that natur had kindly denied to
them those fine feelings that belong to cultivated life ! But
if they heard the prayer o' the auld man at riicht, when the
survivin family were on their knees around the wa', and his
puir wife neist him in the holy circle, they wad ken better,
and confess that there is something as sublime as it is sin
cere and simple in the resignation and piety of those humble
Christians, whose doom it is to live by the sweat o' their
brow, and who are taught, almost frae the cradle to the
grave, to feel every hour they breathe, that all they enjoy,
and all they suffer, is dropt doun frae the hand o' God
almost as visibly as the dew or the hail, — and hence their
faith in things unseen and eternal is firm as their belief in
things seen and temporal — and that they a' feel, sir, when
lettin doun the coffin into the grave !
* Qane— Gone. t Douce— sedate
TJie Monotony of Scottish Music. 277
North. Scottish Music, my dear James, is to me rather
monotonous.
Shepherd. So is Scottish Poetry, sir. It has nae great
range ; but human natur never wearies o' its ain prime
elementary feelings. A man may sit a haill nicht by his
ingle, wi' his wife and bairns, without either thin kin or feelin
muckle ; and yet he's perfectly happy till bed-time, and says
his prayers wi' fervent gratitude to the Giver o' a' mercies.
It's only whan he's beginnin to tire o' the hummin o' the
wheel, or o' his wife flytin at the weans, or o' the weans
upsettin the stools, or ruggin ane anither's hair, that his
fancy takes a very poetical flight into the regions o' the
Imagination. Sae lang's the heart sleeps amang its affec
tions, it dwalls upon few images ; but these images may be
infinitely varied ; and when expressed in words, the variety
will be felt. Sae that, after a', it's scarcely correct to ca'
Scottish Poetry monotonous, or Scottish Music either, ony
mair than you would ca' a kintra level, in bonny gentle ups
and downs, or a sky dull, though the clouds were neither
mony nor multiform ; a' depends upon the spirit. Twa-three
notes may mak a maist beautifu' tune, twa-three woody
knowes a bonny landscape ; and there are some bit streams
amang the hills, without ony striking or very peculiar
scenery, that it's no possible to dauner along at gloamin
without feelin them to be visionary, as if they flowed
through a land o' glamour.
North. James, I wish you would review for Maga all those
fashionable Novels — Novels of High Life ; such as Pelham —
the Disowned —
Shepherd. I've read thae twa, and they're baith gude. But
the mair I think on't, the profounder is my conviction that
the strength o' human nature lies either in the highest or
lowest estate of life.
278 North's very Nose
Tickler. Is this Taj or Tweed salmon, James?
Shepherd. Taj, to be sure — it has the Perthshire accent,
verj pallateable. But, to speak plain, thej maj baith gang
to the deevil f or me, without excitin onj mair emotion in mj
mind than jou are doin the noo, Tickler, bj puttin a bit o'
cheese on jour forefinger, and then, bj a sharp smack on the
palm, makin the mites spang into jour mouth.
Tickler. I was doing no such thing, Hogg.
Shepherd. North, wasna he ? — Puir auld useless bodj ! he's
asleep. Age will tell. He canna staun* a heavj sooper noo
as he used to do — the toddj tells noo a hantle faster f upon
him, and the verra fire itself drowzifies him noo intil a
dwawm — na, even the sound o' ane's vice, lang continued,
lulls him noo half or haill asleep, especiallj if jour talk
like mine demands thocht — and there indeed, jou see, Mr.
Tickler, how his chin fa's doun on his breast, till he seems —
but for a slight snore — the image o' death. Heaven preserve
us — onlj listen to that ! Did je ever hear the like o' that ?
What is't ? Is't a musical snuff-box ? or what is't ? Has he
gotten a wee fairj musical snuff-box, I ask jou, Mr. Tickler,
within the nose o' him ? or what or wha is't that's plajin
that tune ?
Tickler. It is indeed equallj beautiful and mjsterious.
Shepherd. I never heard " Auld Langs jne " plajed mair
exactlj in a' my life.
Tickler « List — 0 list ! if ever thou didst thj dear father
loveJ"
Shepherd (going up on tip-toes to Mr. North, and putting his
ear close to the gentleman's n se). Bj all that's miraculous,
he is snoring " Auld Lang syne ! " The Eolian harp's naething
to that — it canna plaj a regular tune — but there's no a sweeter,
safter, mair pathetic wund instrument in being than his nose.
• Staun— fltand. t A hantle faster- a. good deal faster.
Has Music in it. 279
Tickler. I have often heard him, James, snore a few notes
very sweetly, but never before a complete tune. With what
powers the soul is endowed in dreams !
Shepherd. You may weel say that. — Harkee ! he's snorin't
wi' variations ! I'm no a Christian if he hasna gotten into
" Maggie Lauder." He's snorin a medley in his sleep !
[TICKLER and the SHEPHERD listen entranced.
Tickler. What a spirit-stirring snore is his u Erin-go-
bragh ! "
Shepherd. A' this is proof o' the immortality o' the sowl.
Whisht — whisht ! [NORTH snores " God save the King."
Ay — a loyal pawtriot even in the kingdom o' dreams ! I wad
rather hear that than Catalan in the King's Anthem. We
maun never mention this, Mr. Tickler. The warld 'ill no
belie ve't. The warld's no ripe yet for the belief o' sic a
mystery.
Tickler. His nose, James, I think, is getting a little hoarse.
Shepherd. Less o' the tenor and mair o' the bass. He was
a wee onto' tune there — and Isuspeck his nose wants blawin.
Hear till him noo — " Croppies, lie doun," I declare ; and see
how he is clutchin the crutch.
[NORTH awakes, and for a moment like goshawk stares wild.
North. Yes — I agree with you — there must be a dissolution.
Shepherd. A dissolution !
North. Yes — of Parliament. Let us have the sense of the
people. I am an old Whig— a Whig of the 1688.
Tickler and Shepherd. Hurraw, hurraw, hurraw ! Old North,
old Eldon, and old Colchester for ever ! Hurraw, hurraw,
hurraw !
North. No. Old Eldon alone ! Give me the Dolphin. No.
The Ivy-Tower. No need of a glass. Let us, one after the
other, put the Ivy-Tower to our mouth, and drink him in
pure Glenlivet.
280 "WdMdon!"
Shepherd. OH the table !
[The SHEPHERD and TICKLER offer to help NORTH to mounl
the table.
North. Hands off, gentlemen ! I scorn assistance. Look
here !
[NORTH, by a dexterous movement, swings himself off his
crutch erect on the table, and gives a helping hand first
to the SHEPHERD and then to TICKLER.
Shepherd. That feat beats the snorin a' to sticks ! Faith,
Tickler, we maun sing sma'. In a' things he's our maister.
Alloo me, sir, to gang doun for your chair ?
North (Jlinging his crutch to thereof). — OLD ELDON !
[Tremendous cheering amidst the breakage by the descending
crutch.
Bronte. Bow, wow, wow — wow, wow — wow, wow, wow.
(Enter PICARDY and Tail in general consternation.)
Shepherd. Luk at him noo, Picardy — luk at him noo !
Tickler. Firm on his pins as a pillar of the Parthenon !
Shepherd. Saw ye ever a pair o' strauchter, mair sinewy
legs, noo that he leans the haill wecht o' his body on them ?
Ay, wi* that outstretched arm he stauns like a statute o
Demosthenes, about to utter the first word o' ane o' his
Philippics.
[BRONTE leaps on the table, and stands by NORTH'S knee
with a determined aspect.
North. Take the time from Bronte — OLD COLCHESTER !
Bronte. Bow, wow — wow, wow — wow, wow, wow.
[Loud acclamations.
Shepherd. Come, let's dance a threesome reel.
North. Picardy — your fiddle.
[MR. AMBROSE takes " Neil Gow" from the peg, and plays.
Shepherd. Hadna we better clear decks —
North. No — James. In my youth I could dance the
A Threesome Reel 281
ancient German sword-dance, as described by Tacitus. Sir
David, remove the Dolphin. I care not a jot for the rest of
the crystal.
[NORTH, TICKLER, and the SHEPHERD tJirid a threesome
reel — BRONTE careering round the table in a Solo —
PICARDY'S bow-hand in high condition.
Shepherd. Set to me, sir, set to me — never mind Tickler.
Oh ! but you're matchless at the Heelan fling, sir ! — Luk at
him, Mr. Awmrose !
Ambrose. Yes, Mr. Hogg.
Shepherd. I'll match him against a' the Heelans— either in
breeks or out o' them — luk, luk — see him cuttin !
[Mr. NORTH motions to PICARDY, who stops playing, and
with one bound leaps from the centre of the circular over
the Ivy-Tower to thejloor. SHEPHERD and TICKLER, in
attempting to imitate the great original, fall on the floor,
but recover their feet with considerable alacrity.
North (resuming his chair). The Catholic Question is not
carried yet, gentlemen. Should it be, let it be ours to defend
the Constitution.
Shepherd. Speak a wa, sir, till I recover my breath. I'm
sair blawn- Hear Tickler's bellows.
Tickler (stretching his weary length on a sofa). Whew—
whew — whew. \Exit PICARDY with his Tail.
XIX.
72V WHICH, AFTER SETTLING OTHELLO, NORTH
FLOORS THE SHEPHERD.
SCENE 1.— The Snuggery. Time, — Eight o'clock. The Union
Table, with Tea and Coffee Pots, and the O'Doherty China-set
— Cold Round — Pies — Oysters — Rizzards — Pickled Salmon,
frc., $"c., $-c. A How-towdie whirling before the fire over a
large basin of mashed Potatoes. The Boiler on. A Bachelor's
Kitchen on the small Oval. A Dumb Waiter at each end of the
Union.
NOKTH and SHEPHERD.
Shepherd. This I ca' comfort, sir. Everything within
oursel — nae need to ring a bell the leeve-lang night — nae
openin o' cheepin, nae shuttin o' clashin doors — uae trampin
o' waiters across the carpet wi' creakiri shoon — or stumblin,
clumsy coofs, to the great spillin o' gravy — but a' things,
eatable and uneatable, either hushed into a cozy calm,
or —
North. Now light, James, the lamp of the Bachelor's
Kitchen with Tickler's card, and in a quarter of an hour,
minus five minutes, you shall scent and see such steaks !
Shepherd. Only look at the towdie,* sir, how she swings sao
granly roun' by my garters, after the fashion o' a planet. It's
* Towdie or lioiv-tnwdiK—\ Kara-door fowl.
28'
The Doric Tongue. 283
a beautiful example o' centrifugal attraction. See till the fat
dreep-dreepin in til the ashet o' mashed potawtoes, oilifying
the crusted brown intil a mair delicious richness o' mixed
vegetable and animal maitter ! As she swings slowly twirlin
roun', I really canna say, sir, for I dinna ken, whether baney
back or fleshy breist be the maist temptin ! Sappy baith !
Nor'h. Right, James — baste her — baste her — don't spare
the flour. Nothing tells like the dredge-box.
Shepherd. You're a capital man-cook, sir. Let's pree't.
[SHEPHERD tastes.
North. Ay — I could have told you so. Rash man, to
swallow liquid and solid fire ! But no more spluttering.
Cool your tongue with a caulker.
Shepherd. That lamp's no canny. It intensifies hetness
intil an atrocity aboon natur. Is the skin flyped aff my
tongue, sir? [SHEPHERD shows tongue.
North. Let me put on my spectacles. A slight incipient
inflammation, not worth mentioning.
Shepherd. I howp an incipient inflammation's no a dangerous
sort?
North. Is that indeed the tongue, my dear James, that
trills so sweetly and so simply those wild Doric strains ?
How deeply, darkly, beautifully red ! Just like a rag of
scarlet. No scurf — say rather no haze around the lambent
light. A rod of fire — an arrow of flame. A tongue of ten
thousand, prophesying an eagle or raven life.
Shepherd. I aye like, sir, to keep a gude tongue in my head,
ever since I wrote the Chaldee Mannyscripp.
North. Humph ! — No more infallible mark of a man of
genius, James, than the shape of his tongue. It is uniformly
long, so that he can shoot it out, with an easy grace, to the
tip of his nose.
Shepherd. This way ?
284 "Are we Twa Gluttons f "
North. Precisely so. Fine all round the edge, from root to
tip — underneath very veinous — surface in color near as may
be to that of a crimson curtain shining in setting sunlight.
But the tip — James — the tip —
Shepherd. Like that o' the serpent's that deceived Eve, sir
— curlin up and doun like the musical leaf o' some magical
tree —
North. It is a singular fact with regard to the tongue, that
if you cut off the half of it, the proprietor of the contingent
remainder can only mumble — but cut it off wholly, and he
speaks fully better than before —
Shepherd. That's a hanged lee.
North. As true a word as ever I spoke, James.
Shepherd. Perhaps it may, sir, but it's a hanged lee, never
theless.
North. Dish the steaks, my dear James, and I shall cut
down the how-towdie.
[NORTH and the SHEPHERD furnish up the Ambrosial
tables, and sit down to serious devouring.
North. Now, James, acknowledge it — don't you admire a
miscellaneous meal ?
Shepherd. I do. Breakfast, noony,* denner, four-hours, t
and sooper, a' in ane. A material emblem o' that spiritual
substance, Blackwoods Magazine! Can it possibly be, sir,
that we are twa gluttons ?
North. Gluttons we most assuredly are not ; but each of
us is a man of good appetite. What is gluttony ?
Shepherd. Some mair stakes, sir ?
North. Very few, my dear James, very few.
Shepherd. What's gluttony ?
North. Some eggs ?
Shepherd. Ae spoonfu'. What a layer she wad hae been !
• Noony— luncheon. t Four-hours— tea.
North's Palate. 285
Oh but she's a prolific cretur, Mr. North, your how-towdie !
It's necessary to kill heaps o' yearocks,* or the haill kintra
wad be a-cackle frae John o' Groat's House to St. Michael's
Mount.
North. Sometimes I eat merely as an amusement or pastime
— sometimes for recreation of my animal spirits — sometimes
on the philosophical principle of sustenance — sometimes for
the mere sensual, but scarcely sinful, pleasure of eating, or,
in common language, gormandizing — and occasionally, once
a month or so, for all these several purposes united, as at this
present blessed moment ; so a few flakes, my dear Shepherd,
of that Westmoreland ham — lay the knife on it, and its own
weight will sink it down through the soft, sweet sappiness
of fat and lean, undistinguishably blended as the colors
of the rainbow, and out of all sight incomparably more
beautiful.
Shepherd. As for me, I care nae mair about what I eat
than I do what kind o' bed I sleep upon, sir. I hate onything
stinkin or mooldy at board — or onything damp or musty in
bed. But let the vivres be but fresh and wholesome — and if
it's but scones and milk, I shut my een, say a grace, fa' to,
and am thankful' ; — let the bed be dry, and whether saft or
hard, feathers, hair, cauff, straw, or heather, I'm fast in ten
minutes, and my sowl waverin awa like a butterflee intil the
land o' dreams.
North. Not a more abstemious man than old Kit North in
his Majesty's dominions, on which the sun never sets. I
have the most accommodating of palates.
Shepherd. Yes — it's an universal genius. I ken naething
like it, sir, but your gtammack. — " Sure such a pair were
never seen ! " Had ye never the colic ?
North. Never, James, never. I confess that I have been
* Ycarocks — chickens.
286 Definition of Crluttony.
guilty of many crimes, but never of a capital crime, — never
of colic.
Shepherd. There's muckle confusion o' ideas in the brains
o' the blockheads who accuse us o' gluttony, Mr. North.
Gluttony may be defined " an immoral and unintellectual
abandonment o' the sowl o' man to his gustative natur." I
defy a brute animal to be a glutton. A swine's no a glutton.
Nae cretur but man can be a glutton. A' the rest are pre
vented by the definition.
North. Sensuality is the most shocking of all sins, and its
name is Legion.
Shepherd. Ay, there may be as muckle gluttony on sowens
as on turtle-soup. A ploughman may be as greedy and as
gutsy as an alderman. The sin lies not in the sense, but
in the sowl. Sir — a red herring?
North. Thank ye, James.
Shepherd. Are you drinkin coffee ? — Let me toast you a
shave o' bread, and butter it for you on baith sides, sir ?
[The SHEPHERD kneels on the Tiger, and stretches out the
Trident to Vulcan.
North. There has been much planting of trees lately in the
Forest, James ?
Shepherd. To my taste, to tell the truth, rather ower muckle
— especially o' nurses.*
North. Nurses ! — wet or dry nurses, James ?
Shepherd. Baith. Larches and Scotch firs ; or you can ca*
them schoolmasters, that teach the young idea how to shoot.
But thinnins in the Forest never can pay, I suspeck ; and
except on bleeky knowes, the hardwood wad grow better, in
my opinion, left to themsels, without either nurses or school
masters. The nurses are apt to overlay their weans, and the
* Trees of the hardier breed, put in at intervals to shelter the more
tender plants as they grow.
Ettrick Forest of Old. 287
schoolmasters to forget, or, what's waur, to flog their pupils ;
and thus the rising is a stunted generation.
North. Forty-five years ago, my dear James, when you
were too young to remember much, I loved the Forest for its
solitary single trees, ancient yew or sycamore, black iu the
distance, but when near how gloriously green ! Tall, deli
cately-feathered ash, whose limbs were still visible in latest
summer's leafiness — birch, in early spring, weeping and whis
pering in its pensive happiness by the, perpetual din of its own
waterfall — oak, yellow in the suns of June —
Shepherd. —
" The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy ! "
North. What lovely lines ! Who writes like Wordsworth ?
Shepherd. Tuts ! Me ower young to remember muckle
fourty-five years ago ! You're speakin havers. I was then
twal — and I remember everything I ever heard or saw sin' I
was three year auld. I recolleck the mornin I was pitten
intil breeks as distinckly as if it were this verra day.
North. All linnets have died, James — that race of loveliest
lilters is extinct.
Shepherd. No thae. Broom and bracken are tenanted by
the glad, meek creturs still, — but the chords o' music in our
hearts are sair unstrung — the harp o' our heart has lost its
melody. But come out to the Forest, my dear, my honored
sir, and fear not then, when we twa are walking thegither
without speakin among the hills, you
" Will feel the airs that from them blow,
A momentary bliss bestow; "
and the wild, uncertain, waverin music o' the Eolian harp,
that uatur plays upon in the solitude, will again echo far, far
awa amang the recesses o' your heart, and the lintie will sing
as sweetly as ever frae amang the blossoms o' the milk-white
288 " You wush that I was dead ! "
thorn. Or if you canna be brocht to feel sae, you'll hae but
to look in my wee Jamie's face, and his glistening een will
convince you that Scotia's nightingale still singe th as sweetly
as of yore ! — But let us sit in to the fire, sir.
North. Thank you, Shepherd — thank you, James.
Shepherd (wheeling his father's chair to the ingle corner, and
singing the while} —
"THERE'S CHRISTOPHER NORTH THAT WONS IN YON GLEN,
HE'S THE KING O' GUDE FALLOWS, AND WALE * O' AULD MEN! "
North. James, I will trouble you for the red herrings.
Shepherd. There. Mr. North, I coud write twunty vol-
lumms about the weather. Wad they sell ?
North. I fear they might be deficient in incident.
Shepherd. Naething I write's ever deficient in incident.
Between us three, what think ye o' my Shepherd's Calendar ?
North. Admirable, my dear James — admirable. To tell
you the truth, I never read it in the Magazine ; but I was
told the papers were universally liked there — and now, as
Vols., they are beyond — above — all praise.
Shepherd. But wull you say that in black and white in the
Magazine ? What's the use o' rousin a body to their face,
and abusin them ahint their backs ? Setting them upon a
pedestal in private, and in public layin them a' their length
on the floor ? You're jealous o' me, sir, that's the real truth,
— and you wush that I was dead.
North. Pardon me, James, I merely wish that you never
had been born.
Shepherd. That's far mair wicked. Oh ! but jealousy and
envy's twa delusive passions, and they pu' you doun frae your
aerial altitude, sir, like twa ravens ruggin an eagle frae the
<&y.
North. From literary jealousy, James, even of you, my
Shakespeare's Othello. 289
soul is free as the stone-shaded well in your garden from the
ditch-water that flows around it on a rainy day. I but flirt
with the Muses, and when they are faithless, I whistle the
haggards down the wind, and puff all care away with a cigar.
But I have felt the jealousy, James, and of all passions it
alone springs from seed wafted into the human heart from
the Upas Tree of Hell.
Shepherd. Wheesht! Wheesht!
North. Shakespeare has but feebly painted that passion in
Othello. A complete failure. I never was married, that I
recollect — neither am I a black man — therefore I do not pre
tend to be a judge of Othello's conduct and character. But,
in the first place, Shakespeare ought to have been above
taking an anomalous case of jealousy. How could a black
husband escape being jealous of a white wife ? There was a
cause of jealousy given in his very face.
Shepherd. Eh? What? What? Eh? Faith there's some
thing in that observation.
North. Besides, had Desdemona lived, she would have pro
duced a mulatto. Could she have seen their " visages in their
minds ? " Othello and she going to church with a brood of
tawnies
Shepherd. I dinna like to hear you speakin that way.
Dinna profane poetry.
North. Let not poetry profane nature. I am serious, James.
That which in real life would be fulsome, cannot breathe
sweetly in fiction ; for fiction is still a reflection of truth, and
truth is sacred.
Shepherd. I agree wi' you sae far, that the Passiou o' Jeal
ousy in Luve can only be painted wi' perfect natur in a man
that stands towards a woman in a perfectly natural relation.
Otherwise the picture may be well painted, but it is still but
a picture of a particular and singular exhibition o' the passion
290 Othello is an Anomaly,
— in short, as you say, o* an anomaly. I like a word I dinna
weel understan'.
North, Mr. "Wordsworth calls Desdemona " the gentle lady
married to the Moor," and the line has been often quoted
and admired. It simply asserts two facts, — that she was a
gentle lady, and that she was married to the Moor. What
then?
Shepherd. I forgie her— I pity her — but I can wi' difficulty
respeck her — I confess. It was a curious kind o' hankeric
after an opposite color.
North. Change the character and condition of the parties
—can you imagine a white hero falling in love with a black
heroine in a country where there were plenty of white women ?
Marrying and murdering her in an agony of rage and love ?
Shepherd. I can only answer for mysel — I never could bring
mysel to marry a Blackamoor.
North. Yet they are often sweet, gentle, affectionate, meek,
mild, humble, and devoted creatures — Desdemonas.
Shepherd. But men and women, sir, I verily believe, are
different in mony things respecting the passion o' luve. I've
kent bonny, young, bloomin lassies fa' in luve wi' auld,
wizened, disgustin fallows, — I hae indeed, sir. It was their
fancy. But I never heard tell o' a young, handsome, healthy
chiel gettin impassioned on an auld, wrunkled, skranky hag,
without a tocher. Now, sir, Othello was —
North. Well — well — let it pass —
Shepherd. Ay — that's the way o' you — the instant you
begin to see the argument gaun against you, you turn the
conversation, either by main force, or by a quirk or a sophism,
and sae escape frae the net that was about to be flung ower
you, and like a bird, awa up into the air — or invisible ower
the edge of the horizon.
North. Well, then, James, what say you to lago ?
And Tago is unintelligible. 291
Shepherd. What about him ?
North. Is his character in nature ?
Shepherd. I dinna ken. But what for no ?
North. What was his motive ? Pure love of mischief ?
Shepherd. Aiblins.*
North. Pride in power and in skill to work mischief?
Shepherd. Aiblins.
North. Did he hate the Moor even to the death ?
Shepherd. Aiblins.
North. Did he resolve to work his ruin, let the consequences
to himself be what they might ?
Shepherd. It would seem sae.
North. Did he know that his own ruin — his own death-
must follow the success of this scheme ?
Shepherd. Hoo can I telf that ?
North. Was he blinded utterly to such result by his wicked
ness directed against Othello ?
Shepherd. Perhaps he was. Hoo can I tell ?
North. Or did he foresee his own doom — and still go on
unappalled ?
Shepherd. It micht be sae, for onything I ken to the con
trary. He was ower cool and calculatin to be blinded.
North. Is he, then, an intelligible or an unintelligible
character?
Shepherd. An unintelligible.
North. Therefore not a natural character. I say, James,
that his conduct from first to last cannot be accounted for by
any view that can be taken of his chara«ter. The whole is a
riddle — of which Shakespeare has not given the solution.
Now, all human nature is full of riddles ; but it is the busi
ness of dramatic poets to solve them — and this one Shake
speare has left unsolved. But having himself proposed it,
292 The Newspapers arrive.
he was bound either to have solved it, or to have set such a
riddle as the wit of man could have solved in two centuries.
Therefore
Shepherd. " Othello " is a bad play ?
North. Not bad, but not good — that is, not greatly good —
not in the first order of harmonious and mysterious creations
— not a work worthy of Shakespeare.
Shepherd. Confound me if I can tell whether you're speakin
sense or nonsense — truth or havers ; or whether you be
serious, or only playin aff upon me some o' your Mephisto.
philes tricks. I af ten think you're an evil speerit in disguise,
and that your greatest delight is in confounding truth and
falsehood . . . Wheesht ! I hear a rustlin in the letter-box.
North. John will have brought up my newspapers from the
Lodge, expecting that I am not to' be at home to dinner.
Shepherd. Denner ! it's near the dawin !
[ The SHEPHERD opens the letter-box in the door, and lays
down nearly a dozen newspapers on the table.
North. Ay, there they are, the Herald, the Morning Post,
the Morning Journal, the Courier, the Globe, the Standard, and
" the Rest." Let me take a look into the Standard, as able,
argument trve, and eloquent a paper as ever supported civil
and religious liberty — that is, Protestantism in Church and
State. — No disparagement to its staunch brother, the Morning
Journal, or its excellent cousin, the Morning Post. Two
strong, steady, well-bred wheelers — and a Leader that shows
blood at all points — and covers his ground like the Pheno
menon. — No superior set-out to an — Unicorn.
[NORTH unfolds the Standard.
Shepherd. I never read prent after twal. And as for news
papers, I carena if they should be a month auld. It's pitifu'
to see some folk — nae fules neither — unhappy if their paper
misses comin ony nicht by the post. For my ain pairt, I like
North becomes oblivious. 293
best to receive a great heap o' them a' at ance in a parshel by
the carrier. Ony news, North ?
North. Eh?
Shepherd. Ony news ? Are you deaf ? or only absent ?
North. Eh?
Shepherd. There's mainners — the mainners o' a gentleman
— o' the auld schule too. — Ony news ?
North. Hem — hem * —
Shepherd. His mind's weaken'd. Millions o' reasonable
creatures at this hour perhaps — na — no at this hour — but a'
this evenin — readin newspapers ! And that's the philosophy
o' human life ! London sendin out, as frae a great reservoir,
rivers o' reports, spates o' speculations, to inundate, to droon,
to deluge the haill island ! I hear the torrents roarin, but the
soun' fa's on my ear without stunnin my heart. There comes
a drought, and they are a' dry. Catholic Emancipation !
Stern shades of the old Covenanters, methinks I hear your
voices on the moors and the' mountains ! But weep not, wail
not — though a black cloud seems to be hanging over all the
land ! Still will the daisy, " wee modest crimson-tipped
flower," bloom sweetly on the greensward that of yore was
reddened wi' your patriot, your martyr blood. Still will the
foxglove, as the silent ground-bee bends doun the lovely
hanging bells, shake the pure tears of heaven over your hal
lowed graves ! Though annual fires run along the bonny
bloomin heather, yet the shepherds ne'er miss the balm and
brightness still left at mornin to meet them on the solitary
hills. The sound of Psalms rises not now, as they sublimely
did in those troubled times, from a tabernacle not built with
hands, whose side-walls were the rocks and cliffs, its floor
ihe spacious sward, arid its roof the eternal heavens. Bur
» It wa8 Professor Wilson's habit, when great events were astir, to be
much absorbed in the newspaper he happened to be reading.
294 Unable to obtain a Hearing.
from beneath many a lowly roof of house, and hut, and
hovel, and shielin, and sylvan cosy bield, ascend the humble
holy orisons of poor and happy men, who, when comes the
hour of sickness or of death, desire no other pillow for their
swimming brain than that Bible, which to them is the Book
of everlasting life, even as the Sun is the Orb of the transi
tory day. And to maintain that faith is now, alas ! bigotry
and superstition ! — But where am I ? In the silence I thocht
it was the Sabbath — and that I was in the Forest. High
thochts and pure feelings can never come amiss — either in
place or in time. Folk that hae been prayin in a kirk may
lauch, withouten blame, when they hae left the kirkyard
Silly thochts maun never be allowed to steal in amang sacred
anes — but there never can be any harm in sacred thochts
stealing in amang silly anes. A bit bird singin by itsel in
the wilderness has sometimes made me amaist greet,* in a
mysterious melancholy that seemed wafted towards me on
the solitary strain, frae regions -ayont the grave. But it
flitted awa into silence, and in twa or three minutes I was
singin ane o' my ain cheerful — nay, funny sangs. — Mr. North,
I say, will ye never hae dune readin at that Stannard ? It's
a capital paper — I ken that — nane better — na, nane sae
gude, for it's faithful and fearless, and cuts like a twa-
handed twa-edged swurd. Mr. North, I say, I'll begin to get
real angry if you'll no speak. O man -I but that's desperate
bad mainners to keep glowering like a gawpus on a news
paper, at what was meant to be a crick-crack atween twa
auld freens. Fling't doun. I'm sayin, sir, fling't doun. Oh
but you're ugly the noo — and what's waur, there's nae
meaniii in your face. You're a puir, auld, ugly, stupid,
vulgar, disagreeable, and dishonest-looking fallow, and a'm
baith sorry and ashamed that I sud be sittiu in sic company.
* Greet— weep.
Hogg insults North. 295
Fling doun the Stannard — if you dinna, it 'ill be waur for
you, for you've raised my corruption. Flesh and bluid can
bear this treatment nae langer. I'll gie just ae mair warnin.
Fling doun the Stannard. Na, you wunna — won't you?
Weel, tak that.
[The SHEPHERD throws a glass of toddy in Mr. NORTH'S
face.
North. Ha ! What the deuce is that ? My cup has jumped
out of my hand and spurted the Glenlivet-coffee into its
master's countenance. James, lend me your pocket-hand
kerchief. [Relapses into the Standard.
Shepherd. Fling doun the Stannard — or I'll gang mad.
Neist time I'll shy the jug at him — for if it's impossible to
insult, it may perhaps be possible to kill him. Fling doun
the Stannard. You maddenin auld sinner, you wad be cheap
o' death ! Yet I maunna kill him — I mamma kill him — for
1 micht be hanged.
North. Nobly said, Sadler * — nobly said ! I have long
known your great talents, and your great eloquence too,
but I hardly hoped for such a display of both as this. — Hear !
— hear ! — hear ! — There — my trusty fere — you have indeed
clapped the saddle on the right horse.
Shepherd. Tak that.
[Flings another glass of toddy in Mr. NORTH'S face.
North, (starting up), Fire and fury !
Shepherd. Butter and brimstone ! Howdauredyou to treat
me —
North. This outrage must not pass unpunished. Hogg, I
shall give you a sound thrashing.
* Michael Thomas Sadler, M. P., 1829, for Newark-upon-Trent, was born
in 1780, and died in 1836. The amelioration of the condition of the factory
children of England, and of the Irish poor, was due very much to his exer
tions. His principal works were— Ireland, its Evils and their Remedies,—
and The Law of Population, written in opposition to Malthug.
296 North demands Satisfaction,
[Mr. NORTH advances toward the SHEPHERD in an offensive
attitude. The SHEPHERD seizes the poker in one hand,
and a chair in the other.
Shepherd. Haud aff, sir, — baud aff — or I'll brain you.
Dinna pick a quarrel wi' me. I've dune a' I could to prevent
it ; but the provocation I received was past a' endurance.
Haud aff, sir, — haud aff.
North, Coward ! coward ! coward !
Shepherd. Flyte * awa, sir — flyte awa ; — but baud aff, or
I'll fell you.
North (resuming his seat}. I am unwilling to hurt you,
James, on account of those at Mount Benger ; but lay down
the poker — and lay down the chair.
Shepherd. Na — na — na. Unless you first swear on the
Bible that you'll tak nae unfair advantage.
North. Let my word suffice — I won't. Now go to that
press — and you will see a pair of gloves. Bring them to
me — [The SHEPHERD fetches the gloves.
Shepherd. Ca' you thae gloves ?
North, (stripping and putting on the gloves). Now, sir, use
your fists as you best may — and in five minutes I shall take
the conceit out of you —
Shepherd (peeling to thesark). I'll sune gie you a bluidy
nose.
[ The combatants shake hands and put themselves into
attitude.
North. Take care of your eyes.
[SHEPHERD elevates his guard — and NORTH delivers a des
perate right-handed lunge on his kidneys.
Shepherd. That's no fair, ye auld blackguard.
North. Well, then, is that ?
[SHEPHERD receives two left-handed facers, which seem to
And takes it. 297
muddle his knowledge-box. He bores in wildly on tht
old man.
Shepherd. Whew — whew — whew. Fu — fu — fu. What's
that? What's that? \jThe SHEPHERD receives pepper.
North. Hit straight, James. So — so — so — so — so.
Shepherd. That's foul play. There's mair nor ane o' you.
Wha's that joinin in ? Let me alane — and I'll sune finish
him —
[Mr. NORTH, who has gradually retreated into a corner of
the snuggery, gathers himself up for mischief, and as
the SHEPHERD rushes in to close, delivers a stinger
under JAMES'S ear, that floors him like a shot. Mr.
NORTH then comes out, as actively as a bird on the
bough of a tree.
North. I find I have a hit in me yet. A touch on the
jugular always tells tales. Hollo ! hollo ! My dear James !
Deaf as a house.
[Mr. NORTH takes off the gloves — fetches a tumbler of the
jug — and kneeling tenderly down by the SHEPHERD,
bathes his temples. JAMES opens his eyes, and stares
wildly around.
Shepherd. Is that you, Gudefallow ? Hae I had a fa' aff a
horse, or out o' the gig ?
North. My dear maister — out o' the gig. The young horse
took fricht at a tup loupin* over the wa', and set aff like
lichtnin. You sudna hae louped out — you sudna hae
louped out.
Shepherd. Whare's the gig?
North. Never mind, maister.
Shepherd. I say, whare's the gig ?
North. In the Loch —
Shepherd. And the horse?
* Lmtjrin — leaping.
208 The Shepherd revives^
North. In the Loch too.
Shepherd. Droon'd ?
North. Not yet — if you look up, you'll see him soomin
across wi' the gig.
Shepherd (fixing his eyes on vacancy). Ay — sure aneuch —
yonner he goes !
North. Yon proves his breed. He's descended from the
water-horse.
Shepherd. I'm verra faint. I wush I had some whusky—
North. Here, maister — here —
[The SHEPHERD drains the tumbler, and revives
Shepherd. Am I in the open air, or in a hoose ; I howp a
hoose — or there maun be a concussion o' the brain, for I
seem to see chairs and tables.
North. Yes, maister — you have been removed in a blanket
by eight men to Mount Benger.
Shepherd. Is baith my legs brok ?
North. Dinna ask — dinna ask. We've sent an express to
Embro' for Listen.* They say that when he sets broken legs
they're stronger than ever.
Shepherd. He's awonderfu' operawtor — but I can scarcely
believe that. Oh ! am I to be for life a lameter !f It's a
judgment on me for writin the Chaldee !$
North. I canna thole, maister, to see you greetin —
Shepherd. Mercifu' powers ! but your face is changed intil
that o' an auld man ! — Was Mr. North frae Embro' here the
noo?
North. I am indeed that unhappy old man. But 'tis all
* Robert Listen, one of the most eminent surgeons of the day, first in
Edinburgh, and afterwards in London. He died in 1847.
t Lameter — a cripple.
t Messrs. Pringle and Cleghorn — both of whom were excessively lame-
were the editors of the first six numbers of Blackwood's Magazine. In the
famous Chaldee MS. they are satirically described by the Shepherd.
And is comforted. 299
but a dream, my clear James — 'tis all but a dream ! What
means all this wild disjointed talk of yours about gigs and
horses, and a horse and a gig swimming over St. Marys Loch ?
Here we are, my beloved friend, in Edinburgh — in Picardy
— at the Noctes Ambrosianae — at high-jinks, my James, after
a bout with the mufflers and the naked mawleys.
Shepherd. I dreamed that I had knocked you down, sir. —
Was that the case ?
North. It was indeed, James. But I am not angry with
you. You did not mean to hit so hard. You generously
ran in to keep me from falling, and by some strange sudden
twist you happened to fall undermost, and to save me,
sacrificed yourself. — 'Twas a severe stun.
Shepherd. The haill wecht o' mist has rolled itsel up into
cluds on the mountain-taps, and all the scenery aneath lies
fresh and green, wi' every kent house and tree. But I howp
you're no sair hurt yoursel — let me help you up —
[The SHEPHERD assists Mr. XORTH, tcho has been sitting on
the floor, like the Shah, to recover his pins — and the two
walk arm-in-arm to their respective chairs.
North. I am sorely shaken, James. An account of our
Set-to, our Turn-up, James, ought to be sent to that admirable
sporting paper, Cell's Life in London.
Shepherd. Let it, my dear sir, be a lesson to you the langest
day you leeve. never to pick a quarrel, or even to undertak
ony half-and-half sort o' horse-play wi' a younger and a
stronger man than yoursel. Sir, if I hadna been sae weel up
to the business, that fa' might hae been your last. As for
thae nasty gloves, I never wush to see their faces again a' the
days o' my life. What's that chappin ?
North. Probably Picardy. See, the door's locked inside.
[The SHEPHERD unlocks and opens the door.
Shepherd. What mob's this ?
300 A Pair of black Eyes.
North. Show in the Democracy.
(Enter PICARDY, Mon. CADET, the Manciple, the Clerk of
the Pipe, KING PEPIX, SIR DAVID GAM, TAPPYTOORIE,
and the " Rest.")
Ambrose (while OMNES hold up their hands). Dear me !
dear me !
Shepherd. What are you a' glowerin at me for, ye fules ?
North. Tappy, bring me a looking-glass. [Exit TAPPY,
volans.
Shepherd. I say, ye fules, what are ye glowerin at me in
that gate for ? Do you see horns on my head ?
(Re-enter TAPPY, with a copy of the Mirror.)
North. Take a glance, my dear James, at the Magic Mirror.
[The SHEPHERD looks in, and recoils to the sideboard.
Shepherd. What'n a face ! What'n a pair o' black, blue,
green, yellow een !
North. We must apply leeches. Mr. Ambrose, bring in a
few bottles of leeches, and some raw veal-steaks.
Shepherd. Aff wi' you — aff wi' you — the haill tot o' you.
[Exit PICARDY with his Tail.
North. Come to my arms, my incomparable Shepherd, and
let us hob and nob, to " Gude nicht and joy be wi' us a'," in
a caulker of Millbank ; and let us, during the " wullie-waught,"
think of him whose worthy name it bears —
Shepherd. As, gude a chiel's in Christendie ! — Oh, my ever
honored sir, what wad the warld say, if she kent the concludin
proceedins o' this nicht ? That we were twa auld fules !
North. At times, James —
•
" 'Tis folly to be wise."
Shepherd. As auld Crow, the Oxford orator, says at the end
o' his bonny descriptive poem, Lewesdon Hill : —
" To-morrow for severer thought — but now
To breaktaafc."
To Breakfast ! 301
North. To bed — you mean —
Shepherd. No — to breakfast. It's morniiu The East is
brichtenin. — Look over awaukenin Leith — and, lo ! white
sails glidin ower the dim blue sea !
North. Let us each take a cold bath.
FMr. NORTH and SHEPHERD disappear.
XX.
IN WHICH, DURING THE GREA T STORM, THE SNUGGER Y
WIND V W IS BLOWN IN, AND THE SHEPHERD SUFFERS
The Snuggery. — Time, seven o'clock.
NORTH and SHEPHERD.
Shepherd. Oh, sir ! but there's something delightfu' in coal-
fire glimmerin and gloomin, breaking out every noo and then
into a flickering bleeze ; and whenever ane uses the poker,
into a sudden illumination, vivifyin the pictured paper on the
wa's, and settin a' the range o' looking-glasses a-low, like sae
mony beacons kindled on the taps o' hills, burnin awa to ane
anither ower a' the kintra-side, on the birthday nicht o' the
Duke o' Buccleuch, or that o' his marriage wi' that fair Eng
lish Leddy * — God bless them baith, and send them in gude
time a circle o' bauld sons and bonny dochters, to uphaud
the stately and noble house o' the King o' the Border !
North. Amen. James — a caulker.
Shepherd. That speerit's far aboon proof. There's little
difference atween awka veety an' awka fortis.f Ay, ma man,
that gars your een water. Dicht them wi' the doylez, and
then tak a mouthfu' out o' the jug to moderate the intensity
* In 1829 the Duke of Buccleuch married Lady Charlotte Anne Thynne,
daughter of the Marquess of Bath.
* Aqua -;/<ea.nl dt/un /ortix.
302
A Wild Night. 303
o' the pure cretur. Haud, haud ! it's no sma' yill, but strong
toddy, sir. (Aside) — The body 'ill be foil afore aught o'clock.
North. This jug, James, is rather wishy-washy ; confound
me if I don't suspect it is milk and water !
Shepherd. Plowp in some speerit. Let me try't. It 'ill do
noo, sir. That's capital boilin water, and tholes double its
ain wecht o' cauld Glenlivet. Let's dook in * the thermometer.
Up, you see, to twa hunder and twunty, just the proper toddy
pitch. It's Hiirawculous !
North. What sort of a night out of doors, James ?
Shepherd. A fine night, sir, and like the season. The wund's
due east, and I'se warrant the ships at anchor in the Roads
are a' rather coggly, wi' their nebs doun the Firth, like sae
rnony rocking-horses. On turnin the corner o' Picardy, a
blash o' sleet like a verra snawba' amaist knocked my head
aff my shouthers ; and as for my hat, if it meet with nae
interruption, it maun be weel on to West-Craigs by this time,
for it flew atf in a whurlwund. Ye canna see the sleet for
the haur ;f the ghastly lamps are amaist entirely overpoored
by the whustlin darkness ; and as for moon and stars, they're
a' dead and buried, and we never mair may wutness their
resurrection. Auld-woraen frae chimley-taps are clytinj wi*
a crash into every area, and the deevil's tirlin § the kirks out-
ower a' the Synods o' Scotland. Whisht ! Is that thunner ?
North. I fear scarcely — but the roar in the vent is good,
James, and tells of tempest. Would to heaven I were at sea !
Shepherd. That's impious. Yet you micht aiblins be safe
aneuch in a bit cockle-shell o' an open boat — for some folk are
born no to be drooned —
North. There goes another old-woman ! ||
« Dook in— plunge in. t Haur— flying mist,
t Clytin — falling. § Tirlin — unroofing.
P Old-woman — chimney-can
304 " Wliat for wunna ye marry f ' '
Shepherd. Oh, but the Yarrow wull be a' ae red roar the
noo, frae the Loch to the Ettrick. Yet wee Jamie's soun'
asleep in his crib by this time, and dreamin, it may be. o'
paiddlin amang the mennows in the silver sandbanks o' sim
mer, whare the glassy stream is nae higher than his knee ;
or o' chasin amang the broom the young Unties sent by the
sunshine, afore their wings are weel feathered, frae their
mossy cradle in the brier-bush, and able to flee just weel
aneuch to wile awa on and on, after their chirpin flutter, my
dear wee canty callant, chasin first ane and then anither, on
wings just like their ain, the wings o' joy, love, and hope ;
fauldin them, in a disappointment free frae ony taint o'
bitterness, when a' the burdies hae disappeared, and his een,
as he sits doun on the knowe, fix themselves wi' a new
pleasure on the bonny bands o' gowans croodin round his
feet
North. A bumper, my dear Shepherd, to Mount Benger.
Shepherd. Thank ye, sir, thank ye. Oh ! my dear sir, but
ye hae a gude heart, sound at the core as an apple on the
sunny south side o' the tree — and ruddy as an apple, sir, is
your cheek —
North. Yes, James, a life of temperance preserves —
Shepherd. Help yoursel, and put ower the jug. There's
twunty gude years o' wear and tear in you yet, Mr. North —
but what for wunna ye marry ? Dinna be frichtened — it's
naething ava — and it aften grieves my heart to think o' you
lyin your lane in that state bed, which canna be less than
seven feet wide, when the General's widow —
North. I have long wished for an opportunity of confiding
to you a secret which —
Shepherd. A sacret ! Tell nae sacret to me — for I never
a' my life could sleep wi' a sacret in my head, ony mair than
wi' the lug-ache. But if you're merely gauri to tell me that
North's Marriage. 305
ye hae screwed up your courage at last to marry her, say%
do't and be dune wi't, for she's a comely and a cosy cretur yon
Mrs. Gentle, and it 'ill do my een gude to see you marehin up
wi' her, haun in haun, to the Hymeneal Altar.
North. On Christmas day, my dear James, we shall be one
spirit.
Shepherd. And ae flesh. Hurraw ! hurraw ! hurraw ! Gie's
your haun on that, my auld hearty ! What a gran' echo's in
yon corner o' the roof ! hear till't smackiii loofs after us, as if
Cupid himsel were in the cornice !
North. You must write our Epithalamium.
Shepherd. That I wull, wi' a' my birr, and sae wull Delta,
and sae wull the Doctor,* and sae, I'm sure, wull Mr. Wuds-
worth ; and I can answer for Sir Walter —
North. Who has kindly promised to give away the Bride.
Shepherd. I could greet to think that I canna be the Best
Man.f
North. Tickler has —
Shepherd. Capital — capital ! I see him — look, there he is —
wi' his speck-and-span-new sky-blue coat wi' siller buttons,
snaw-white waistcoat wi' gracefu' flaps, licht casimer knee-
breeks wi' lang ties, flesh-colored silk stockings wi' flowered
gushets, pumps brushed up to a perfeck polish a' roun', the
buckles crystal-set, a dash o' pouther in his hair, een bricht
as diamonds, the face o' him like the verra sun, chin shaven
smooth as satin, mouth — saw ye ever sic teeth in a man's
head at his time o' life ? — mantlin wi' jocund benisons, and
the haill Feegur o' the incomparable Fallow, frae tap to tae,
sax feet fowre inches and a hauf gude measure, instinck wi'
condolence and congratulation, as if at times he were almost
believing Buchanan Lodge was Southside — that he was
changin places wi' you, in a sweet sort o' jookery-pawkety
* Doctor Maginn. f The bridegroom's man.
306 Tlie Oriel Window blown in.
— that lie was Christopher North, and Mrs. Gentle on the
verra brink o' becoming Mrs. Tickler !
North. James, you make me jealous.
Shepherd. For heaven's sake, sir, dinna split on that rock.
Remember Othello, and hoo he smothered his wife wi' the
bowster.
North. The night improves, and must be almost at its best
That is a first-rate howl! Well done — hail. I pity the
poor hot-houses. The stones cannot be less than sugar-
almonds.
Shepherd. Shoogger-awmons ! Th ey 're like guse eggs. If
the lozens* werena pawtent plate, lang ere noo they would
hae a' flown into flinders. But they're ball-proof. They
wadna break though you were to let aff a pistol.
North. What, James, is your favorite weather ?
Shepherd. A clear, hard, black frost. Sky without a clud —
sun bright, but almost cold — earth firm aneath your feet as a
rock — trees silent, but not asleep, wi' their budded branches
— ice-edged rivers, amaist mute and motionless, yet wimplin
a wee, and murmuring dozingly as in a dream — the air or
atmosphere sae rarified by the mysterious alchemy o' that
wonderfu' Wuzzard Wunter, that when ye draw in your
breath, ye're no sensible o' ha'in ony lungs.
The small oriel window of the Snuggery is blown in with a
tremendous crash. NORTH and the SHEPHERD prostrated
among the ruins.
North. Are you among the survivors, James — wounded or
dead ? (An awful pause) Alas ! alas ! who will write my
Epithalamium ! And must I live to see the day on which, O
gentle Shepherd, these withered hands of mine must falter
thy Epicedia !
Shepherd. Oh, tell me, sir, if the toddy-jug has been upset
* J.oz("na— panes of glass, lozenge-shaped.
Prostration of the Shepherd. 307
in this catastrophe, or the Tower of Babel and a' the
speerits ?
North (supporting himself on his elbow ', and eying the festal
board). Jug and Tower are both miraculously preserved
amidst the ruins !
Shepherd. Then am I a dead man, and lyin in a pool o'bluid.
Oh ! dear me ! Oh ! dear me ! a bit broken lozen lias cut my
jugular !
North. Don't yet give yourself up, my dear, dear Shepherd,
for a dead man. Ay — here's my crutch — I shall be on my
legs presently — surely they cannot both be broken ; and if I
can but get at my tape-garter, I do not despair of being able
to tie up the carotid.
Shepherd. Pu' the bell for a needle and thread. — What's
this ? — I'm fen tin !
[The SHEPHERD faints away ; and NORTH having recovered
his feet, and rung the bell violently, enter Mr. AMBROSE,
Men. CADET, SIR DAVID GAM, KING PEPIN, and
TAPPYTOORIE, cum multis aliis.
North. Away for Liston* — one and all of you, away like
lightning for Liston ! You alone, Ambrose, support Mr. Hogg
in this, 1 fear, mortal swoon. Don't take him by the feet,
Ambrose, but lift up his head, and support it on your knee.
[Mr. AMBROSE, greatly flurried, lut with much tenderness
obeys the mandate.
Shepherd (opening his eyes}. Are you come hither, too, Awm-
rose ? 'Tis a dreadfu' place. What a fire ! But let us speak
low, or Clootie t 'ill hear us. Is he ben the house ? — Oh \
Mr. North, pity me the day ! are you here too, and has a' our
daffin come to this at last ?
North. Where, my dear James, do you think you are ? In
the Hotel.
* See ante, p. 21)8, note I. t Clootie— & Scotch name for the devil.
308 The Shepherd's Hallucination.
Shepherd. Ay, ay, Hothell indeed! I swarf ed awa in a
bluidy swoon, and hae awaukened in a fearfu' eternity.
Noctes Ambrosianae indeed ! And whare, oh ! whare is that
puir, short-haund, harmless body, Gurney? Hae we pu'dhim
doun wi' us to the bottomless pit?
North. JNIr. Ambrose, let me support his head, while you
bring the Tower of Babel.
[ Mr. AMBROSE brings the Tower of Babel, and applies the
battlements to the SHEPHERD'S lips.
Shepherd. Whusky here ! I daurna taste it, for it can be
naething but melted sulphur. Yet, let me just pree't. It
has a maist unearthly similitude to Glenlivet. Oh ! Mr.
North — Mr. North — tak aff thae horns frae your head, for
they're awfu' fearsome. Hae you gotten a tail too ? And
are you, or are you not, answer me that single question, an
Imp o' Darkness ?
North. Bear a hand, Mr. Ambrose, and give Mr. Hogg
London-carries to his chair.
[ NORTH and AMBROSE mutually cross wrists, and bear the
SHEPHERD to his seat.
Shepherd. Hoo the wund sughs through the lozenless wun
dow, awaukenin into tenfold fury the Blast-Furnace.
(Re-enter Mon. CADET, KING PEKIN, SIR DAVID GAM,
and TAPPYTOORIE.)
Mon. Cadet. Mr. Liston has left town to attend the Perth
Breakneck, which has had an overturn on Queensferry Hill-^
and 'tis said many legs and heads are fractured.
Tappytoorie. He'll no be back afore midnicht.
Ambrose (chastising Tappy). How dare you speak, sir?
North. Most unlucky that fche capsize had not been delayed
for ten minutes. How do you feel now, James ?
Shepherd. Feel? I never was better in my life. But
wha-t's the matter wi' your nose, sir? About half-way doun
" Do you believe in the Devil f " 309
the middle, it has taken a turn at right angles towards
jour left lug. Ane o' the splinter-bars o' the window has
bashed it frae the line o' propriety, and you're a fricht for
life. Only look at him, gentlemen ; saw ye ever siccan a
pheesiognomy ?
North. Tarriers, begone ! [Exeunt Omnes.
Shepherd. We're twa daft fules — that's sure aneuch — and
did the public ken o' this, the idiwuts wad cry out,
" Buffoonery — buffoonery ! " — But we can never sit here
without lozeus.
Re-enter Mr. AMBROSE and a Carpenter, with a
new Window-frame.)
North. Let me adjust the pulleys. It fits to a hair. Well
done, deacon. Expedition's the soul of business — off with
your caulk r. — Thank you — Good-night.
[Mr. AMBROSE and Carpenter, exeunt with the debris.]
Shepherd. Joking and jinks apart, Mr. North, there's bluid
on your nose. Let me pit a bit o' black stickin-plaister on't.
There — Mrs. Gentle wad think you unco killin wi' that beauty
spot on your neb.
North. Hush. — Pray, James, do you believe in the Devil ?
Shepherd. Just as firmly as I believe in you, sir. Yet, I
confess, I never could see the sin in abusin the ne'erdoweel ;
whereas mony folk, no ower and aboon religious in ither
respects, haud up their hauns and the whites o' their een
whenever you satireeze Satan — and cry u Whisht, whisht ! "
My mind never yet has a' my days got rid o' ony early im
pression ; and against baith reason and revelation, I canna
think o' the Deevil even yet, without seein him wi' great big
goggle fiery een, a mouth like a foumart-trap, the horns o' a
Lancashire kyloe, and a tufted tail atween that o' a bill's, a
lion's and a teegger's. Let me see him when I wull, sleepin
or wai kin, he's aye the verra leevin image o' a woodcut.
810 Hogg on " flornie"
North. Mr. Southey, in some of his inimitable ballads, has
turned him into such ridicule that he has laid his tail entirely
aside, screwed off his horns, hid his hoofs in Wellingtons, and
appeared, of late years, in shape and garb more worthy of the
Prince of the Air.
Shepherd. Ay, Mr. Southey's a real wutty man, forbye
being a great poet. But do you ken, for a' that, my hair
stands on end o' its tinglin roots, and my skin amaist crawls
aff my body, whenever, by a blink o' the storm-driven moon
in a mirk nicht, I chance to forgather wi' auld Clootie,
Hornie, and Tuft-tail, in the middle o' some wide moor
amang hags, and peat-mosses, and quagmires, nae house
within mony miles, and the uncertain weather-gleam, black
ened by some auld woods, swingin and sughin to the wind
as if hotchin wi' warlocks.
North. Poo — I should at once take the bull by the horns —
or, seizing him by the tail, drive him. with my crutch into the
nearest loch.
Shepherd. It's easy speakin. But you see, he never
appears to a man that's no frichtened aforehaun out o' his
seven senses — and imagination is the greatest cooard on
earth, breakin out into a cauld sweat, his heart loup-loupin,
like a fish in a creel, and the retina o' his ee representin a'
things, mair especially them that's ony way infernal, in grue
some features, dreadfully disordered ; till reason is shaken,
by the same panic, judgment lost, and the haill sowl distract
ed in the insanity o' Fear, till you're nae better than a stark-
staring madman.
North. Good, James — good.
Shepherd. In sic a mood could ony Christian cretur, even
Mr. Southey himsel, tak hand o' the deil either by the horns
or the tail ? — Mair likely that in frenzied desperation you loup
wi' a spang on the bristly back o' the Evil Ane, wha gallops
" Pyets are no canny'* 311
aff \vi' you demented into some loch, where you aie found
floatin in the mornin a swollen corp, wi' the mark o' claws
on your hause, your een hangin out o' their sockets, your
head scalped wi' something waur than a tammyhawk, and
no a single bane in your body that's no grund to mash
like a malefactor's on the wheel for having curst the Holy
Inquisition.
North. Why, my dear Shepherd, genius, I feel, can render
terrible even the meanest superstition.
Shepherd. Meanness and majesty signify naething in the
supernatural. I've seen an expression in the een o' a pyet,*
wi' its head turned to the ae side, and though in general a
shy bird, no caring for you though you present your rungf at
it as if you were gauri to shoot it wi' a gun, that has made
my verra heart-strings crunkle up wi' the thochts o' some
indefinite evil comin, I kent na frae what quarter o' the
lowerin heavens. — For pyets, at certain times and places, are
no canny, and their nebs look as if they were peckin at
mortcloths.
North. Cross him out, James-— cross him out.
Shepherd. A raven ruggin at the booels o' a dead horse is
naething ; but ane sittin a' by himsel on a rock, in some
lanely glen, and croak-croakin, naebody can think why, noo
lookin savagely up at the sun, and noo tearin, no in hunger,
for his crap's fu' o' carrion, but in anger and rage, the mosd
aneath him wi' beak or tawlons ; and though you shout at
him wi' a' your micht. never steerin a single fit frae his
stance, but absolutely lauchin at you wi' a horrid guller in
the sooty throat o' him, in derision o' you, ane o' God 8
reasonable creturs, — I say, sir, that sic a bird, wi' sic unac-
coontable conduct, in sic an inhuman solitude, is a frichtsome
demon ; and that when you see him hop-hoppin awa wi'
* Pyet— a. magpie. f Uung— walking staff.
312 The Shepherd paints.
great jumps in amang the region o' rocks, you wadna follow
him into his auncient lair for ony consideration whatsomever,
but turn your face doun the glen, and thank God at the
sound o' some distant bagpipe. A' men are augurs. Yet,
sitting here, what care I for a raven mair than for a how-
to wdie ?
North. The devil in Scotland, during the days o' witch
craft, was a most contemptible character.
Shepherd. Sae muckle the better. It showed that sin maun
be a low, base state, when a superstitious age could embody
it in a nae mair imposing impersonation.
North. Perhaps it is wrong to despise anything ; and cer
tainly, in the highest Christian light, it is so. Wordsworth
finely sayp, " He who feels contempt for any living thing has
faculties which he has never used." ^
Shepherd. Then Wudsworth has faculties in abundance that
he has never used ; for he feels contempt for every leevin
thing, in the shape either o' man or woman, that can write as
gude or better poetry than himsel — which I alloo is no easy ;
but still it's possible, and has been dune, and will be dune
again, by me and ithers. But that's rinnin awa frae the
subject. ... To my lugs, sir, the maist shockin epithet in
our language is — Apostate. Soon as you hear it, you see a
man selling his sowl to the deevil.'
North. To Mammon.
Shepherd. Belial or Beelzebub. I look to the mountains,
Mr. North, and stern they stand in a glorious gloom, for the
sun is strugglin wi' a thunder-cloud, and facing him a faint
but fast-brichtenin rainbow. The ancient spirit o' Scotland
comes on me frae the sky, and the sowl within me re-swears
in silence the oath o' the Covenant. There they are — the
Covenanters — a' gathered thegither, no in fear and tremblin,
but wi' Bibles in their bosoms, and swords by their sides, in a
TJie Covenanters1 Meeting. 813
glen deep as the sea. and still as death, but for the sound o*
a stream and the cry o' an eagle. " Let us sing, to the praise
and glory of God, the hundredth Psalm," quoth a loud, clear
voice, though it be the voice o' an auld man ; and up to
Heaven bauds he his strang withered hauns, and in the
gracious wunds o' heaven are flying abroad his grey hairs or
say, rather, white as the silver or the snaw.
North. Oh for Wilkie !
Shepherd. The eagle and the stream are silent, and the
heavens and the earth are brocht close thegither by that
triumphin psalm. Ay, the clouds cease their sailing, and lie
still ; the mountains bow their heads ; and the crags, do they
not seem to listen, as in that remote place the hour o' the
delighted day is filled with a holy hymn to the Lord God o'
Israel ?
North. My dear Shepherd !
Shepherd. Oh ! if there should be sittin there — even in that
congregation, on which, like God's own eye, looketh down the
meridian sun, now shinin in the blue region — an Apostate !
North. The thought is terrible.
Shepherd. But na, na, na ! See that bonny blue-eed, rosy-
cheeked, gowden-haired lassie — only a thought paler than
usual, sweet lily tha£ she is — half-sittin, half-lyin on the
greensward, as she leans on the knee o' her stalwart grand
father — for the sermon's begun, and all eyes are fastened on
the preacher, — look at her till your heart melts as if she were
your ain, and God had given you that beautifu' wee image
o' her sainted mother, and tell me if you think that a' the
tortures that cruelty could devise to inflict, would ever wring
frae thae sweet innocent lips ae word o' abjuration o' the
faith in which the flower is growing up amang the dewdraps
o' her native hills ?
North. Never — never — never !
314 Hogg as an Eagle.
Shepherd She proved it, sir, in death. Tied to a stake on
the sea-sands she stood ; and first she heard, and then she
saw, the white roarin o' the tide. But the smile forsook not
her face ; it brichtened in her een when the water reached
her knee ; calmer and calmer was her voice of prayer, as it
beat again' her bonny breast ; nae shriek when a wave closed
her lips for ever ; and methinks, sir — for ages on ages hae
lapsed awa sin'that martyrdom, and therefore Imagination may
withouten blame dally wi' grief — methink, sir, that as her
golden head disappeared, 'twas like a star sinkin in the sea !
North. God bless you, my dearest James ! shake hands !
Shepherd. When I think on these things — in olden times
the produce o' the common day — and look aroun' me noo, I
could wush to steek my een in the darkness o' death ; for
dearly as I love it still, alas ! alas ! I am ashamed o' my
country. ... Eh ? What ?
North. Whisht ! Had you your choice, James, pray what
sort of a bird would you be ?
Shepherd. I wad transmigrate intil a gey hantle. And,
first and foremost, for royal ambition is the poet's sin, I
would be an Eagle. Higher than ever in his balloon did
Lunardi soar, would I shoot up into heaven. Poised in that
empyreal air, where nae storm-current flows, far up aboon
the region of clouds, with wide-spread and unquivering wings
would I hang in the virgin sunshine. Nae human ee should
see me in my cerulean tabernacle — but mine should see the
human specks by the sides of rocks and rivers, creeping and
crawling, like worms as they are, over their miserable earthly
flats, or toiling, like reptiles as they are, up their majestic
molehills. Down with a sughing sweep in one moment
would I descend a league of atmosphere, still miles and miles
above all the dwarf mountain-taps and pigmy forests. Ae
headlong lapse mair, and my ears would drink the faint
North is " coomed" 315
thunder of some puny cataract ; another mile in a moment
nearer the poor humble earth, and, lo ! the woods are what
men call majestic, the vales wide, and the mountains magnifi
cent. That pitiful bit of smoke is a city — a metropolitan
city. I cross it wi' ae wave of my wing. — The roar of
ocean — what — what's that I hear? You auld mannerless
rascal, is that you I hear snorin? Ma faith, gin I was an
eagle, I wad scart your haffits wi' my tawlons, and try
which o' our nebs was the sharpest. Weel, that's maist
extraordinar — he absolutely snores on a different key wi
each o' his twa individual nostrils — snorin a first and second
like a catch or glee. I wunner if he can snore by the notes
— or trusts entirely to his dreaming ear. It's really no that
unharmonious — and I think I hear him accompanying Mrs.
Gentle on the spiimet. Let's coom his face wi' burned cork.
{The SHEPHERD applies a cork to thejire, and makes NORTH
a Blackamoor.
North. Be not so coy — so cold — my love. " Can danger
lurk within a kiss ? "
Shepherd. Othello— Othello— Othello !
North (awaking with a tremendous yawn). 'Tis gone—
'twas but a dream !
Shepherd. Ay, ay, what's that you were dreamin about
sir ? Your face is a' ower blushes — just like a white rose
tinged with the setting sun.
North. I sometimes speak in my sleep. Did I do so now ?
Shepherd. If you did, sir, I did not hear you — for I have
been takin a nap mysel, and just awaukened this moment
wi' a fa' frae the cock on a kirk-steeple. I hae often odd
dreams ; and I thocht I got astride o' the cock, and was
haudin on by the tail, when the feathers gave way, and had
it not been a dream, I should infallibly have been dashed to
pieces. Do you ever dream o' kissing, sir ?
316 At the Looking-glass.
North. Fie, James!
Shepherd. Oh, but you look quite captivatin, quite seducin,
when you blush that gate, sir ! I never could admire a dark-
complexioned man.
North. I do — and often wish mine had been dark —
Shepherd. Ye made a narrow escape the noo, sir ; for out
o' revenge for your havin ance coomed my face when I fell
asleep on my chair, I was within an ace of coomin yours —
North (starting up furiously). A coomed face? Have you
dared, you swineherd, to cork my face ? If you have, you
shall repent it till the latest day of your life.
Shepherd. You surely will forgive me when you hear I
am on my deathbed —
North (at the mirror}. Blackguard !
Shepherd. 'Tweel you're a' that. I ca' that epithet multum
in parvo. You're a maist complete blackguard — that's beyond
a' manner o' dout. What'n whites o' een ! and what'n whites
o' teeth ! But your hair's no half grizzly aneuch for a blacka
moor — at least an African ane — and gies you a sort o' un
canny, mongrel appearance that wad frichten the King o'
Congo.
North. Talking with a face as black as the crown of my
hat!
Shepherd. And a great deal blacker. The croon o' your
hat's broon, and I wunner you're no ashamed, sir, to wear't
on the streets ! but your face, sir, is as black as the back o'
that chimley, and baith wad be muckle the better o' the
sweeps.
North. James, I have ever found it impossible to be irate
with you more than half a minute at a time during these last
twenty years. I forgive you — and do you know that I do
not look so much amiss in cork. 'Pon honor —
Shepherd. It's a great improvement on you, sir — and 1
The Prize Goose. 317
would seriously advise you to coom your face every day
when you dress for denner. Let's order sooper.
North. Well, James, be it so.
(As the SHEPHERD rises to ring the bell, the Timepiece
strikes Ten, and PICARDY enters with his Tail.)
Shepherd. Ye dinna mean to say, Mr. Awmrose, that that's
a' the sooper ? Only the roun', a cut o' sawmon, beefsteaks,
and twa brodds o' eisters ! This '11 never do, Awmrose.
Remember there's a couple o' us — and that a sooper that
may be no amiss for ane may be little better than starvation
to twa ; especially if them twa be in the prime and vigor o'
life, hae come in frae the kintra, and got yaup * ower some
half-dizzen jugs o' strang whusky-toddy.
Ambrose (bowing). The boiled turkey and the roasted
ducks will be on the table forthwith — unless, Mr. Hogg,
you would prefer a goose which last week won a sweep
stakes —
Shepherd. What ? at Perth races ? Was he a bluid-guse,
belangin to a member o' the Caledonian Hunt ?
Ambrose (smiling). No, Mr. Hogg — there was a competi
tion between six parishes which should produce the greatest
goose, and I had the good fortune to purchase the successful
candidate, who was laid, hatched, and brought up at the
Manse of —
Shepherd. I ken the successful candidate brawly. — Wasna
he a white ane, wi' a tremendous doup that soopt the grun',
and hadna he contracted a habit o' turnin in the taes o' his
left fit ?
Ambrose. The same, sir. He weighed, ready for spit,
twenty pounds jump— feathers and giblets four pounds more.
Nor do I doubt, Mr. North, that had your Miss Nevison had
him for a fortnight longer at the Lodge, she would have
• Yaup— hungry.
318 A Game at Leap-frog.
fattened him (for he is a gander) up to thirty, — that is to
gay, with all his paraphernalia.
Shepherd. Show him in ; raw or roasted, show him in.
(Enter KING PEPIN and SIR DAVID GAM, with the successful
candidate, supported by Mon. CADET and TAPPYTOORIE.)
What a strapper ! Puir chiel, I wadna hae kent him, sae
changed is he frae the time I last saw him at the Manse,
takin a walk in the cool o' the Saturday e'ening, wi' his wife
and family, and ever and anon gabblin to himsel in a sort o'
undertone, no unlike a minister rehearsin his sermon for the
coming Sabbath.
North. How comes he to be ready roasted, Ambrose ?
Ambrose. A party of twenty are about to sup in the Saloon,
and —
Shepherd. Set him doun ; and if the gentlemen wuss to see
North cut up a guse, show the score into the Snuggery.
[ The successful candidate is safely got on the board.
Hear hoo the table groans !
North. I feel my limbs rather stiffish with sitting so long.
Suppose, James, that we have a little leap-frog.
Shepherd. Wi' a' my heart. Let me arrange the forces
roun' the table. Mr. Awmrose, staun' you there — Mon.
Cadet, fa' intil the rear o' your brither — Pippin, twa yairds
ahint Awmrose junior — Sir Dawvit, dress by his Majesty—
and Tappytoorie, turn your back upon me. Noo, lout doun
a' your heads. Here goes. — Keep the pie warm.
[The SHEPHERD vaults away, and the whole circle is in
perpetual motion; NORTH distinguished by his agility in
the ring.
North (piping). Heads all up — no louting. There, James,
I topped you without touching a hair.
Shepherd, Mirawculous auld man ! A lameter too ! I nevei
felt his hauns on my shouther !
Tickler wins. 319
Ambrose. I'm rather short of breath, and must drop out of
the line.
[Mr. AMBROSE drops out of the line, and his place is supplied
by TICKLER, who at that moment has entered the room un
observed.
Shepherd (coming unexpectedly upon Tickler). Here's a
steeple ! What glamory's this?
North. Stand aloof, James, and I'll clear the weathercock
on the spire.
[NORTH, using his crutch as a leaping-pole, clears TICKLER
in grand style; but TAPPYTOORIE, the next in the
series, boggles, and remains balanced on SOUTHSIDE'S
shoulders.
Tickler. Firm on your pins, North. I'm coming.
[TICKLER, with TAPPYTOORIE on his shoulders, clears
CHRISTOPHER in a canter.
Omnes. Huzza ! huzza ! huzza !
North (addressing TICKLER). Mr. Tickler, it gives me
great pleasure to present to you the Silver Frog, which I am
sure will never be disgraced by your leaping.
[TICKLER stoops his head, and NORTH hangs the Prize Silver
Frog, by a silver chain, round his neck; TAPPYTOORIE
dismounts, and the Three sit down to supper.
Shepherd. Some sax or seven slices o' the breist, sir, and
dinna spare the stuffin. — Mr. Awmrose, gie my trencher a
gude clash o' aipple-sass. — Potawtoes. Thank ye. — Noo,
some o' the smashed. — Tappy, the porter. — What guse ! ! !
Tickler. Cut the apron off the bishop, North ; but you
must have a longer spoon to get into the interior.
Ambrose. Here is a punch-ladle, sir.
Shepherd. Gie him the great big silver soup ane. — Sic sage !
Tickler. Why, that is liker the leg of a sheep than of a
goose.
320 The dander is discussed.
Shepherd. Awmrose, my man, dinna forget the morn * to
let us hae the giblets. — Pippin, the mustard. — Mr. North, as
naebody seems to be axin for't, gie me the bishop's apron, it
seems sappy. What are ye gaun to eat yoursel, sir ? Dinna
mind helpin me, but attend to your nain sooper.
North. James, does not the side of the breast which I have
now been hewing remind you of Salisbury Crags ?
Shepherd. It's verra precipitous. The skeleton maun be
sent to the College Museum, to staun' at the fit o' the
elephant, the rhinoceros, and the cammyleopardawlis ; and
that it mayna be spiled by unskilful workmanship, I vote
we finish him cauld the morn afore we yoke to the giblet-
pie. [ Carried nem. con.
Tickler. Goose always gives me a pain in my stomach.
But to purchase pleasure at a certain degree of pain is true
philosophy. So, my dear North, another plateful. James,
a caulker ?
Shepherd. What's your wull ?
Tickler. Oh ! nothing at all.— Ambrose, the Glenlivet to
Mr. North. — Mr. Hogg, I believe, never takes it during
supper.
[The SHEPHERD tips AMBROSE the wink, and the gurgle
goes round the table.
[Silence, with slight interruptions, and no conversation for
about three-quarters of an hour.
NATHAN GURNET.
Shepherd. I had nae previous idea that steaks eat sae
capital after guse. Some sawmon.f
North. Stop, James. Let all be removed, except the fish —
* The morn— to-morrow.
t " No greater compliment," says a recent writer, « was ever paid to Pro-
fessor Wilson than by the hypochondriac who, after failing to obtain an
appetite from tonics, was beguiled into reading the A'ncfes, and at once ' set
In for serious eating ' with the will of the Shepherd himself."
" Lord Eldon " is introduced. 321
to wit, the salmon, the rizzards, the speldrins, the herrings,
and the oysters.
Shepherd. And bring some mair fresh anes. Mr. Awm-
rose, you maun mak a deal o' siller by sellin your eister-shells
for manur to the farmers a' roun' about Embro' ? They're
as gude's lime — indeed, I'm thinkin they are lime — a sort o'
sea-lime, growing on rocks by the shore, and a coatin at the
same time to leevin and edible creturs. Oh, the wonnerfu'
warks o' Nature !
North. Then wheeling the circular to the fire, let us have
a parting jug or two —
Shepherd. Each?
(Enter MR. AMBROSE with LORD ELDON.)
North. Na ! here's his Lordship full to the brim. He
holds exactly one gallon, Imperial Measure ; and that quantity,
according to Mrs. Ambrose's recipe, cannot hurt us —
Shepherd. God bless the face o' him !
Tickler. Pray, James, is it a true bill that you have had
the hydrophobia ?
Shepherd. Ower true ; but I'll gie you a description o't at
our next. Meanwhile, let's ca' in that puir cretur Gurney,
and gie him a drap drink. Nawthan ! Nawthan ! Nawthan !
Gurney (in a shrill voice from the interior of the Ear of Diony-
oius). Here — here — here!
Shepherd. What'n a vice ! Like a young ratton * squaakin
ahint the lath and plaister.
North. No rattons here, James. Mr. Gurney is true as
steel.
Shepherd. Reserve that short similie for yoursel, sir !
Oh, sir, but you're elastic as a drawn Damascus swurd. Lean
a' your wecht on't, wi' the pint on the grun, but fear na,
while it bends, that it will break ; for back again frae the
* Ration — rat.
21
322 North's Cat and Thrust.
semicircle springs if in a second in til the straught line ; and
woe be to him wha daurs that cut and thrust ! for it gangs
through his body like licht through a wundow, and before
the sinner kens he is wounded, you turn him ower on his
back, sir, stane-dead !
[Mr. GURNEY joins the party, and the curtain of course falls.
XXI.
IN WHICH, THE ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER DINING
WITH THE THREE, THE SHEPHERD MOUNTS
BONASSUS.
Scene, — The Saloon, illuminated by the grand Gas Orrery.
Time, — First of April — Six o'clock. Present, — NORTH,
the ENGLISH OPIUM EATER,* the SHEPHERD, TICKLER,
in Court-Dresses. The three celebrated young Scottish
LEANDERS, with their horns, in the hanging gallery. AIR :
" Brose and Brochan and a\"
TICKLER.
•duos UMoag
-dnog *8iqiD
Mulligatawny. Scotch Broth. Cocky-Leeky. A
Potato Soup
White Soup
ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.
Shepherd. Dinna abuse Burns, Mr. De Quinshy. Neithei
* Thomas De Quincey has been already referred to more than once in the
course of these dialogues. Now he is introduced as an interlocutor ; and,
If I may be permitted to say so, the general character of his conversation
has been imitated not infelicitously by his friend the Professor. But
323
324 The English Opium-Eater.
you nor ony ither Englishman can thoroughly understaun*
three sentences o' his poems —
English Opium- Eater (with much animation}. I have for
some years past longed for an opportunity to tear into pieces
that gross national delusion, born of prejudice, ignorance, and
bigotry, in which, from highest to lowest, all literary classes
of Scotchmen are as it were incarnated — to wit, a belief,
strong as superstition, that all their various dialects must be
as unintelligible, as I grant that most of them are uncouth
and barbarous to English ears — even to those of the most
accomplished and consummate scholars. Whereas, to a
Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, Saxon, German, French, Italian,
Spanish — and let me add, Latin and Greek scholar, there is
not even a monosyllable that —
Shepherd. What's a gowpen o' glaur ?
English Opium-Eater. Mr. Hogg — sir, I will not be inter
rupted—
Shepherd. You canna tell. It's just twa neif-fu's o*
darts.*
North. James — James — James !
Shepherd. Kit — Kit — Kit. But beg your pardon, Mr. De
Quinshy — afore denner I am aye unco snappish. I admit
you're a great grammarian. But kennin something o' a
language by bringin to bear upon't a' the united efforts o'
knowledge and understaunin — baith first-rate — is ae thing,
and feelin every breath and every shadow that keeps playin
ower a' its syllables, as if by a natural and born instinct, is
anither ; the first you may aiblins hae — naebody likelier, —
but to the second, nae man may pretend that hasna had the
the reader who would learn what Mr. De Quincey himself is in propridper-
sond— what fascinating powers of eloquence he possesses— how deep hia
poetical sensibilities are— and how profound his philosophical acumen-
must be referred to his collected works. [De Quincey died in 1859.]
• Two handfuls of mud.
On the Scottish Tongue. 325
happiness and the honor o' havin been born and bred in
bonny Scotland. What can ye ken o' Kilmeny ?
English Opium-Eater (smiling graciously). 'Tis a ballad
breathing the sweetest, simplest, wildest spirit of Scottish
traditionary song — music, as of some antique instrument, long
lost, but found at last in the Forest among the decayed roots
of trees, and touched, indeed, as by an instinct, by the only
man who could reawaken its sleeping chords — the Ettrick
Shepherd.
Shepherd. Na — if you say that sincerely — and I never saw
a broo smoother wi' truth than your ain — I maun qualify
my former apothegm, and alloo you to be an exception frae
the general rule. I wush, sir, you would write a Glossary
o' the Scottish Language. I ken naebody fitter.
North. Our distinguished guest is aware that this is " All
Fool's Day," — and must, on that score, pardon these court-
dresses. We consider them, my dear sir, appropriate to this
Anniversary.
Shepherd. Mine wasna originally a court-dress. It's the
uniform o' the Border Club. But nane o' the ither members
would wear them, except me and the late Dyuk o' Buccleuch.
So when the King cam to Scotland, and expeckit to be intro
duced to me at Holyroodhouse, I got the tiler at Yarrow-
Ford to cut itdoun after a patron * frae Embro' —
English Opium-Eater. Green and gold — to my eyes the
most beautiful of colors, — the one characteristic of earth, the
other of heaven — and therefore, the two united, emblematic
of genius.
Shepherd. Oh ! Mr. De Quinshy — sir, but you're a pleasant
cretur — arid were I ask't to gie a notion o' your mainners to
them that had never seen you, I should just use twa words,
Urbanity and Amenity — meanin, by the first, that saft, bricht
* Patron — pattern.
326 The Swords are laid aside.
polish that a man gets by leevin amang gentleman scholars
in touns and cities, burnished on the solid metal o' a happy
natur hardened by the rural atmosphere o' the pure kintra
air, in which I ken you hae ever delighted ; and by the ither,
a peculiar sweetness, amaist like that o' a woman's, yet sae
far frae bein' feminine, as masculine as that o' Allen Ramsay's
ain Gentle Shepherd — and breathin o' a harmonious union
between the heart, the intelleck, and the imagination, a' the
three keepin their ain places, and thus makin the vice,*
speech, gesture, and motion o' a man as composed as a figure
on a pictur by some painter that was a master in his art, and
produced his effects easily — and ane kens na hoo— by his
lichts and shadows. Mr. North, amna f I richt in the thocht,
if no in the expression ?
North. You have always known my sentiments, James —
Shepherd. I'm thinkin we had better lay aside our swurds.
They're kittle dealin when a body's stannin or walkin ; but
the very deevil's "in them when ane claps his doup on a chair,
for here's the hilt o' mine interferin wi' my ladle-hand.
Tickler. Why, James, you have buckled it on the wrong
side.
Shepherd. What ? Is the richt the wrang ?
North. Let us all untackle. Mr. Ambrose, hang up each
man's sword on his own hat-peg. — There.
North. Hark ! my gold repeater is smiting seven. We
allow an hour, Mr. De Quincey, to each course — and then—
[ Tlie LEANDERS play " The Boatie Bows" — the doorfliet
open, — enter PICARDY and his clan.
t Amnor- am not.
" The simple Coo's Horn."
SECOND COURSE— FISH.
TICKLER.
327
ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.
Shepherd. I'm sure we canna be sufficiently gratefu' for
having got rid o' a' thae empty tureens o' soup — so let us noo
set in for serious eatin, and tackle to the inhabitants o' the
Great Deep. What's that bit body, North, been about ?
Daidlin * wi' the mock-turtle. I hate a' things mock — soups,
pearls, fause tails, baith bustles and queues, wigs, cauves,
religion, freenship, love, glass-een, rouge on the face o' a
woman, — no' exceppin even cork legs, for timmer anes are
far better, there bein' nae attempt at deception, which ought
never to be pratised on ony o' God's reasonable creatures—
it's sae insultin.
English Opium-Eater. Better open outrage than hidden
guile, which —
Shepherd. Just sae, sir. — But it's no a bonny instrument,
that key-bugle ? I've been tryin to learn't a' this wunter,
beginnin at first wi' the simple coo's-horn. But afore I had
weel gotten the gamut, I had nearly lost my life.
Tickler. What ? From mere loss of breath — positive ex
haustion ? An abscess in the lungs, James ?
* Daidlin— trifling.
328 The Shepherd's Adventure.
Shepherd. Nothing o' the sort. I hae wund and lungs fol
onything — even for roarin you doun at argument,*whan, driven
to the wa'. you begin to storm like a Stentor, till .the verra
neb o' the jug on the dirlin t^able regards you wi' astonish
ment, and the speeders are seen rinnin alang the ceilin to
shelter themselves in their corner cobwebs. — (Canna ye learn
frae Mr. De Quinshy, man, to speak laigh and lown, trustin
mair to sense and less to soun', and you'll find your advan
tage in't?,— But I allude, sir, to an Adventure.
North. An adventure, James ?
Shepherd. Ay — an adventure — but as there's nane o' you
for cod's-head and shouthers, I'll first fortify mysel wi' some
forty or fifty flakes — like half-crown pieces.
Tickler. Some cod, James, if you please.
Shepherd. Help yoursel — I'm unco thrang * the" noo. Mr.
De Quinshy, what fish are you devoorin ?
English Opium-Eater. Soles.
Shepherd. And you, Mr. North ?
North. Salmon.
Shepherd. And you, Mr. Tickler ?
Tickler. Cod.
Shepherd. You're a' in your laconics. I'm fear'd for the
banes, otherwise, after this cod's dune, 1 sud like gran' to gie
that pike a yokin. I ken him for a Linlithgow loon by the
length o' his lantern-jaws, and the peacock-neck color o' the
dorsal ridge — and I see by the jut o' his stammack there's
store o' stuffin. There'll be naething between him and me,
when the cod's dune for, but halibut and turbot — the first the
wershest and maist fushionless o' a' swimmin creturs — and
the second ower rich, unless you intend eatin no other specie
o'fish.
Tickler. Now — for your adventure — my dear Shepherd.
* Thrang — busy.
With the Bonassus. 329
Shepherd. Whisht — and you'se hear't. I gaed out ae day,
ayont the knowe — the same, Mr. North, that kythes* aboon
the bit field whare I tried, you ken, to raise a counterband crap
o' tobacco — and sat doun on a brae among the brackens —
then a' red as the heavens in sunset — tootin awa on the Horn,
ettlin first at B flat, and then at A sharp, — when I hears, at
the close o' a lesson, what I thocht the grandest echo that
ever cam frae a mountain-tap — an echo like a rair o' the
ghost of ane o' the Bulls o' Bashan, gane mad amang other
horned spectres like himsel in the howef o' the cloudy
sky —
English Opium-Eater. Mr. North, allow me to direct your
attention to that image, which seems to me perfectly original,
and at the same time perfectly true to nature ; original I am
entitled to call it, since I remember nothing resembling it,
either essentially or accidentally, in prose or verse, in the
literature of Antiquity, — in that of the middle, ordinarily, but
ignorantly, called the Dark Ages, — in that which arose in
Europe after the revival of letters — though assuredly letters
had not sunk into a state from which it could be said with
any precision that they did revive, — or in that of our own
Times, which seems to me to want that totality and unity
which alone constitute an Age, otherwise bu4 a series of un
connected successions, destitute of any causative principal of
cohesion or evolvement. True to nature no less am I en
titled to call the image, inasmuch as it giveth, not indeed
" to airy nothing a local habitation and a name," but to an
" airy something" namely, the earthly bellowing of an animal,
whose bellow is universally felt to be terrific, nay, moreover,
and therefore sublime, — (for that terror lieth at the root — if
not always, yet of verity in by for the greater number of in
stances — of the true sublime, from early boyhood my intellect
* Kythes— shows itself. t Howe— hollow.
880 TJie Shepherd's Adventure.
saw, and my imagination felt to be among the great primdfc
intuitive truths of our spiritual frame), — because it giveth, I
repeat, to the earthly bellowing of such an animal an aerial
character, which, for the moment, deludes the mind into a
belief of the existence of a cloudy kine, spectral in the sky-
region, else thought to be the dwelling-place of silence and
vacuity, and thus an affecting, impressive — nay, most solemn
and almost sacred feeling, is impressed on the sovereign reason
of the immortality of the brute creatures, — a doctrine that
visits us at those times only when our own being breathes in
the awe of divining thought, and disentangling her wings
from all clay encumbrances, is strong in the consciousness of
her DEATHLESS ME — so Fichte and Schelling speak —
Shepherd. Weel, sir, you see, doun cam on my " DEATHLESS
ME " the Bona&sus, head cavin, tail-tuft on high, hinder legs
visible ower his neck and shouthers, and his hump clothed in
thunder, 1 uder in his ae single sel than a wheeling charge
o' a haill regiment o' dragoon cavalry on the Portobello sands,
— doun cam the Bonassus, I say, like the Horse Life Guards
takin a park o' French artillery at Waterloo, richt doun,
Heaven hae mercy ! upon me, his ain kind maister, wha had
fed him on turnips, hay and straw ever sin Lammas, till
the monster was as fat's he could lie in the hide o' him — and
naething had I to defend mysel wi' but that silly coo's horn.
A' the collies were at hame. Yet in my fricht — deadly as it
was — I was thankfu' wee Jamie wasna there lookin for prim
roses — for he micht hae lost his judgment. You understand,
the Bonassus had mista'en my B sharp for anither Bonassus
challengin him to single combat.*
English Opium-Eater. A very plausible theory.
Shepherd. Thank you, sir, for that commentary on ma text
• The naturalization of the Bonassus in Ettrick is described at page
180.
With the Bonassus. 331
— for it has gien me time to plouter amang the chouks * o'
the cod. Faith, it was nae theory, sir, it was practice — and
afore I could fin' my feet, he was sae close upon me that I
could see up his nostrils. Just at that moment I remembered
that I had on an auld red jacket — the ane that was ance sky-
blue, you ken, Mr. North, that I had gotten dyed — and that
made the Bonassus just an evendoun Bedlamite. For amaist
a' horned cattle hate and abhor red coats.
North. So I have heard the army say — alike in town and
country.
Shepherd. What was to be done ! I thocht o' tootin the
horn as the trumpeter did when run aff wi' in the mouth o' a
teegger ; but then I recollected that it was a' the horn's blame
that the Bonassus was there — so I lost nae time in that specu
lation, but slipping aff my breeks, jackets, waistcoat, shirt,
and a', just as you've seen an actor on the stage, I appeared,
suddenly before him as naked as the day I was born — and sic
is the awe, sir, wi' which a human being, in puris naturalibus,
inspires the maddest of the brute creation (I had tried it ance
before on a mastiff), that he was a' at ance, in a single mo
ment, stricken o' a heap, just the very same as if the butcher
had sank the head o' an aix intil his harn-pan — his knees
trummled like a new-dropped lamb's — his tail, tuft and a'
had nae man* power in't than a broken thrissle-stalk — his een
goggled instead o' glowered — a heartfelt difference, I assure
you —
English Opium Eater. It seems to be, Mr. Hogg — but you
will pardon me if I am mistaken — a distinction without a
difference, as the logicians say —
Shepherd. Ay, De Quinshy, ma man — logician as you are,
had you stood in my shoon, you had gotten yoursel on baith
horns o' the dilemma.
* Choaks — jaws.
332 The Flight to Moffat.
North. Did you cut off his retreat to the Loch, James, and
take him prisoner ?
Shepherd. I did. Poor silly sumph ! I canna help thinkin
that he swarf ed ; though perhaps he was only pretendin — so
I mounted him, and putting my worsted garters through his
nose — it had been bored when he was a wild beast in a cara
van — I keepit peggin his ribs wi' my heels, till, after gruntin
and grainin,* and raisin his great big unwieldy red bouk f
half frae up the earth, and then swelterin doun again, if ance,
at least a dizzen times, till I began absolutely to weary o' my
situation in life, he feenally recovered his cloots,$ and, as if
inspired wi' a new speerit, aif like lichtniri to the mountains.
North. What ! — without a saddle, James ? You must have
felt the loss — I mean the want, of leather —
Shepherd. We ride a' mainner o' animals bare-backed in
the Forest, sir. I hae seen a bairn, no aboon fowre year auld,
ridin hame the Bill at the gloamin — a' the kye at his tail,
like a squadron o' cavalry anint Joachim Murat, King o'
Naples — Mr. North, gin ye keep eatin sae vorawciously at the
sawmon, you'll hurt yoursel. Fish is heavy. Dinna spare
the vinegar, if you will be a glutton.
North. Ma!§
Shepherd. But, as I was sayin, awa went the Bonassus due
west. Though you could hardly ca't even a snaffle^ yet I soon
found that I had a strong purchase, and bore him doun frae
the heights to the turnpike road that cuts the kintra frae
Selkirk to Moffat. There does I encounter three gigfu's o'
gentlemen and leddies ; and ane o' the latter — a bonny cretur
— leuch as if she kent me, as I gaed by at full gallop — and I
remembered ha'in seen her afore, though where I couldna
* Grainin — groaning. t flank — bulk. t Cloots— feet.
f " Ma ! " North is too inteut upon eating to return an articulate
an«\vo>.
The Flight to Moffat. 333
tell : but a' the lave shrieked as if at the visible superstition
o' the Water- Kelpie on the Water-Horse mistakin day for
nicht in the delirium o' a fever — and thinkin that it had been
the moon shining down on his green pastures aneath the
Loch, when it was but the shadow o' a lurid cloud. But 1
soon vanished into distance.
Tickler. Where the deuce were your clothes all this time,
my dear matter-of-fact Shepherd ?
Shepherd. Ay — there was the rub. In the enthusiasm of
the moment I had forgotten them — nay, such was the state of
excitement to which I had worked myself up, that, till I met
the three gigfu's o' leddies and gentlemen — a marriage party
— full in the face, I was not, Mr. De Quinshy, aware of being
so like the Truth. Then I felt, all in a moment, that I was a
Mazeppa. But had I turned back, they would have supposed
that I had intended to accompany them to Selkirk; and
therefore, to allay all such fears, I made a show o' fleein far
awa aff into the interior — into the cloudland of Loch Skene
and the Grey Mare's Tail.
English Opium-Eater. Your adventure, Mr. Hogg, would fur
nish a much better subject for the painter, or for the poet,
than the Mazeppa of Byron. For it is not possible to avoid
feeling, that in the image of a naked man on horseback, there
is an involution of the grotesque in the picturesque — of the
truly ludicrous in the falsely sublime. But, further, the
thought of bonds — whether of cordage or of leather — on a
being naturally free is degrading to the moral, intellectual,
and physical dignity of the creature so constricted ; and it
ought ever to be the grand aim of poetry to elevate and
exalt. Moreover, Mazeppa, in being subjected to the scornful
gaze of hundreds — nay, haply of thousands of spectators —
the base retinue of a barbarous power — in a state of utter
most nudity, was subjected to an ordeal of shame and rage,
334 The English Opium-Eater.
which neither the contemplative nor imaginative mind could
brook to see applied to even the veriest outcast scum oi our
race. He was, in fact, placed naked in a moving pillory —
and the hissing shower of scornful curses by which he was by
those barbarians assailed, is as insupportable to our thoughts
as an irregular volley, or street-firing of rotten eggs, dis
charged by the hooting rabble against some miscreant stand
ing with his face through a hole in the wood, with his crime
placarded on his felon breast. True, that as Mazeppa
" recoils into the wilderness," the exposure is less repulsive
to common imagination ; but it is not to common imagination
that the highest poetry is addressed ; and, therefore, though
to the fit reader there be indeed some relief or release from
shame in the " deserts idle," yet doth not the feeling of
degradation so subside as to be merged in that pleasurable
state of the soul essential to the effect of the true and legiti
mate exercise of poetical power. Shame pursues him faster
than the wolves ; nor doth the umbrage of the forest-trees,
that fly past him in his flight, hide his nakedness, which, in
some other conditions, being an attribute of his nature, might
even be the source to him and to us of a high emotion, but
which here, being forcibly and violently imposed against his
will be the will of a brutal tyrant, is but an accident of his
position in space and time, and therefore unfit to be perma
nently contemplated in a creature let loose before the Imagi
native Faculty. Nor is this vital vice — so let me call it — in
anywise cured or alleviated by his subsequent triumph, when
he returns — as he himself tells us he did — at the head of
" twice ten thousand horse ! " — for the contrast only serves to
deepen and darken the original nudity of his intolerable doom.
The mother-naked man still seems to be riding in front of all
his cavalry ; nor, in this case, has the poet's art sufficed to
reinstate him in his pristine dignity, and to efface all remem-
Analyses the Adventure. 335
brance of the degrading process of stripping and of Mnding,
to which of yore the miserable Nude had been compelled to
yield, as helpless as an angry child ignominiously whipt by a
nurse, till its mental sufferings may be said to be lost in its
physical agonies. Think not that I wish to withhold from
Byron the praise of considerable spirit and vigor of execu
tion in his narrative of the race ; but that praise may duly
belong to very inferior powers, and I am now speaking
of Mazeppa in the light of a great Poem. A great Poem it
assuredly is not ; and how small a Poem it assuredly is, must
be felt by all who have read, and are worthy to read, Homer's
description of the dragging, and driving, and whirling of the
dead body of Hector in bloody nakedness behind the chariot
wheels of Achilles.
Shepherd. I never heard onything like that in a' my days.
Weel, then, sir, there were nae wolves to chase me and the
Bonassus, nor yet mony trees to overshadow us ; but we made
the cattle and the sheep look about them, and mair nor ae
hooded craw and lang-necked heron gat a fricht, as we came
suddenly on him through the mist, and gned thundering by
the cataracts. In an hour or twa I began to get as firm on
my seat as a Centaur ; and discovered by the chasms that the
Bonassus was not only as fleet as a racer, but that he could
loup like a hunter, and thocht nae mair o' a thirty-feet spang
than ye wad think o' stepping across the gutter. Ma faith,
we werena lang o' being in Moffat !
English Opium-Eater. In your Flight, Mr. Hogg, there
were visibly and audibly concentrated all the attributes of the
highest Poetry. First, freedom of the will ; for self-impelled
you ascended the animal. Secondly, the impulse, though
immediately consequent upon, and proceeding from, one of
fear, was yet an impulse of courage ; and courage is not only a
virtue, and acknowledged to be such in all Christain countries,
336 The Analysis is continued.
but among the Romans — who assuredly, however low they
must be ranked on the intellectual scale, were nevertheless
morally a brave people — to it alone was given the name virtus.
Thirdly, though you were during your whole flight so far
passive that you yielded to the volition of the creature
yet were you likewise, during your whole course, so far
active, that you guided, as it appears, the motions which it
was beyond your power entirely to control ; thus vindicating
'in your own person the rights of the superior order of crea
tion. Fourthly, you were not so subjugated by the passion
peculiar and appropriate to your situation, as to be insensible
to or regardless of the courtesies, the amenities, and the
humanities of civilised life — as witness that glance of mutual
recognition that passed in one moment, between you and the
"bonny creature" in the gig; nor yet to be inattentive to
the effect produced by yourself and' the Bonassus on various
tribes of the inferior creatures, — cattle, sheep, crows, and
herons, to say nothing of the poetical delight experienced by
you from the influence of the beautiful or august shows of
nature, — mists, clouds, cataracts, and the eternal mountains.
Fifthly, the constantly accompanying sense of danger inter
fused with that of safety, so as to constitute one complex
emotion, under which, hurried as you were, it may be said
with perfect truth that you found leisure to admire, nay, even
to wonder at, the strange speed of that most extraordinary
animal — and most extraordinary he must be, if the only
living representative of his species since the days of Aristotle
— nor less to admire and wonder at your own skill, equally,
if not more, miraculous, and well entitled to throw into the
shade of oblivion the art of the most illustrious equestrian
that ever " witched the world with noble horsemanship."
Sixthly, the sublime feeling of penetrating, like a thunderbolt,
cloud-land and all the mist cities that evanished as you
The Peroration. 337
galloped into their suburbs, gradually giving way to a feeling
no less sublime, of having left behind all those unsubstantial
phantom-regions, and of nearing the habitation or tabernacle
of men, known by the name of Moffat — perhaps one of the
most imaginative of all the successive series of states of
your soul since first you appeared among the hills, like Sol
entering Taurus. And, finally, the deep trance of home-felt
delight that must have fallen upon your spirit — true still to
all the sweetest and most sacred of all the social affections —
when, the Grey Mare's Tail left streaming far behind that of
the Bonassus, you knew from the murmur of that silver
stream that your flight was about to cease — till, lo ! the pretty
village of which you spoke, embosomed in hills and trees —
the sign of the White Lion, perad venture, motionless in the
airless calm — a snug parlor with a blazing ingle — re-ap
parelling instant, almost as thought — food both for man and
beast — for the Ettrick Shepherd — pardon my familiarity for
sake of friendship — and his Bonassus. Yea, from goal to
goal, the entire Flight is Poetry, and the original idea of
nakedness is lost — or say rather veiled — in the halo-light of
imagination.
Shepherd. Weel, if it's no provokin, Mr. De Quinshy, to
hear you, who never was on a Bonassus a' your days, ana-
leezin, wi' the maist comprehensive and acute philosophical
accuracy, ma complex emotion during the Flight to Moffat
far better than I could do mysel —
North. Your genius, James, is synthetical.
Shepherd. Synthetical ? I howp no — at least nae mair sae
than the genius o' Burns or Allan Kinninghame — or the lave
—for—
English Opium-Eater. What is the precise Era of the Flight
to Moffat ?
Shepherd. Mr. De Quinshy, you're like a' ither great
338 The Bonassus is dismissed.
philosophers, ane o' the maist credulous o' mankind ! You
wad believe me were I to say that I had ridden a whale
up the Yarrow frae Newark to Eltrive ! the haill story's a
lee ! and sa free o' ony foundation in truth, that I wad hae
nae objections to tak my Bible-oath that sic a beast as a
Bonassus never was creawted — arid it's lucky for him that
he never was, for, seeing that he's said to consume three
bushel o' ingans to denner every day o' his life, Noah wad
never hae letten him intil the Ark, and he wad hae been
fund, after the subsidin o' the waters, a skeleton on the tap
o' Mount Ararat.
English Opium- Eater. His non-existence in nature is alto
gether distinct from his existence in the imagination of the
poet — and, in good truth, redounds to his honor — for his
character must be viewed in the light of a pure Ens rationis
—or say rather —
Shepherd. Just let him be an Ens rationis. But confess at
the same time, that you was bammed, sir.
English Opium-Eater. I recognize the legitimate colloquial
use of the word Bam, Mr. Hogg, denoting, I believe, " the
willing surrendering of belief, one of the first principles of
our mental constitution, to any statement made with
apparent sincerity, but real deceit, by a mind not pre
viously suspected to exist in a perpetual atmosphere of
falsehood."
Shepherd. Just sae, sir, — that's a Bam. In Glasgow they
ca't a ggeg. — But what's the matter wi' Mr. North ? Saw ye
ever the cretur lookin sae gash ? * I wish he mayna be in a
fit o' apoplexy. Speak till him, Mr. De Quinshy.
English Opium-Eater. His countenance is, indeed, omin
ously sable, — but 'tis most unlikely that apoplexy should
strike a person of his spare habit. Nay,
* Gash — sagacious : here, in the sense of '' solemn."
A Fit of Apoplexy. 339
rected ; for I believe that attacks of this kind have,
within the last quarter of a century, become comparatively
frequent, and constitute one of the not least perplexing
phenomena submitted to the inquisition of Modern Medical
Science. — Mr. North, will you relieve our anxiety ?
Shepherd (starting up, and flying to Mr. North). His face
a' purple. Confoun' that cravat ! — for the mair you pu' at
it, the tichter it grows.
English Opium-Eater. Mr. Hogg, I would seriously and
earnestly recommend more delicacy and gentleness.
Shepherd. Tuts. It's fastened I declare, ahint wi' a gold
buckle, and afore wi' a gold preen, — a brotch frae Mrs.
Gentle, in the shape o' a bleedin heart! 'Twill be the death
o' him. — Oh ! puir fallow, puir fallow ! — rax* me ower that
knife. What's this ? You've given me the silver fish-knife,
Mr. De Quinshy. Na, — that's far waur, Mr. Tickler. — That
swurd for carvin the round. But here's my ain jockteleg.f
SHEPHERD unclasps his pocket-knife, — and while brandish
ing in great trepidation, Mr. NORTH opens his eyes.
North. Emond ! Emond ! Eraond !— Thurtell— Thurtell—
Thurtell !J
Shepherd. A drap o' bluid's on his brain, — and Reason
becomes Raving ! What's man ?
Tickler. Cut away, James. Not a moment to be lost. Be
firm and decided, else he is a dead heathen.
Shepherd Wae's me — wae's me ! Nae goshawk ever sae
glowered, — and only look at his puir fingers hoo they are
workin ! I canria thole the sicht, — I'm as weak's a wean,
and fear that I'm gaun to fent. Tak the knife, Tickler.
Oh, look at his hauns — look at his hauns !
* Rax — rea<ih. t Jockteleg — a folding-knile.
% Robert Emond was tried in Edinburgh on the 8th of February, and
executed on the 17th of March 1830, for the murder of Katherine Franks
and her daughter Madeline, in their house at Abbey, near Haddington.
340 The Pike's Back-lone
Tickler (bending over Mr. North). Yes, yes, my dear sir — I
comprehend you — I —
Shepherd (in anger and astonishment). Mr. Tickler, are you
mad ? — fingerin your fingers in that gate, — as if you were
mockin him !
English Opium-Eater. They are conversing, Mr. Hogg, in
that language which originated in Oriental —
Shepherd. Oh ! they're speakin on their fingers ? — Then
a's richt, — and Mr. North's comin roun' again intil his seven
senses. It's been but a dwawm !
Tickler. Mr. North has just contrived to communicate to
me, gentlemen, the somewhat alarming intelligence that the
back-bone of the pike has for some time past been sticking
about half-way down his throat ; that, being unwilling to
interrupt the conviviality of the company, he endeavored
at first to conceal the circumstance, and then made the most
strenuous efforts to dislodge it, upwards or downwards, with
out avail ; but that you must not allow yourselves to fall
into any extravagant consternation, as he indulges the fond
hope that it may be extracted, even without professional
assistance, by Mr. De Quinshy, who has an exceedingly neat
small Byronish hand, and on whose decision of character he
places the most unfaltering reliance.
Shepherd (in a huff). Does he ! — Very weel — sin he for-
gets auld freens — let him do sae —
North. Ohrr Hogrwhu — chru — u -=— u — u — Hogru-
whuu —
Shepherd. Na ! I canna resist sic pleadin eloquence as
that — here's the screw, let me try it. — Or what think ye,
Mr. Tickler, — what think ye, Mr. De Quinshy, — o' thir pair
o' boot-hooks ?-^Gin I could get a cleek o' the bane by ane
o' the vertebrae, I might hoise it gently up, by slaw degrees,
sae that ane could get at it wi' their fingers, and then pu' it
In Mr. North's Throat. 341
out o' his mouth in a twinklin ! But first let me look doun
his throat. — Open your mouth, my dearest sir.
[MR. NORTH leans back his head, and opens his mouth.
Shepherd. I see't like a harrow. Rin ben baith o' ye, for
Mr. Awmrose. [TICKLER tmrfMr. DE QUINCEY obey.
Weel ackit, sir — weel ackit — I was taen in mysel at first,
for your cheeks were like coals. Here's the back-bane o' the
pike on the trencher — I'll —
(Re-enter TICKLER and OPIUM-EATER, with Mr. AMBROSE,
pale as death.)
It's all over, gentlemen. — It's all over !
Ambrose. Oh ! oh ! oh !
[Faints away into TICKLER'S arms.
Shepherd. What the deevil's the matter wi' you, you set o'
f ules ? — I've gotten out the bane. — Look here at the skeleton
o' the shark !
English Opium-Eater. Monstrous!
North (running to the assistance of Mr. AMBROSE). We
have sported too far, I fear, with his sensibilities.
English Opium-Eater. A similar case of a fish-bone in
Germany —
Shepherd. Mr. De Quinshy, can you really swallow that ?
[Looking at the pike-back, about two feet long.
But the hour has nearly expired.
[The LEANDERS play" Hey, Johnnie Cope, are you wauken
yet ? " — Mr. AMBROSE starts to his feet, runs off and re
appears almost instanter at the head of the forces.
342 " Hunger s naething till Thrust'
THIRD COURSE-FLESH.
TICKLER.
w / i *-".\!
o Beef-Steak Pie. Haunch of Venison. Rump. ^
I\ i I /I
Fillet of Veal.
ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.
Shepherd (in continuation). And do you really think, Mr.
North, that the kintra's in great and general distress, and a'
orders in a state o' absolute starvation ?
North. Yes — James — although the Duke * cannot see the
sufferings of his subjects, I can — and —
Shepherd. Certain appearances do indicate national dis
tress ; yet I think I could, withouten meikle difficulty, lay
my haun the noo on ithers that seem to lead to a different
conclusion.
North. No sophistry, James.
Shepherd. Hunger's naething till Thrust. Ance in the
middle o' the muir o' Rannoch I had neer dee'd o' thrust.
1 was crossing frae Loch Ericht fit f to the heid o'Glenorchy,
and got in aniang the hags, $ that for leagues and leagues a'
round that dismal region seem howked out o' the black moss
by demons doomed to dreary days-dargs § for their sins in
the wilderness. There was naething for't but loup — loup —
loupin out o' ae pit intil anither — hour after hour — till, sau
* The Duke of Wellington. He was at this time Prime Minister.
t Fit — foot. t Hags — pits whence peat has been dug.
§ Days-darqs— day's labors.
Lost in RannocTi. 343
forfeuchen,* I feenally gied mysel up for lost. Drought had
sooked up the pools, and left their cracked bottoms barkened f
in the heat. The heather was sliddery as ice, aneath that
torrid zone. Sic a sun ! No ae clud on a' the sky glitterin
wi' wirewoven sultriness ! The howe o' the lift $ was like a
great cawdron pabblin into the boil ower a slow fire. The
element of water seemed dried up out o' natur, a' except the
big drops o' sweat that plashed doun on my fevered hauns,
that began to trummle like leaves o' aspen. My mouth was
made o' cork covered wi' dust — lips, tongue, palate, and a',
doun till my throat and stammack. I spak — and the arid
soun' was as if a buried corpse had tried to mutter through
the smotherin mools. I thocht on the tongue of a parrot.
The central lands o' Africa, whare lions gang ragin mad for
water, when cheated out o' blood, canna be worse — dreamed
I in a species o' delirium — than this dungeon'd desert. Uh !
but a drap o' dew would hae seem'd then pregnant wi' salva
tion ! — a shower out o' the windows o' heaven, like the direct
gift o' God, Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! — what a world o' life in
that sma' word ! But the atmosphere look'd as if it would
never melt mair, intrenched against a' liquidity by brazen
barriers burnin in the sun. Spittle I had nane — and when in
desperation I sooked the heather, 'twas frush and fushionless,
as if withered by lichtnin, and a' sap had left the vegetable
creation. What'n a cursed fule was I — for in rage I fear I
swore inwardly (Heev'n forgie me) — that I didna at the last
change-house put into my pouch a bottle o' whisky ! I fan'
my pulse — and it was thin — thin — thin — sma' — sma' — sma'
— noo nane ava — and then a flutter that telt tales o' the
exhausted heart. I grat.§ Then shame came to my relief —
shame even in that utter solitude. Somewhere or ither in
* Forfeuchen — fatigued. t Barkened — hardened,
t Howe o' the lift— hollow of the sky. § Grat— wept.
344 The Delirium of Thirst.
the muir I knew there was a loch, and I took out my map
But the infernal idiwut that had planned it hadna allooed a
yellow circle o' aboon six inches square for a' Perthshire.
What's become o' a' the birds — thocht I — and the bees — and
the butterflees — and the dragons ? — A' wattin their bills and
their proboscisces in far-off rills, and rivers, and lochs ! O
blessed wild-dyucks, plouterin in the water, streekin theirsels
up, and flappin their flashin plumage in the pearly freshness !
A great big speeder, wi' a bag-belly, was rinnin up my leg,
and I crushed it in my fierceness — the first inseck I ever
wantonly murdered sin' I was a wean. I kenna whether at
last I swarfed or slept — but for certain sure I had a dream.
I dreamt that I was at hame — and that a tub o' whey was
staunin on the kitchen dresser. I dook'd my head intil't,
and sooked it dry to the wood. Yet it slokeried * not my
thrust, but aggravated a thousand-fauld the torment o' my
greed. A thunder-plump or waterspout brak amang the hills
— and in an instant a' the burns were on spate ; the Yarrow
roarin red, and foaming as it were mad, — and I thocht I
could hae drucken up a' its linns. 'Twas a brain fever, ye
see, sirs, that had stricken me — a sair stroke — and I was con
scious a^ain o' lying broad awake in the desert, wi' my face up
to the cruel sky. I was the verra personification o' Thrust !
— and felt that I was ane o' the Damned Dry, doom'd for his
sins to leeve beyond the reign o' the element to a' Eternity.
Suddenly, like a man shot in battle, I bounded up into the
air — and ran off in the convulsive energy o' dying natur — till
doun T fell — and felt that I was about indeed to expire. A
sweet, saft, celestial greenness cooled my cheek as I lay, and
my burnin een — and then a gleam o' something like a mighty
diamond — a gleam that seemed to comprehend within itsel
the haill universe — shone in upon and through my being — I
* Slokened — quenched.
A fiobiris Nest. 345
gazed upon't wi' a' mj senses. Mercifu' Heaven ! what
was't but — a WELL in the wilderness ! — water — water — •
water, — and as I drank — I prayed !
Omnes. Bravo — bravo — bravo ! Hurra — hurra —
hurra !
Shepherd. Analeeze that, Mr. De Quinshy.
English Opium-Eater. Inspiration admits not of analysis —
in itself an evolvement of an infinite series —
Shepherd. Isna the Dolphin rather ower sweet, sirs ? We
maun mak haste and drain him — and neist brewst, Mrs.
Awmrose maun be less lavish o' her sugar — for her finest
crystals are the verra concentrated essence o' saccharine
sweetness, twa lumps to the mutchkin.
English Opium-Eater. Mr. Hogg, that wallflower in your
button-hole is intensely beautiful, and its faint wild scent
mingles delightfully with the fragrance of the coffee —
Shepherd. And o' the toddy — ae blended bawm. I pu'd it
aff ane o' the auld towers o' Newark, this morning, frae a
constellation o' starry blossoms, that a' nicht lang had been
drinkin the dews, arid at the dawin could hardly haud up
their heads, sae laden was the haill bricht bunch wi' the
pearlins o' heaven. And would ye believe't, a bit robin-
redbreast had bigged its nest in a cozy cranny o' the moss
wa', ahint the wallflower, a perfect paradise to brood and
breed in, — out flew the dear wee beastie wi' a flutter in my
face, and every mouth opened as I keeked in — and then a'
was hushed again — just like my ain bairnies in ae bed at
hame — no up yet — for the hours were slawly iiitrudin on the
" innocent brichtness o' the new-born day ;" and it was,
guessing by the shadowless light on the tower and trees,
only about four o'clock in the mornin.
Tickler. I was just then going to bed.
Shepherd. Teetus Vespawsian used to say sometimes : " I
346 " Ggemm and Fools ! "
have lost a day" — but the sluggard loses a' his life, and lets
it slip through his hauns like a knotless thread.
English Opium-Eater. I am no sluggard, Mr. Hogg — yet I —
Shepherd. Change nicht into day, and day into nicht,
rinnin coonter to natur, insultin the sun, and quarrellin wi'
the equawtor. That's no richt. Nae man kens what Beau
ty is that hasna seen her a thousan' and a thousan' times lyin
on the lap o' nature, asleep in the dawn — on an earthly bed
a spirit maist divine. . . . Whisht, I heard a fisslin in the
gallery !
North. Leander !
(The horns sound, and enter ol -nspt AMBROSE.)
Shepherd ( in continuation). Ggemm ! and Fools !
FOURTH COURSE— FOWL.
TICKLER.
ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.
North, (in continuation}. The Greek Tragedy, James,was
austere in its principles as the Greek Sculpture. Its sub
jects were all of ancestral and religious consecration; its
style, high, and heroic, and divine, admitted no inter
mixture even of mirth, or seldom and reluctantly, — much less
Sophocles and Shakespeare. 347
of grotesque and fantastic extravagances of humor, —
which would have marred the consummate dignity, beauty,
and magnificence of all the scenes that swept along that
enchanted floor. Such was the spirit that shone on the
soft and the stately Sophocles. But Shakespeare came
from heaven — and along with him a Tragedy that poured
into one cup the tears of mirth and madness ; showed
Kings one day crowned with jewelled diadems, and another
day with wild wisps of straw ; taught the Prince who, in
single combat —
" Had quench'd the flame of hot rebellion
Even in the rebels' blood,"
to moralize on the field of battle over the carcase of a fat
buffoon wittily simulating death among the bloody corpses of
English nobles ; nay, showed the son — and that son, prince,
philosopher, paragon of men — jocularly conjuring to rest his
Father's Ghost, who had revisited earth " by the glimpses of
the moon, making night hideous."
Shepherd. Stop — stop, sir. That's aneuch to prove your
pint. . . . And sae your auld freen's dead. — What kirkyard
was he buried in ?
North. Greyfriars.
Shepherd. An impressive place. Huge, auld, red, gloomy
church — a countless multitude 'o grass graves a' touchin ane
anither — a' roun the kirkyard wa's marble and freestane
monuments without end, o' a' shapes, and sizes, and ages —
some quaint, some queer, some simple, some ornate ; for
genius likes to work upon grief — and these tombs are like
towers and temples, partakin not o' the noise o' the city, but
staunin aloof frae the stir o' life, aneath the sombre shadow
o' the Castle cliff, that heaves its battlements far up into the
gky. A sublime cemetery — yet I sudna like to be interred
in't — it looks sae dank, clammy, cauld —
By the Sea-shore.
Tickler. And uncomfortable. A corpse would be apt to
catch its death of cold.
Shepherd. Whisht. — Where did he leeve ?
North. On the sea-shore.
Shepherd. I couldna thole to leeve on the sea-shore.
Tickler. And pray why not, James ?
Shepherd. That everlastin thunner sae disturbs my imagi
nation, that my soul has nae rest in its ain solitude, but
becomes transfused as it were into the michty ocean, a' its
thochts as wild as the waves that keep foamin awa into
naething, and then breakin back again into transitory life — •
for ever and ever and ever — as if neither in sunshine nor
moonlight, that multitudinous tumultuousness, frae the first
creation o' the world, had ever ance been stilled in the
blessedness o' perfect sleep.
English Opium-Eater. In the turmoil of this our mortal lot,
the soul's deepest bliss assuredly is, 0 Shepherd ! a tideless
calm.
Shepherd. The verra thocht, sir — the verra feelin — the
verra word.
North. What pleasanter spot, James, than a country kirk-
yard?
Shepherd. I steek my een — and I see ane the noo — in a
green laigh lown spot amang the sheep-nibbled braes. A
Funeral ! See that row of schoolboy laddies and lassies drawn
up sae orderly o' their ain still accord, half curious and half
wae,* some o' the lassies wi' lapfu's o' primroses, and gazin
wi' hushed faces as the wee coffin enters in on men's
shouthers that never feel its wecht, wi' its doun-hangin and
gracefu' velvet pall, though she that is hidden therein was
the poorest o' the poor ! Twa-three days ago the body in
that coffin was dancin like a sunbeam ower the verra sods
that are noo about to be shovelled over it ! The flowers she
* Woe— sorrowful.
A Funeral in the Grlen. 349
had been gatherin — sweet, innocent, thochtless cretur — then
moved up and doun on her bosom when she breathed — for
she and nature were blest and beautifu' in their spring. An
auld white-headed man, bent sairly doun, at the head o' the
grave, lettin the white cord slip wi' a lingerin, reluctant
tenderness through his withered hauns ! It has reached the
bottom. Wasna that a dreadfu' groan, driven out o' his
heart, as if a strong-haun'd man had smote it by the first fa'
o' the clayey thunder on the fast-disappearing blackness o'
the velvet — soon hidden in the bony mould ? He's but her
grandfather — for she was an orphan. But her grandfather !
Wae's me ! wha is't that writes in some silly blin' book that
auld age is insensible — safe and secure frae sorrow — and that
dim eyes are unapproachable to tears ?
Tickler. Not till dotage drivels away into death. With
hoariest eld often is parental love a passion deeper than ever
bowed the soul of bright-haired youth, watching by the first
dawn of daylight the face of the sleeping bride.
Shepherd. What gars us a' fowre talk on such topics the
nicht ? Friendship ! That, when sincere — as ours is sincere
— will sometimes saften wi' a strange sympathy merriest
hearts into ae mood o' melancholy, and pitch a' their voices
on ae key, and gie a' their faces ae expression, and mak them
a' feel mair profoundly, because they a' feel thegither, the
sadness and the sanctity — different words for the same mean
ing — o' this our mortal life ; — I howp there's naething the
maitter wi' wee Jamie.
North. That there is not, indeed, my dearest Shepherd.
At this very moment he is singing his little sister asleep.
Shepherd. God bless you, sir ; the tone o' your voice is like
a silver trumpet. — Mr. De Quinshy, hae you ever soum'd up
(lie number o' your weans?*
* Weans— children.
350 The English Opium-Eater.
English Opium-Eater. Seven.
Shepherd. Stop there, sir, it's a mystical number, — and may
they aye be like sae mony planets in bliss and beauty circlin
roun the sun,
English Opium-Eater. It seemeth strange the time when as
yet those Seven Spirits were not in the body — and the air
which I breathed partook not of that blessedness which now
to me is my life. Another sun — another moon — other stars
— since the fa e of my first-born. Another earth — another
heaven ! I loved, methought — before that face smiled — the
lights and the shadows, the flowers and the dews, the rivulets
that sing to Pilgrims in the wild, — the mountain wells, where
all alone the " book-bosomed " Pilgrim sitteth down — and lo !
far below the many-rivered vales sweeping each to its own
lake — how dearly did I love ye all ! Yet was that love
fantastical — and verily not of the deeper soul. Imagination
over this " visible diurnal sphere " spread out her own
spiritual qualities, arid made the beauty that beamed back
upon her dreams. Nor wanted tenderest touches of humanity
— as my heart remembered some living flower by the door of
far-up cottage, where the river is but a rill. But in my inner
spirit there was then a dearth, which Providence hath since
amply, and richly, and prodigally furnished with celestial
food — which is also music to the ears, and light to the eyes,
and the essence of silken softness to the touch — a family of
immortal spirits, who but for me never had been brought into
the mystery of accountable and responsible being ! Of old
I used to study the Spring — but now its sweet sadness
steals unawares into my heart — when among the joyous
lambs I see my own children at play. The shallow nest of
the cushat seems now to me a more sacred thing in the
obscurity of the pine-tree. The instincts of all the inferior
creatures are now holy in my eyes — for, like Reason's self,
On Parental Love. 351
they have their origin in love. Affection for my own children
has enabled me to sound the depths of gratitude. Gazing on
them at their prayers, in their sleep, I have had revelations
of the nature of peace, and trouble, and innocence, and sin,
and sorrow, which, till they had smiled and wept, offended
and been reconciled, I knew not — how could I ? — to be within
the range of the far-flying and far-fetching spirit of love,
which is the life-of-life of all things beneath the sun, moon
and stars.
Shepherd. Do ye ken, sir, that I love to hear ye speak far
best ava when you lay aside your logic ? Grammar's aften a
grievous and gallin burden ; but logic's a cruel constraint on
thochts, and the death of feelings, which ought aye to rin
blendin intil ane anither like the rainbow, or the pink, or the
peacock's neck, a beautifu' confusion o' colors, that's the
mair admired the mair ignorant you are o' the science o'
opticks. I just perfectly abhor the word " therefore," it's sae
pedantic «nd pragmatical, and like a doctor. What's the use
o' premises ? — commend me to conclusions. As for inferences,
put them into the form o' apothegms, and never tell the world
whence you draw them — for then they look like inspiration.
And dinna ye think, sir, that reasoning's far inferior to
intuition ?
Tickler. How are your transplanted trees, James ?
Shepherd. A' dead.
Tickler. I can't endure the idea of a transplanted tree.
Transplantation strikes at the very root of its character as
a stationary and stedfast being, flourishing where nature
dropt it. You may remove a seedling ; but 'tis sacrilege
to hoist up a huge old oak by the power of machinery,
and stick him into another soil, far aloof from his native
spot, which for so many years he had sweetly or solemnly
overshadowed.
352 Was Hogg's Creel
Shepherd. Is that feelin no a wee owre imaginative ?
Tickler. Perhaps it is — and none the worse of that either —
for there's a tincture of imagination in all feelings of any pith
or moment — nor do we require that they should always be
justified by reason. On looking on a tree with any emotion
of grandeur or beauty, one .always has a dim notion of its
endurance — its growth and its decay. The place about it is
felt to belong to it — or rather, they mutually belong to each
other, and death alone should dissolve the union.
Shepherd. I fin' mysel convincin — that is, being convinced —
but no by your spoken words, but by my ain silent thochts.
I felt a' you say, and mair too, the first time I tried to trans
plant a tree. It was a birk — a weepinbirk — and I had loved
and admired it for twenty years by its ain pool, far up ane o'
the grains * o' the Douglas Water, where I beat Mr. North at
the fishin —
North. You never beat me at the fishing, sir, and never will
beat me at the fishing, sir, while your name is Hogg. I killed
that day — in half the time — -double the number —
Shepherd. But wecht, sir — wecht, sir, wecht. My creel
was mair nor dooble yours's wecht — and every wean kens
that in fishin for a wager, wecht wins — it's aye decided by
wecht.
North. The weight of your basket was not nearly equal to
mine, you —
Shepherd. Confound me gin, on an average, ane o' my troots
didna conteen mair cubic inches than three o' yours — while
I had a ane to produce that, on his first showin his snoot, I
could hae swore was a sawmon ; — he would hae filled the
creel his ain lane — sae I sent him hame wi' a callant I met
gaun to the school. The feck o' yours was mere fry — and
gome had a' the appearance o' bem' baggy mennons. You're a
* Grains — branches. The Douglas Water is a tributary of the Yarrow.
Heavier than North's ? 353
gran' par-fisher, sir ; but you're naeThorburn * either at troots,
morts or fish, f
North (starting up in a fury). I'll fish you for —
Shepherd. Mr. North ! I am ashamed to see you exposin
yoursel afore Mr. De Quinshy — besides, thae ragin fits are
dangerous — and, some time or ither, 'ill bring on apoplexy.
Oh ! but you're fearsome the noo — -black in the face, or rather,
blue and purple — and a' because I said that you're nae Thor-
burn at the fishin. Sit doun — sit doun, sir.
f Mr. NORTH sits down, and cools and calms himself, while
the horns sound for the ffth course, " The gloomy nicht
is gathering fast.'1'
* A noted angler on Tweedside.
t In the language of anglers, salmon alone are called fish.
23
XXII.
THE BLOODY BATTLE OF THE BEES.
Scene, — The Arbor, Buchanan Lodge. Time, — Eight o'clock.
Present.— NORTH, ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, SHEPHERD,
and TICKLER. Table with light wines, oranges, biscuits,
almonds, and raisins.
Shepherd. Rain but no star-proof, this bonny bee-hummin,
bird-nest-concealin Bower, that seems — but for the trellis-
wark peepin out here and there where the later floweriu-
shrubs are scarcely yet out o' the bud — rather a production
o' Nature's sel than o' the gardener's genius. Oh, sir, but in
its bricht and balmy beauty 'tis even nae less than a perfeck
Poem!
North. Look, James, how she cowers within her couch —
only the point of her bill, the tip of her tail, visible — so pas
sionately cleaveth the loving creature to the nestlings beneath
her mottled breast, — each morning beautifying from down to
plumage, till next Sabbath-sun shall stir them out of theii
cradle, and scatter them, in their first weak wavering flight,
up and down the dewy dawn of their native Paradise.
Shepherd. A bit mavis ! * Hushed as a dream — and like a
dream to be startled aff in til ether, if you but touch the leaf-
croon that o'er-canopies her head. What an ee ! Shy, yet
confidin — as she sits there ready to flee awa wi' a rustle in a
* Mavis— thrush.
354
The Nest of a Thrush. 355
moment yet linked within that rim by the chains o' love,
motionless as if she were dead !
North. See — she stirs !
Shepherd. Dinna be disturbed. I could glower at her for
hours, musin on the mystery o' instinct, and at times for-
gettin that my een were fixed but on a silly bird, — for sae
united are a' the affections o' sentient Natur, that you hae
only to keek * in til a brush o' broom, or a sweet-brier, ordouii
to the green braird aneath your feet, to behold in the liiitie,
or the lark — or in that mavis — God bless her ! — an emblem
o' the young Christian mother fauldin up in her nursin bosom
the beauty and the blessedness o' her ain First-born !
North. I am now threescore-and-ten, James, and I have,
suffered and enjoyed much ; but I know not if, during all the
confusion of those many-colored years, diviner delight ever
possessed my heart and my imagination, than of old entranced
me in solitude, when, among the braes, and the moors, and the
woods, I followed the verdant footsteps of the Spring, uncoin-
panioned but by my own shadow, and gave names to every
nook in nature, from the singing birds of Scotland discovered,
but disturbed not, in their most secret nests.
Tickler. Namby-pamby !
Shepherd. Nae sic thing. A shilfa'sf nest within the angles
made by the slicht, silvery, satiny stem o' a bit birk-tree, and
ane o' its young branches glitterin and glimmerin at ance wi'
shade and sunshine and a dowery o' pearls, is a sicht that,
when seen for the first time in this life, gars a boy's being
loup out o' his verra bosom richt up intil the boundless blue
o' heaven !
Tickler. Poo
Shepherd. Whisht — oh, whisht. For 'tis felt to be something
far, far beyond the beauty o' the maist artfu' contrivances o'
* Keek— peep. t Shilfa— chaffinch.
356 Hogg the « Herrier"
mortal man, — and gin he be a thochtfu' callant, which frae
wanderin and daunderin by himsel, far awa frae houses, and
ayont the loneliest shielin * amang the hills, is surely nae
unreasonable hypothesis, but the likeliest thing in natur,
thinkna ye that though his mood micht be iridistinck even as
ony sleepin dream, that nevertheless it maun be sensibly
interfused, throughout and throughout, wi' the consciousness
that that Nest, wi' sic exquisite delicacy intertwined o' some
substance seemingly mair beautifu' than ony moss that ever
grew upon this earth, into a finest fabric growin as it were
out o' the verra bark o' the tree, and in the verra nook, — the
only nook where nae winds could touch it, let them blaw a'
at ance frae a' the airts, — wadna, sirs, I say, that callant's
heart beat wi' awe in its delicht, feelin that that wee, cosy,
beautifu' and lovely cradle, chirp-chirpin wi' joyfu' life, was
bigged there by the hand o' Him that hung the sun in our
heaven, and studded with stars the boundless universe ?
Tickler. James, forgive my folly
Shepherd. That I do, Mr. Tickler — and that I would do, if
for every peck there was a firlot. Yet when a laddie, I was
an awfu' herrier ! f Sic is the inconsistency, because o' the
corruption o' human natur. Ilka spring, I used to hae half
a dozen strings o' eggs
Tickler.—
" Orient pearls at random strung.*
Shepherd. Na — no at random — but a' accordin to an innate
sense o' the beauty o' the interminglin and interfusin varie
gation o' manifold color, which, when a' gathered thegither
on a yard o' twine, and dependin frae the laigh roof o' our
bk cottie, aneath the cheese-bauk, and aiblins atween a
couple o' hangin hams, seemed to maeen sae fu' o'a strange,
* Shielin— a shelter for sheep or shepherd among the hills.
t Herrier— rifler of birds' nests.
Tickler the Devour er. 357
wild, woodland, wonderfu', and maist uuwarldish loveliness,
that the verra rainbow hersel, lauchin on us laddies no to be
feared at the thuimer, looked nae niair celestial than thae
egg-shells! Ae string especially will I remember till my
dying day. It tapered awa frae the middle, made o' the
eggs o' the blackbird — douii through a' possible vareeities
— lark, lintie, yellow-yite, hedge-sparrow, shilfa, and gold
finch — ay, the verra goldfinch hersel, rare bird in the Forest
— to the twa ends so dewdrap-like, wi' the wee bit blue
peaiiins o' the kitty-wren. Damm Wullie Laidlaw for stealin
them ae Sabbath when we was a' at the kirk ! Yet I'll try
to forgie him for sake o' " Lucy's Flittin," * and because not
withstanding that cruel crime, he's turned out a gude husband,
a gude faither, and a gude freen.
Tickler. We used, at school, James, to boil and eat them.
Shepherd. Gin ye did, then wouldna I, for ony considera
tion, in a future state be your sowl.
Tickler. Where's the difference ?
Shepherd. What ! atween you arid me ? Yours was a base,
fleshly hunger, or hatred, or hard-heartedness, or scathe and
scorn o' the quakin griefs o' the bit bonny shriekin burdies
around the tuft o' moss, a' that was left o' their herried
nests ; but mine was the sacred hunger and thirst o' divine
silver and gold gleamin amang the diamonds drapt by
mornin on the hedgeraws, and rashes, and the broom, and
the whins — love o' the lovely — desire conquerin but no killin
pity — and joy o' blessed possession, that left at times a tear
on my cheek for the bereavement o' the heart-broken
warblers o' the woods. Yet brak I not mony o' their
hearts, after a' ; for if the nest had five eggs, I generally
took but twa ; though I confess that on gaun back again to
* " Lucy's Flitting," by William Laidlaw, Sir Walter Scott's friend, is
one of our simplest and most pathetic melodies.
358 The Opium-Eater reverses
brae, bank, bush, or tree, I was glad when the nest was
deserted, the eggs cauld, and the birds awa to some ither
place. After a' I was never cruel, sirs ; that's no a sin o'
mine — and whenever, either then or since, I hae gien pain
to ony leevin cretur, in nae lang time after, o' the twa
pairties, mine has been the niaist achin heart. As for pyats,
and hoodie-craws, and the like, I used to heirythern without
compunction, £Ld flingin up stanes, to shoot them wi' a gun
as they were flasteriri out o' the nest.
English Opium-Eater. Some one of my ancestors — for, even
with the deepest sense of my own unworthiness, I cannot
believe that my own sins, as a cause, have been adequate
to the production of such an effect — must have perpetrated
some enormous — some monstrous crime, punished in ine, his
descendant, by utter blindness to all birds' nests.
Shepherd. Maist likely. The De Quinshys cam ower wi'
the Conqueror, and were great criminals. — But did you ever
look for them, sir ?
English Opium- Eater. From the year 1811 — the year in
which the Marrs and Williamsons were murdered * — till the
year 1821, in which Bonaparte the little — vulgarly called
Napoleon the Great — died of a cancer in his stomach —
Shepherd. A hereditary disease — accordin to the doctors.
English Opium-Eater. did I exclusively occupy myself
during the spring months, from night till morning, in search
ing for the habitations of these interesting creatures.
Shepherd. Frae nicht till mornin ! That comes o' reversin
the order o' Natur. You micht see a rookery or a heronry by
moonlicht — but no a wren's nest aneath the portal o'some
cave, lookin out upon a sleepless waterfa' dinnin Lo the stars.
* In the second volume of his Miscellanies (1854), Mr. De Quincey has
described these murders with a power and circumstantiality which excite
the most absorbing interest in the mind of the reader.
The Order of Nature. 359
Mr. De Quinshy, you and me leeves in twa different warlds —
and yet its wonnerfu' hoo we understaun' ane anither sae
weel's we do — quite a phenomena. When I'm soopin you're
breakfastin — when I'm lyin doun, after your coffee you're
risin up — as I'm coverin my head wi' the blankets, you're
pittin on your breeks — as my een are steekin like sunflowers
aneath the moon, yours are glowin like twa gas-lamps —
and while your mind is masterin poleetical economy and
metapheesics, in a desperate fecht wi' Ricawrdo and Kant,*
I'm heard by the nicht-wanderin fairies snorin trumpet-nosed
through the land o' Nod.
English Opium-Eater. Though the revolutions of the hea
venly bodies have, I admit, a certain natural connection with
the ongoings of —
Shepherd. Wait awee — nane o' your astrology till after
sooper. It canna be true, sir, what folk say about the
influence o' the moon on character. I never thocht ye the
least mad. Indeed, the only faut I hae to fin' wi' you is,
that you're ower wise. Yet we speak what, in the lang-run,
would appear to be ae common language — I sometimes
understaun' you no that very indistinctly — and when we
tackle in our talk to the great interests o' humanity, we're
philosophers o' the same school, sir, and see the inner warld
by the self-same central licht. We're incomprehensible
creturs, are we men — that's beyond a dout ; — and let us be
born and bred as we may — black, white, red, or a deep
bricht, burnished copper — in spite o' the division o' tongues,
there's nae division o' hearts, for it's the same bluid that
* David Ricardo, an eminent member of the London Stock Exchange, and
the profoundest writer on political economy which thia country has pro
duced, died in 1823. Immanuel Kant was the great philosopher of Kb'nigs.
berg, hi8 native town, from which he was never farther distant than twenty
miles, during the whole course of a life which lasted from 1724 to 1804.
360 The Opium-waters World.
gangs circulatin through our mortal tenements, carrying
alang on its tide the same freightage o' feelins and thochts,
emotions, affections, and passions — though, like the ships o'
different nations, they a' hoist their ain colors, and prood,
prood are they o' their leopards, or their crescent-moons, or
their stars, or their stripes o' buntin ; — but see ! when it
blaws great guns, hoo they a' fling owerboard their storm-
anchors, and when their cables pairt, hoo they a' seek the
shelterin lee o' the same michty breakwater, a belief in the
being and attributes of the One Living God. — But was ye
never out in the daytime, sir ?
English Opium-Eater. Frequently.
Shepherd. But then it's sae lang sin' syne, that in memory
the sunlicht maun seem amaist like the moonlicht, — sic,
indeed, even wi' us that rise with the laverock, and lie doun
wi' the lintie, is the saftenin — the shadin — the darkenin
power o' the Past, o' Time the Prime Minister o' Life, wha,
in spite o' a' Opposition, carries a' his measures by a silent
vote, and aften, wi' a weary wecht o' taxes, bows a' the wide
warld doun to the verra dust.
English Opium-Eater. In the South my familiars have
been the nightingales, in the North the owls. Both are merry
birds — the one singing, and the other shouting, in moods of
midnight mirth. — Nor in my deepest, darkest fits of medita
tion or of melancholy, did the one or the other ever want
my sympathies, — whether piping at the root of the hedgerow,
or hooting from the trunk of a sycamore — else all still both
on earth and in heaven.
Shepherd. Ye maun hae seen mony a beautifu' and mony a
sublime sjcht, sir, in the Region, lost to folk like us, wha try
to keep oursels awauk a' day and asleep a' nicht — and your
sowl, sir, maun hae acquired something o' the serene and
solemn character o' the sunleft skies. And true it is, Mr.
The Religious World. 361
De Quinshy, that ye hae the voice o' a nicht-wanderin man
— laigh and lown — pitched on the key o' a wimplin burn
speakin to itsel in the silence, aneath the moon and stars.
Tickler. 'Tis pleasant, James, to hear all us four talking
at one time — your bass, my counter, Mr. De Quincey's
tenor, and North's treble —
North. Treble, indeed !
Tickler. Ay, childish treble —
Shepherd. Come, nae quarrellin yet. That's a quotation
frae Shakespeare, and there's nae insult in a mere quotation.
(after a pause.) Oh, man ! if them that's kickin up sic a row
the noo about the doctrine o' the Christian religion had
looked intil the depths o' their ain natur wi' your een, they
had a' been as mum as mice keekin roun' the end o' a pew,
in place o' scrauchin like pyats on the leads, or a hoodie wi' a
sair throat.
English Opium-Eater. I know not to what you allude, Mr.
Hogg, for I live out of what is called the Religious World.
Shepherd. A loud, noisy, vulgar, bawlin, brawlin, wranglin,
branglin, routin, and roarin warld — maist unfittin indeed for
the likes o' you, sir, wha, under the shadows o' woods and
mountains, at midnight, communes wi' your ain heart, and is
still.
English Opium-Eater. No religious controversy in modern
days, sir, ever seemed to me to reach back into those recesses
in my spirit where the sources lie from which well out the
bitter or the sweet waters — the sins and the miseries — the
holinesses and the happinesses of our incomprehensible being !
Shepherd. And if they ever do, hoo drumly the stream !
English Opium-Eater. Better even a mere sentimental re
ligion, which, though shallow, is pure, than those audacious
doctrines broached by Pride-in-Humility, who, blind as the
362 In a Grave Mood.
bat, essays the flight of the eagle, and, ignorant of the low
est natures, yet claims acquaintance with the decrees of the
Most High.
Shepherd. Ay — better far a sentimental — a poetical reli
gion, as you say, sir — though that's far frae being the true
thing either — for o' a' the Three Blessings o' Man, the last is
the best — Love, Poetry, and Religion. What'n a book micht
be written, I've aften thocht — and aiblins may hae said — on
thae three words !
English Opium-Eater. Yes, my dear James — Beauty, the
soul of Poetry, is indeed divine — but there is that which is
diviner still — and that is DUTY.
" Flowers laugh before her on their beds,
And fragrance in her footing treads ;
She doth preserve the stars from wrong,
And the eternal heavens through her are fresh and strong."
Shepherd. Wha said that ?
English Opium-Eater. Who? — Wordsworth. And the
Edinburgh Review — laughed.
Shepherd. He has made it, sin' syne, lauch out o' the
wrang side o' its mouth. He soars.
North. Human life is always, in its highest moral exhibi
tions, sublime rather than beautiful — and the sublimity is
not that of the imagination, but of the soul.
Shepherd. If you will alloo a simple shepherd to speak on
gic a theme —
North. Yes, my dearest James, you can, if you choose,
speak on it better than either of us.
Shepherd. Weel, then, that is the view o' virtue that seems
maist consistent wi' the revelation o' its true nature by Chris
tianity, Isna there, sirs, a perpetual struggle — a ceevil war
— in ilka man's heart ? This we ken, whenever we hate an
opportunity o' discerning what is gaun on in the hearts o'
The Religious Sentiment. 363
ithers, — this we ken, whenever we set ourselves to tak a
steady gaze intil the secrets o' our ain. We are, then,
moved — ay, appalled, by much that we behold ; and wherever
there is sin, there, be assured, will be sorrow. But arena we
aften cheered, and consoled too, by much that we behold ?
And wherever there is goodness, our ain heart, as weel's them
o' the spectators, burns within us ! Ay — it burns within us.
We feel — we see, that we or our brethren are pairtly as God
would wish — as we must be afore we can hope to see His face
in mercy. I've often thocht intil mysel that that feeling is
ane that we may desecrate (is that the richt word ?) by rank
ing it amang them that appertains to our senses and our
imagination, rather than to the religious soul.
North. Mr. De Quincey !
English Opium-Eater. Listen. An extraordinary man in
deed, sir !
Shepherd. No me ; there's naething extraordinar about me,
mair than about a thousand ither Scottish shepherds. But
ca' not, I say, the face o' that father beautifu' who stands
beside the bier o' h-is only son, and wi' his ain withered hands
helps to let doun the body into the grave — though all its
lines, deep as they are, are peacefu' and untroubled, and the
grey uncovered head maist reverend and affecting in the sun
shine that falls at the same time on the coffin of him who was
last week the sote stay o' his auld age ! But if you could
venture in thocht to be wi' that auld man when he is on his
knees before God, in his lanely room, blessing Him for a' His
mercies, even for having taken awa the licht o' his eyes,
extinguished it in a moment, and left a' the house in dark
ness — you would not then, if you saw into his inner spirit,
venture to ca' the calm that slept there — beautifu' ! Na, na,
na ! In it you would feel assurance o' the immortality of the
Soul — o' the transitoriness o' mere human sorrows — o' the
364 How sorrow is idealized.
vanity o' a' passion that clings to the clay — o' the power
which the spirit possesses in richt o' its origin to see God's
eternal justice in the midst o' sic utter bereavement as might
well shake its faith in the Invisible — •<>' a' life where there is
nae decaying frame to weep over and to bewail ; and sae
thinking — and sae feelin — ye would behold in that auld man
kneeliri in your unkent presence, an eemage o' human nature
by its intensest sufferings raised and reconciled to that feenal
state o' obedience, acquiescence, and resignation to the will
o' the Supreme, which is virtue, morality, piety, in ae word
— RELIGION. Ay, the feenal consummation o' mortality
putting on immortality, o' the soul shedding the slough o'
its earthly affections, and reappearing amaist in its pristine
innocence, riae unfit inhabitant o' Heaven.
English Opium-Eater. Say not that a thousand Scottish
shepherds could so speak, my dear sir.
Shepherd. Ay, and far better, too. But hearken till me, —
when that state o' mind passed away frae us, and we became
willing to find relief, as it were, frae thochts sae far aboon
the level o' them that must be our daily thochts, then we
micht. and then probably we would, begin to speak, sir, o' the
beauty o' the auld man's resignation, and in poetry or paint
ing the picture micht be pronounced beautifu', for then our
souls would hae subsided, and the deeper, the mair solemn,
and the mair awfu' o' our emotions would o' themselves hae
retired to rest within the recesses o' the heart, alang wi'
maist o' the maist mysterious o' our moral and religious con
victions. — (Dog barks.) Heavens ! I could hae thocht that
was Bronte!
North. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world
of sound.
Shepherd. Purple black was he all over, except the star on
his breast — as the raven's wing. Strength and sagacity
The Death of Bronte. 365
emboldened his bounding beauty, and a fierceness lay deep
down within the quiet lustre o' his een, that tauld ye, even
when he laid his head upon your knees, and smiled up to your
face like a verra intellectual and moral cretur, — as he was, —
that had he been angered, he could hae torn in pieces a
lion.
North. Not a child of three years old and upwards, in the
neighborhood of the Lodge, that had not hung by his mane,
and played with his fangs, and been affectionately worried by
him on the flowery greensward.
Shepherd. Just like a stalwart father gambollin wi' his
lauchin bairns ! — And yet there was a heart that could bring
itsel to pushion Bronte ! When the atheist flung him the
arsenic ba', the deevil was at his elbow.*
North. 'Twas a murder worthy of Hare or Burke, or the
bloodiest of their most cruel and cowardly abettors.
Shepherd. I agree wi' you, sir ; but dinna look sae white,
and sae black, and sae red in the face, and then sae mottled,
as if you had the measles ; for see, sir, how the evening
sunshine is sleeping on his grave !
North. No yew-tree, James, ever grew so fast before — Mrs
Gentle herself planted it at his head. My own eyes were
somewhat dim, but as for hers — God love them ! — they
streamed like April skies — and nowhere else in all the
garden are the daisies so bright as on that small mound.
That wreath, so curiously wrought into the very form of flowery
letters, seems to fantasy like a funeral inscription — his very
came — -Bronte.
Shepherd. Murder's murder, whether the thing pushioned
\iae four legs or only twa — for the crime is curdled into crime
* Bronte was poisoned— at least so it is very confidently believed— by
some of Dr. Knox's students, in revenge for the exposure of the principles
5n which their anatomical school was conducted.
366 Are Animals immortal?
in the blackness o' the sinner's heart, and the revengefu'
shedder even of bestial blood would, were the same demon to
mutter into his ears, and shut his eyes to the gallows, poison
the wel 1 in which the cottage-girl dips the pitcher that breaks
the reflection o' her bonny face in that liquid heaven. — But
hark ! wi' that knock on the table you hae frichtened the
mavis ! — Aften do I wonder whether or no birds, and beasts,
and insecks hae immortal sowls !
English Opium-Eater. What God makes, why should He
annihilate ? Quench our own Pride in the awful conscious
ness of our Fall, and will any other response come from that
oracle within us — Conscience — than that we have no claim on
God for immortality, more than the beasts which want indeed
" discourse of reason," but which live in love, and by love,
and breathe forth the manifestations of their being through
the same corruptible clay which makes the whole earth one
mysterious burial-place, unfathomable to the deepest sound
ings of our souls !
Shepherd. True, Mr. De Quinshy — true, true. Pride's at
the bottom o' a' our blindness, and a' our wickedness, and a'
our madness ; for if we did indeed and of verity, a' the nichts
and a' the days o' our life, sleepin and waukin,' in delicht or
in despair, aye remember, and never for a single moment
forget, that we are a' — WORMS — Milton, and Spenser, and
Newton — gods as they were on earth — and that they were
gods, did not the flowers and the stars declare, and a' the
two blended warlds o' Poetry and Science, lyin as it were
like the skies o' heaven reflected in the waters o' the earth,
in ane anither's arms ? Ay, Shakespeare himsel a WORM —
and Imogen, and Desdemona, and Ophelia, a' but the eemages
o' WORMS — and Macbeth, and Lear, and Hamlet ! Where
would be then our pride and the self-idolatry o' our pride,
and all the vain-glorifications o' our imagined magnificence ?
0' Bronte arrive-s. 367
Dashed doun into the worm-holes o' our birth-place, among
all crawlin and slimy things — and afraid in our lurking-places
to face the divine purity o' the far, far-aff and eternal heavens
in their infinitude ! — Puir Bronte's dead and buried — and sae
in a few years will a' Us Fowre be ! Had we naething but
our boasted reason to trust in, the dusk would become the
dark — and the dark the mirk, mirk, mirk ; but we have the
Bible, — and lo ! a golden lamp illumining the short miduicht
that blackens between the mortal twilight and the immortal
dawn.
North (blowing a boatswain's whistle). Gentlemen — look
here !
(A noble young Newfoundlander comes bounding into
the Arbor.)
Shepherd. Mercy me ! mercy me ! the verra dowg himsel !
The dowg wi' the star-like breast !
North. Allow me. my friend, to introduce you to O'BRONTE.
Shepherd. Ay — 111 shake paws wi' you, my gran' fallow ;
and though it's as true among dowgs as men, that he's a
clever chiel that kens his ain father, yet as sure as wee Jamie's
mine ain, are you auld Bronte's son. You've gotten the verra
same identical shake o' the paw — the verra same identical
wag o' the tail. (See, as Burns says, hoo it " hangs ower
his hurdies wi' a swurl.") Your chowks the same — like him,
too, as Shakespeare says, "dew-lapped like Thessawlian bills."
The same braid, smooth, triangular lugs, hanging doun aneath
your chafts ; and the same still, serene, smilin, and sagacious
een. Bark ! man — bark ! let us hear you bark. — Ay, that's
the verra key that Bronte barked on whenever " his blood
teas up and heart beat high : " and I'se warrant that in
anither year or less, in a street-row, like your sire you'll
clear the causeway o' a clud o' curs, and carry the terror o'
your name frae the Auld to the New Flesh-market ; though
368 North's Magical powder.
tak my advice, ma dear O' Bronte, and, except when circum
stances imperiously demand war, be thou — thou jewel of a
Jowler — a lover of peace !
English Opium-Eater. I am desirous, Mr. Hogg, of culti
vating the acquaintance — nay, I hope of forming the friend
ship — of that noble animal. Will you permit him to —
Shepherd. Gang your wa's,* O' Bronte, and speak till the
English Opium-Eater. Ma faith ! you hae nae need o' drogs
to raise your animal speerits, or heighen your imagination.
What'n intensity o' life ! — But whare's he been sin' he was
puppied, Mr. North?
North. On board a whaler. No education like a trip to
Davis Strait.
Shepherd. He'll hae speeled, I'se warrant him, mony an ice
berg — and worried mony a seal — aiblins a walrus, or sea-lion.
But are ve no feared o' his rinnin awa to sea ?
North. The spirit of his sire, James, has entered into him,
and he would lie, till he was a skeleton, upon my grave.
Shepherd. It canna be denied, sir, that you hae an un
accountable power o' attaching to you, no only dowgs, but
men, women, and children. I've never douted but that you
maun hae some magical pouther, that you blaw in amang
their hair — na, intil their verra lugs and een — imperceptible
fine as the motes i' the sun — and then there's nae resistance,
but the sternest Whig saftens afore you, the roots o' the
Radical relax, and a' distinctions o' age, sex and pairty — the
last the stubbornest and dourest o' a' — fade awa intil undis-
tinguishable confusion — and them that's no in the secret o'
your glamoury, fears that the end o' the warld's at haun, and
that there 'ill sune be nae mair use for goods and chattels in
the Millennium.
Tickler. As I am a Christian —
* Gang your wa's— get off.
O'BroHte swallows Opium. 369
Shepherd. You a Christian !
Tickler Mr. De Quincey has given O' Bronte a box of
opium.
Shepherd. What ! Has the dowg swallowed the spale-box
o' pills ? We maun gar him throw it up.
English Opium-Eater. The most monstrous and ignominious
ignorance reigns among all the physicians of Europe respect
ing the powers and properties of the poppy.
Shepherd. I wush in this case, sir, that the poppy mayna
pruve ower poorfu' for the puppy, and that the dowg's no a
dead man. Wull ye take your Bible-oath that he bolted the
box?
English Opium-Eater. Mr. Hogg, I never could see any suffi
cient reason why, in a civilized and Christian country, an
oath should be administered even to a witness in a court of
justice. Without any formula, Truth is felt to be sacred —
nor will any words weigh —
Shepherd. You're for upsettin the haill frame o' ceevil
society, sir, and bringing back 011 this kintra a' the horrors o'
the French Revolution. The power o' an oath lies, no in the
Reason, but in the Imagination. Reason tells that simple
affirmation or denial should be aneuch atween man and man.
But Reason canna bind, or if she do, Passion snaps the chain.
For ilka passion, sir, even a passion for a bead or a button,
is as strong as Samson bursting the withies. But Imagination
can bind, for she ca's on her Flamin Ministers — the Fears ;
— they palsy-strike the arm that would disobey the pledged
lips — and thus oaths are dreadfu' as Erebus and the gates o'
hell. — But see what ye hae dune, sir, — only look at O'Bronte
[O' BRONTE sallies from the Arbor — goes driving head-over-
heels through among the flower-beds, tearing up pinks and
carnations with his mouth and paws, and, finally, makes
repeated attempts to climb up a tree.
370 0" Bronte 's Hallucinations.
English Opium-Eater. No such case is recorded in the
medical books — and very important conclusions may be drawn
from an accurate observation of the phenomena now exhibited
by a distinguished member of the canine species, under such
a dose of opium as would probably send Mr. Coleridge * him
self to —
Shepherd. — his lang hame — or Mr. De Quinshy either —
though I should be loth to lose sic a poet as the ane, and sic
a philosopher as the ither — or sic a dowg as O'Bronte. — But
look at him speelin up the apple-tree like the auld serpent !
He's thinkin himsel, in the delusion o' the drog, a wull-cat
or a bear, and has clean forgotten his origin. Deil tak me
gin I ever saw the match o' that ! He's gotten up ; and's
lyin a' his length on the branch, as if he were streekin himsel
out to sleep on the ledge o' a brig ! What thocht's gotten
intil his head noo ? He's for herryin the goldfinch's nest
amang the verra tapmost blossoms ! — Ay, my lad ! that was
a thud !
O'BRONTE, who has fallen from the pippin, recovers his feet
— storms the Arbor — upsets the table, with all the bottles,
glasses, and plates — and then, dashing through the glass
front-door of the Lodge, disappears with a crash into the
interior.
English Opium-Eater. Miraculous !
Shepherd. A hairy hurricane I — What think ye, sir, o* the
SCOTTISH OPIUM-EATER ?
English Opium-Eater. I hope it is not hydrophobia.
Tickler. He manifestly imagines himself at the whaling,
and is off with the harpooners.
Shepherd. A vision o' blubber's in his sowl. Oh that he
could gie the warld his Confessions !
* S. T. Coleridge was a great consumer of opium. See his " Confessions H
In Cottle's neminisoences. Burn in 1771, Coleridge died in 1834.
The Beehive is upset. 371
English Opium- Eater. Mr. Hogg, how am I to understand
that insinuation, sir ?
Shepherd. Ony way you like. But did ever onybody see
a philosopher sae passionate ? Be cool — be cool. .
Tickler. See, see, see !
[O'BRONTE.
'« Like a glory from afar,
Like a reappearing star,"
comes spanging back into the cool of the evening, with
CYPRUS, NORTH'S unique male tortoise-shell cat in his
mouth, followed by JOHN and BETTY, broom-and-spit-
armed, with other domestics in the distance.
North. Drop Cyprus, you villain ! Drop Cyprus, you
villain ! I say, you villain, drop Cyprus — or I will brain you
with Crutch !
[O'BRONTE turns a deaf ear to all remonstrances, and con
tinues his cat-carryiny career, through flower, fruit, and
kitchen-gardens — the crutch having sped after him in
vain, and upset a beehive.
Tickler. Demme — I'm off. [Makes himself scarce.
North. Was that thunder ?
Shepherd. Bees — bees — bees ! Intil the Arbor — intil the
Arbor. — Oh ! that it had a door wi' a hinge, and a bolt
in the inside ! Hoo the swarm's ragin wud ! The hum-
min heavens is ower het to haud them — and if ae leader
chances to cast his ee hither, we are lost. For let but ane
set the example, and in a moment there 'ill be a charge o'
beggonets.*
English Opium-Eater. In the second book of his Georgics
Virgil, at once poet and naturalist, — and indeed the two
characters are, I believe, uniformly united, — beautifully treats
of the economy of bees — and I remember one passage —
* Beggonets — bayonets.
372 Hoyy and Tickler fly.
Shepherd. They're after Tickler — they're after Tickler —
like a cloud o' Cossacks or Polish Lancers — a' them that's no
settlin on the crutch. And see — see, a division — the left o'
the army — is bearin doun on O'Bronte. He'll sune liberate
Ceeprus.
Tickler (sub tegmine fagi). Murder — murder — murder!
Shepherd. Ay, you may roar — that's nae flea-bitin — nor
midge-bitin neither — na, it's waur than wasps — for wasps'
stings hae nae barbs, but bees' hae — and when they strike
them in, they canna rug them out again withouten leavin
ahint their entrails — sae they curl theirsels up upon the
wound, be it on haun, neck, or face, and, demon-like, spend
their vitality in the sting, till the venom gangs dirlin to your
verra heart. But do ye ken I'm amaist sorry for Mr. Tickler
— for he'll be murdered outricht by the insecks — although he
in a mainner deserved it for rinnin awa, and no sharin the
common danger wi' the rest at the mouth of the Arbor. If
he escapes wi' his life, we maun ca' a court-martial, and hae
him broke for cooardice. Safe us ! he's comin here wi' the
haill bike1* about his head! — Let us rin ! — let us rin! Let
us rin for our lives ! \_The SHEPHERD is off and away.
North. What ! and be broke for cowardice ! Let us die at
our posts like men.
English Opium-Eater. I have heard Mr. "Wordsworth deliver
an opinion, respecting the courage, or rather the cowardice,
of poets, which at the time, I confess, seemed to me to be
unwarranted by any of the accredited phenomena of the
poetical character. It was to this effect : That every passion
of the poet being of " imagination all compact," fear would
in all probability, on sudden and unforeseen emergencies,
gain an undue ascendancy in his being over all the other
unaroused active powers ; — (and here suffer me to put you
* Bike — swarm.
The Philosopher's Serenity. 373
on your guard against believing, that by the use of such
terms as Active Powers, I mean to class myself, as a meta
physical moralist, in the Scottish school, — that is, the school
more especially of Reid and Stewart* — whose ignorance of
the Will — the sole province of Moral Philosophy — I hold to
be equally shameful and conspicuous :) — so that, except in
cases where that Fear was withstood by the force of Sym
pathy, the poet so assailed would, ten to one (such was the
homely expression of the Bard anxious to clinch it), take to
almost immediate flight. This doctrine, as I have said,
appeared to me, at that time, not to be founded on a suffi
ciently copious and comprehensive induction ; — but I had,
very soon after its oral delivery by the illustrious author of
the Excursion, an opportunity of subjecting it to the test
act: — For, as Mr. Wordsworth and myself were walking
through a field of considerable — nay, great extent of acres
— discussing the patriotism of the Spaniards, and more par
ticularly the heroic defence of
" Iberian burghers, when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war,"
a bull of a red color (and that there must be something
essentially and inherently vehement in red, or rather the
natural idea of red, was interestingly proved by that answer
of the blind man to an inquirer more distinguished probably
for his curiosity than his acuteness — " that it was like the
sound of a trumpet ") bore down suddenly upon our dis
course, breaking, as you may well suppose, the thread
thereof, and dissipating, for a while, the many high dreams
(dreams indeed !) which we had been delighting to predict
* Dr. Thomas Reid, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University
of Glasgow, born in 1709, died in 1796. Dugald Stewart, Professor ot
Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, born in 1753, died in
374 North threatens to Fire.
of the future fates and fortunes of the Peninsula. The
Bard's words, immediately before the intrusion of Taurus,
were, " that death was a bugbear," and that the universal
Spanish nation would " work out their own salvation." One
bellow — and we were both hatless on the other side of the
ditch. " If they do," said I, " I hope it will not be after our
fashion, with fear and trembling." But I rather suspect,
Mr. North, that I am this moment stung by one of those
insects behind the ear, and in among the roots of the hair,
nor do I think that the creature has yet disengaged — or
rather disentangled itself from the nape — for I feel it strug
gling about the not — I trust — immedicable wound — the bee
being scarcely distinguishable, while I place my finger on the
spot, from the swelling round the puncture made by its sting,
which, judging from the pain, must have been surcharged
with — nay, steeped in venom. The pain is indeed most acute
— and approaches to anguish — I had almost said agony.
North. Bruise the bee " even on the wound himself has
made." 'Tis the only specific. — Any alleviation of agony ?
English Opium-Eater. A shade. The analysis of such pain
as I am now suffering — or say rather, enduring —
[TICKLER and the SHEPHERD, after having in vain sought
shelter among the shrubs, come flying demented towards
the Arbor.
Tickler and Shepherd. Murder ! — murder ! — murder !
North.—
" Arcades ambo,
Et cantare pares, et respondere parati ! "
English Opium-Eater. Each encircled, as to his forehead,
with a living crown — a murmuring bee-diadem worthy of
Aristaeus.
North. Gentlemen, if you mingle yourselves with us, I will
shoot you both dead upon the spot with this fowling-piece.
0' 'Bronte is attacked. 375
Shepherd. What'n a foolin-piece ? Oh ! sir, but you're
cruel ! [TICKLER lies down, and rolls himself on a plat.
North. Destruction to a bed of onion-seed ! James ! into
the tool-house.
Shepherd. I hae tried it thrice — but John and Betty hae
barred themselves in against the swarm. — Oh ! dear me —
I'm exhowsted — sae let me lie down and dee beside Mr.
Tickler! [The SHEPHERD lies down beside Mr. TICKLER.
English Opium-Eater. If any proof were wanting that I am
more near-sighted than ever, it would be that I do not see in
all the air, or round the luminous temples of Messrs. Tickler
and Hogg, one single bee in motion or at rest.
North. They have all deserted their stations, and made a
simultaneous attack on O'Bronte. Now, Cyprus, run for
your life !
Shepherd (raising his head). Hoo he's devoorin them by
hunders ! — Look, Tickler.
Tickler. My eyes, James, are bunged up — and I am flesh-
blind.
Shepherd. Noo they're yokin to Ceeprus ! His tail's as
thick wi' pain and rage as my arm. Hear till him cater-
waulin like a haill roof-fu' ! Ma stars, he'll gang mad, and
O'Bronte 'ill gang mad, and we'll a' gang mad thegither, and
the garden 'ill be ae great madhouse, and we'll tear ane
anither to pieces, and eat ane anither up stoop and roop,
and a' that 'ill be left o' us in the mornin 'ill be some bloody
tramplin up and doun the beds, and that 'ill be a catastrophe
Waur — if possible — than that o' Sir Walter's Ayrshire
Tragedy — and Mr. Murray 'ill melodramateeze us in a piece
ca'd the " Bluidy Battles o' the Bees ; " and pit, boxes, and
gallery 'ill a' be crooded to suffocation for a hunder nichta
at haill price, to behold swoopin alang the stage the LAST o
THE NOCTES AMBROSIANJE ! ! !
376 The Hive exterminated'
English Opium-Eater. Then, indeed, will the "gaiety of
nations be eclipsed " ; sun, moon, and stars may resign their
commission in the sky, and Old Nox reascend, never more to
be dislodged from the usurpation of the effaced, obliterated,
and extinguished universe.
Shepherd. Nae need o' exaggeration. But sure aneuch I
wadna, for anither year, in tha4. case, insure the life o' the
Solar System — (Rising up.) — Whare's a' the bees ?
North. The hive is almost exterminated. You and Tickler
have slain your dozens uud your tens of dozens — O'Bronte
has swallowed some scores — Cyprus made no bones of his
allowance — and Mr. De Quincey put to death — one. So
much for the killed. The wounded you may see crawling
in all directions, dazed and dusty ; knitting their hind-legs
together, and impotently attempting to unfurl their no
longer gauzy wings. As to the missing, driven by fear from
house and home, they will continue for days to be picked up
by the birds, while expiring on their backs on the tops of
thistles and binweeds — and of the living, perhaps a couple
of hundreds may be on the combs, conferring on State affairs,
and —
Shepherd. Mournin for their queen. Sit up, Tickler.
[TICKLER rises, and shakes himself.
What'n a face !
North. 'Pon my soul, my dear Timothy, you must be bled
forthwith — for in this hot weather inflammation and fever —
Shepherd. Wull sune end in mortification — then coma — and
then death. We maun lance and leech him, Mr. North, for
we canna afford, wi' a' his failins, to lose Southside.
Tickler. Lend me your arm, Kit —
North. Take my crutch, my poor dear fellow. How are
you now ?
Shepherd. Hoo are you noo ? — Hoo are you noo ?
A G-hastly Visage. 377
English Opium-Eater. Mr. Tickler, I would fain hope, sir,
that, notwithstanding the assault of those infuriated insects,
which in numbers without number numberless, on the up
setting —
Tickler. Oh ! oh !— Whoh ! whoh !— whuh ! whuh !
Shepherd. That comes o' wearin nankeen pantaloons with
out drawers, and thin French silk stockins wi' open gushets,
and nae neckcloth, like Lord Byron. I find corduroys and
tap-boots impervious to a' mainner o' insects, — bees, wasps,
hornets, ants, midges, clegs, and, warst o' a' — the gad. By
the time the bite reaches the skin, the venom's drawn out by
ever so mony plies o' leather, linen, and wurset — and the
spat's only kittly. But (putting his hand to his face) what's
this ? — Am I wearin a mask ? — a fause-face wi' a muckle
nose ? Tell me, Mr. North, tell me, Mr. De Quinshy, on the
honors o' twa gentlemen as you are, am I the noo as ugly as
Mr. Tickler ?
North. 'T would be hard to decide, James, which face
deserves the palm ; yet — let me see — let me see — I think — I
think, if there be indeed some slight shade of — What say you,
Mr. De Quincey ?
English Opium-Eater. I beg leave, without meaning any
disrespect to either party, to decline delivering any opinion
on a subject of so much delicacy, and —
Tickler and Shepherd (gvffawing). What'n a face ! what'n a
face ! Oh ! what'n a face !
English Opium-Eater. Gentlemen, here is a small pocket-
mirror, which, ever since the year —
Shepherd. Dinna be sae chronological, sir, when a body's
sufferin. Gie's the glass (looks in) — and that's ME ? Blue,
black, ochre, gambooshe, purple,, pink, and — green ! Bottle-
nosed — wi' een like a piggie's ! The Owther o' the Queen's
Wake ! I maun hae my pictur taen by John Watson Gordon,
878 Leeches are applied
set in diamonds, and presented to the Empress o' Russia, or
some ither croon'd head. I wunner what wee Jamie wad
think ! It is a phenomena o' a fizzionamy. — An' hoo sail I
get out the stings ?
North. We must apply a searching poultice.
Shepherd. O' raw veal ?
Tickler (taking the mirror out of the Shepherd's hand). Ay !
North. Twould be dangerous, Timothy, with that face, to
sport Narcissus.
" Sure such a pair were never seen,
So aptly formed to meet by nature I "
Ha! O'Bronte?
[O' BRONTE enters the Arbor p, still under the influence of opium.
What is your opinion of these faces ?
O'Bronte. Bow — wow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow-
wow !
Shepherd. He taks us for Eskymaws.
North. Say rather seals, or sea-lions.
O'Bronte. Bow — wow — wow — wow. — Bow — wow — wow-
wow !
Shepherd. Laugh'd at by a dowg ! — Wha are ye ?
[JOHN and BETTY enter the Arbor with basins and towels,
and a phial of leeches.
North. Let me manage the worms. — Lively as fleas.
[Mr. NORTH, with tender dexterity, applies six leeches to the
SHEPHERD'S face.
Shepherd. Preens — preens — preens — preens ! *
North. Now, Tickler.
[Attempts, unsuccessfully, to perform the same kind office
to TICKLER.
Your sanguineous system, Timothy, is corrupt. They won't
fasten.
* Preens — pins
To the Wounded. 379
Shepherd. Wtmna they sook him ? I find mine hangin cauld
frae temple to chaft, and swallin — there's ane o' them played
plowp intil the basin.
North. Betty — the salt.
Shepherd. Strip them, Leezy. There's anither.
North. Steady, my dear Timothy, steady ; ay ! there he
does it, a prime worm — of himself a host. Sir John Leech.
English Opium-Eater. I observe that a state of extreme
languor has succeeded excitement, and that 0' Bronte has now
fallen asleep. Hark ! a compressed whine, accompanied by
a slight general convulsion of the whole muscular system,
indicates that the creature is in the dream-world.
Shepherd. In dookin ! or fechtin — or makin up to a—
North. Remove the apparatus.
[JOHN and BETTY carry away the basins, pitchers, phial,
towels, fyc., fyc.
Shepherd. Hoo's my face noo ?
North. Quite captivating, James. That dim discoloration
sets off the brilliancy of your eyes to great advantage ; and I
am not sure if the bridge of your nose as it now stands be
not an improvement.
Shepherd. Weel, weel, let's say nae mair about it. That's
richt, Mr. Tickler, to hang your silk handkerchy ower your
face like a nun takin the veil. Whare were we at ?
Tickler. I vote we change the Arbor for the Lodge. 'Tis
cold — positively chill — curse the climate !
English Opium-Eater. Our sensations are the sole —
Shepherd. If you're cauld, sir, you may gang and warm
yoursel at the kitchen fire. But we'se no stir —
Tickler. Curse the climate !
Shepherd. Cleemat ! Where's the cleemat like it, I would
wush to ken ? Greece ? Italy ? Persia ? Hindostan ? Poo-
poo — poo ! Wha could thole months after months o' ae kind
380 Real Scotch Thunder.
o' wather, were the sky a' the while lovely as an angel's ee?
Commend me to the bold, bricht, black, boisterous, and
blusterin beauty o' the British heavens !
Tickler. But what think ye, James, of a tropic tornado, or
hurricane ?
Shepherd. I wouldna gie a doit for a dizzen. Swoopin awa
a toun o' wooden cages, wi' ane bigger than the lave, ca'd
the governor's house, and aiblins a truly contemptible kirk,
floatin awa into rottenness sae muckle colonial produce, rice,
rum, or sugar, arid frichtening a gang o' neeggers ! It mayna
roar sae loud nor sae lang, perhaps, our ain indigenous Scottish
thunner; but it rairs loud and larig aneuch too, to satisfy ony
reasonable Christian that has the least regard for his lugs.
Nae patriot, Mr. Tickler, would undervalue his native kintra's
thunner. Hear it spangin — hap, step, and loup — frae Crua-
chan to Ben Nevis ! The red-deer — you micht think them a'
dead — and that their antlers were rotten branches — sae stane-
like do they couch atween the claps — without ae rustle in the
heather. Black is the sky as pitch — but every here and
there, shootin up through the purple gloom, — for whan the
lichtnin darts out its fiery serpents it is purple, — lo ! bricht
pillars and pinnacles illuminated in the growlin darkness,
and then gone in a moment in all their glory, as the day-
nicht descends denser doun upon the heart o' the glens, and
you only hear the mountain-tap ; for wha can see the thousand
year-auld cairn up-by yonder, when a' the haill heaven is ae
coal-cloud — takin fire every noo and then as if it were a
furnace — and then indeed by that flash may you see the
cairn like a giant's ghost ? Up goes the sable veil — for an
eddy has been churning the red river into spray, and noo is
a whirlwind — and at that updriving see ye not a hundred
gnaw-white torrents tumblin frae the tarns, and every cliff
rejoicin in its new-born cataract ? There is tho, van o' amthor
The " Buffoonery " of the Noetes. 381
cloud-army frae the sea. What 'ill become o' the puir ships ?
A dismal word to think on in a tempest — lee-shore ! There's
nae wund noo — only a sort o' sugh. Yet the cloud-army
comes on in the dead march — and that is the muffled drum.
Na — that flash gaed through my head, and I fear I'm stricken
blind! Rattle — rattle — rattle — as if great granite stanes
were shot out o' the sky doun an invisible airn-roof, and
plungin sullenly intil the sea. The eagles daurna scream —
but that demon the raven croaks — croaks — croaks, — is it out
o' the earth, or out o' the air, cave or cloud ? My being is
cowed in the insane solitude. But pity me — bless me — is
that a wee bit Hieland lassie sittin in her plaid aneath a
stane, a' by hersel, far frae hame, ha'in been sent to look
after the kids — for I declare there is ane lyin on her bosom,
and its mither maun be dead ! Dinna be frichtened, my
sweet Mhairi, for the lichtnin shanna be allowed by God to
touch the bonny blue ribbon round thy yellow hair ! — There's
a bit o' Scottish thunner and lichtnin for you, Mr. Tickler,
and gin it doesna satisfy you, aff to the troppics for a tor-
nawdoe !
English Opium-Eater. You paint in words, mine admirable
Shepherd, Nature in all her moods and aspects —
Shepherd. The coorse buffoonery — the indecent ribaldry o'
the Noetes Ambrosianae ! !
English Opium-Eater. Spirit of Socrates, the smiling sage !
whose life was love, I invoke thee to look down from heaven
upon this blameless arbor, and bless " Edina's old man
eloquent." Unsphere thy spirit, 0 Plato ! or let it even, like
some large and lustrous star, hang over the bower where oft
in musing " melancholy sits retired " the grey-haired Wisdom-
Seeker whom all Britain's youth adore, or " discourseth most
excellent music " with lips on which, as on thine own, in
infancy had swarmed —
382 An Invocation.
Shepherd. For Heaven's sake, nae mention o' bees ! That's
a sair subjeck wi' me and Mr. Tickler. Get on to some o'
the lave.
English Opium-Eater. Nor thou, stern Stagirite ! who nobly
heldst that man's best happiness was " Virtuous Energy,"
avert thy face severe from the high moral " Teacher of the
Lodge," of whom Truth declares that " he never lost a day."
Shepherd. That's bonny.
English Opium-Eater. From thy grove gardens in the sky,
O gracious and benign Epicurus ! let drop upon that cheerful
countenance the dews of thy gentle and trouble-soothing
creed !
Shepherd. Od ! I thocht Epicurus had been a great Epicure.
English Opium-Eater. And thou, O matchless Merryman o'
the Frogs and the Clouds ! * —
Shepherd. Wha the deevil's he ? The matchless Merryman
o' the Frogs and Clouds ! — That's opium. But hush your
havers, Mr. De Quinshy ; and tell me, Mr. North, what for
ye didna come out to Innerleithen and fish for the silver medal
of the St. Ronan's Border Club ! I'm thinkin ye was feared.
North. I have won so many medals, James, that my ambi
tion a\ti apcareveiv f is dead — and, besides, I could not think of
beating the Major. $
Shepherd. You beat the Major ! You micht at baggy men
nons, but he could gie ye a stane-wecht either at trouts or fish.
He's just a warld's wunner wi' the sweevil, a warlock wi'
the worm, and wi' the flee a feenisher. It's a pure pleesur
to see him playin a pounder wi' a single hair. After the first
twa-three rushes are ower, he seems to wile them wi' a charm
awa into the side, ontil the gerss or the grevvel, whare they
* Aristophanes. t Always to excel .
$ Major Mackay, a flrst-rate angler, and esteemed friend of Professor Wil-
North in Loch Awe. 383
He in the sunshine as if they were asleep, His tackle, for
bricht airless days, is o' gossamere ; and at a wee distance aff,
you think he's fishin without on}' line ava, till whirr gangs
the pirn, and up springs the sea-trout, silver-bricht, twa yards
out o' the water, by a delicate jerk o' the wrist, hyucked
inextricably by the tongue clean ower the barb o' the Kirby-
bend. Midge-flees !
North. I know the Major is a master in the art, James ; but
I will back the Professor* against him for a rump-and-dozen.
Shepherd. You would just then, sir, lose your rump. The
Professor can fish nae better nor yoursel. You would make a
pretty pair in a punt at the perches ; but as for the Tweed, at
trouts or sawmon, I'll back wee Jamie again' ye baith, gin
ye'll only let me fish for him the bushy pools. f
North. I hear you, James. Sir Isaac Newton was no
astronomer. . . .
Shepherd. I hae nae objection, sir, noo that there's nae
argument, to say that you're a gude angler yoursel, and sae
is the Professor.
North. James, these civilities touch. Your hand. In me
the passion of the sport is dead — or say rather dull ; yet have
I gentle enjoyment still in the " Angler's silent Trade." But,
heavens ! my dear James ! how in youth, and prime of man
hood too — I used to gallop to the glens like a deer, over a
hundred heathery hills, to devour the dark-rolling river, or
the blue breezy loch !
Shepherd. Ay, sir, in your younger days you maun hae been
a verra deevil. What creelfu's you maun hae killed !
North. A hundred and thirty in one day in Loch Awe,
James, as I hope to be saved — not one of them under —
Shepherd. A dizzen pun', — and twa-thirds o' them aboon't.
A'thegither a ton. If you are gaun to use the lang-bow, sir,
* Wilson. f Where deep wading is required.
384 The Shepherd's Baskets.
pu' the string to your lug, never fear the yew crackin, and
send the grey-guse-feathered arrow first wi' a lang whiz, and
then wi' a short thud, right intil the bull's ee, at ten score,
to the astonishment o' the ghost o' Robin Hood, Little
John, Adam Bell, Clym o' the Clough, and William o'
Cloudeslee.
North. My poor dear old friend, M'Neil of Hayfield * — God
rest his soul — it is in heaven — at ninety as lifeful as a boy at
nineteen — held up his hands in wonder, as under a shady
tree I laid the hundred and thirty yellow shiners on the bank
at his feet.
Shepherd. Poo ! That was nae day's fishin ava, man, in
comparison to ane o' mine on St. Mary's Loch. To sae nae-
thing about the countless sma' anes, twa hunder about half a
pun', ae hunder about a haill pun', fifty about twa pun', five-
and-twenty about fowre pun', and the lave rinnin frae half a
stane up to a stane and a half, except about half-a-dizzen
aboon a' wecht, that put Geordie Gudefallow and Huntly
Gordon t to their mettle to carry them pechint to Mount
Benger on a haun-barrow.
North. Well done. Ulysses.
Shepherd. Anither clay, in the Megget, I caucht § a cartfu'.
As it gaed doun the road, the kintra folk thocht it was a
cartfu' o' herrins — for they were a' preceesely o' ae size to an
unce — and though we left twa dizzen at this house — and four
dizzen at that house — and a gross at Henderland — on countin
them at hame in the kitchen, Leezy made them out forty
dizzen, and Girzzy forty -twa, aught ; sae a dispute ha'in
arisen, and o' coorse a bet, we took the census ower again,
* On the banks of Loch Awe.
t The friend and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. For an interesting ac
count of his connection with Scott, see Lockhart's Life, vol. ix. p. 195 et seq,
second edition.
J 7>eefcin— panting. § COMIC A*— caught.
FLU *
TJie Prayer of Ajax. 385
and may these be the last words I sail ever speak, gin they
didna turn out to be Forty-Five !
Tickler. Mr. De Quincey, now that these two old fools have
got upon angling —
Shepherd. Twa auld fules ! You great, starin, Saracen-
headed Langshanks ! If it werena for bringin Mr. North
intil trouble, by ha'in a dead man fun' within his premises,
deil tak me gin I wadna fractur your skull wi' ane o' the cut
crystals !
[Mr. NORTH touches the spring, and the Bower is in dark
ness.
Tickler.—
tf But such a chief I spy not through the host—
De Quincey, North, and Shepherd, all are lost
In general darkness. Lord of earth and air !
O King ! O Father ! hear my humble prayer :
Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore ;
Give me to see, and Tickler asks no more.
If I must perish- 1 thy will obey,
But let me perish in the face of day ! "
Shepherd. Haw ! haw ! haw ! The speech o* Awjax, in
Pop's Homer.
North. Gentlemen, let us go to supper in the Lodge.
[ Omnes mrgunL
Shepherd. What'n a sky !
North.—
11 Now glow'd the firmament
With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest— till the Moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent Queen ! unveil' d her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."
25
XXIII.
IN WHICH, AFTER THE SHEPHERD HAS APPEARED
SUCCESSIVELY AS PAN, AS HERCULES, AND THE
APOLLO BELVIDERE, NORTH EXHIBITS HIS GREAT
PICTURE— THE DEFENCE OF SOCRATES.
Scene, — The Snuggery. Time, — Nine. Present, — NORTH,
SHEPHERD, and TICKLER.
Tickler. CENTAUR ! No more like a centaur, James, than
he is like a whale. Ducrow * is not " demi-corpsed " — as
Shakespeare said of Laertes — with what he bestrides ; how
could he, with half-a-dozen horses at a time ? If the block
heads will but look at a centaur, they will see that he is not
six horses and one man, but one manhorse or horseman,
galloping on four feet, with one tail, and one face much more
humane than either of ours —
Shepherd. Confine yoursel to your ain face, Mr. Tickler.
A centaur would hae sma' diffeeculty- in ha'in a face mair
humane nor yours, sir — for it's mair like the face o' Notus or
Eurus nor a Christian's ; but as for ma face, sir, it's meeker
and milder than that o' Charon himsel —
North. Chiron, James.
Shepherd. Weel, then, Cheeron be't — when he was instillin
wisdom, music, and heroism intil the sowl o' Achilles, him
* The famous equestrian.
The Poetry of Motion. 387
that afterwards grew up the maist beautifu' and dreadfu' o'
a' the sons o' men.
Tickler. The glory of Ducrow lies in his Poetical Imper
sonations. Why, the horse is but the air, as it were, on which
he flies ! What godlike grace in that volant motion, fresh
from Olympus, ere yet " new-lighted on some heaven-kissing
hill ! " What seems " the feathered Mercury " to care for the
horse, whose side his toe but touches, as if it were a cloud in
the ether ? As the flight accelerates, the animal absolutely
disappears, if not from the sight of our bodily eye, certainly
from that of our imagination, and we behold but the messenger
of Jove, worthy to be joined in marriage with Iris.
Shepherd. I'm no just sae poetical's you, Mr. Tickler, when
I'm at the circus ; and ma bodily een, as ye ca' them, that's
to say, the een ane on ilka side o' ma nose, are far ower gleg
ever to lose sicht o' yon bonny din meer.
North. A dun mare, worthy indeed to waft Green Turban,
" Far descended of the Prophet line,"
across the sands of the Desert.
Shepherd. Ma verra thocht ! As she flew round like licht-
jiin, the sawdust o' the amphitheatre becam the sand-dust o'
Arawbia — the heaven-doomed region, for ever and aye, o' the
sons o' Ishmael.
Tickler. Gentlemen, you are forgetting Ducrow.
Shepherd. Na. It's only you that's forgettin the din meer.
His Mercury's beautifu' ; but his Gladiawtor's shooblime.*
Tickler. Roman soldier, you mean, James.
Shepherd. Haud your tongue, Tickler. Isna a Roman
sodger a Gladiawtor ? Doesna the verra word Gladiawtor
come frae the Latin for swurd ? Nae wunner the Romans
* Ducrow's impersonations of ancient statues were as perfect as his horse-
niauship.
388 The Roman Soldier.
conquered a' the warld, gin a' their sodgers focht like yon !
Sune as Ducraw tyuck his attitude, as stedfast on the steed
as on a stane, there ye beheld, stauning afore you, wi' helmet,
swurd, and buckler, the eemage o' a warrior-king ! The
hero looked as gin he were about to engage in single combat
wi' some hero o' the tither side — some giant Gaul — perhaps
himsel a king — in sicht o' baith armies — and by the eagle-
crest could ye hae sworn, that sune would the barbaric host
be in panic-flicht. What ither man o' woman born could sus
tain sic strokes, delivered wi' sovereign micht and sovereign
majesty, as if Mars himsel had descended in mortal guise, to
be the champion o' his am eternal city ?
North. Ma verra thocht.
Shepherd. Your thocht ! you bit puir, useless, trifling cre-
tur ! — Ax you pardon, sir — for really, in the enthusiasm o'
the moment, I had forgotten wha's vice it was, and thocht it
was Mr. Tickler's.
Tickler. Whose?
Shepherd. Sit still, sir. I wunner gin the Romans, in
battle, used, like our sodgers, to cry, " Huzzaw, huzzaw,
huzzaw ! "
North. We learned it from them, James. And ere all was
done, we became their masters in that martial vociferation.
Its echoes frightened them at last among the Grampians ; and
they set sail from unconquered Caledon.
Shepherd. What a bluidy beatin Galgacus gied Agricola !
North. He did so indeed, James — yet see how that fellow,
his son-in-law Tacitus, lies like a bulletin. He swears the
Britons lost the battle.
Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw ! What ? I've been at the
verra spat — and the tradition's as fresh as if it had been but
the verra day after the battle, that the Romans were cut aff
till a man.
Prometheus. 389
North. Not one escaped ?
Shepherd. Deevil the ane — the hills, where the chief car
nage rotted, are greener nor the lave till this hour. Nae
white clover grows there — nae white daisies — wad you believe
me, sir, they're a' red ? The life-draps seepit * through the
grun' — and were a body to dig doun far aneuch, wha kens
but he wouldna come to coagulated gore, strengthening the
soil aneath, till it sends up showers o' thae sanguinary gowans
and clover, the product o' inextinguishable Roman bluid? f
Tickler. The Living Statues !
North. Perfect. The very Prometheus of ^Eschylus. Oh !
James ! what high and profound Poetry was the Poetry of
the world of old ! To steal fire from heaven — what a glori
ous conception of the soul in its consciousness of immortal
ity !
Shepherd. And what a glorious conception o' the sowl, in
its consciousness o' immortality, o' Divine Justice ! 0 the
mercy o' Almichty Jove ! To punish the Fire-stealer by
fastening him doun to a rock, and sendin a vultur to prey on
his liver — perpetually to keep prey-preyin on his puir liver,
sirs — waur even nor the worm that never dees, — or, if no
waur, at least as ill — rug-ruggin — gnaw-gnawin — tear-tearin
— howk-howking at his meeserable liver, aye wanin and aye
waxin aneath that unpacified beak — that beak noo cuttin like
a knife, noo clippin like shissors, noo chirtin like pinchers,
noo hagglin like a cleaver ! A' the while the body o' the
glorious sinner bun' needlessly till a rock-block — needlessly
bun', I say, sir, for stirless is Prometheus in his endurance o'
the doom he drees, as if he were but a Stane-eemage, or ane
o' the unsufferin dead !
* Seepitf— soaked.
t As Lotichius sings of the banks of the Neckar :—
" Ripa gerit regum natos e sanguine flores,
E quibus Heroum texent sibi serta nepotes."
390 Tlie Glory of Prometheus.
North. A troubled mystery !
Shepherd. Ane amaist fears to pity him, lest we wrang
fortitude sae majestical. Yet see, it stirs ! Ha ! 'twas but
the vultur. Prometheus himself is still — in the micht, think
ye, sir, o' curse or prayer ? Oh ! yonner's just ae single
slicht shudder — as the demon, to get a stronger purchase at
his food, taks up new grun' wi' his tawlons, and gies a fluff
and a flap wi' his huge wings again' the ribs o' his victim,
utterin — was't horrid fancy ? — a gurglin throat-croak choked
savagely in bluid !
North. The Spirit's triumph over pain, that reaches but
cannot pierce its core —
" In Pangs sublime, magnificent in Death ! "
Tickler. Life in Death ! Exultation in Agony ! Earth
victorious over Heaven ! Prometheus bound in manglings
on a sea-cliff, more godlike than Jove himself, when
" Nutu tremefecit Olympum ! »'
Shepherd. Natur victorious ower the verra Fate her ain
imagination had creawted ! And in the dread confusion o'
her superstitious dreams, glorifying the passive magnanimity
o' man, far ayont the active vengeance o' the highest o' her
gods ! A wild bewilderment, sirs, that ought to convince us
that nae licht can ever be thrown on the moral government
that reigns ower the region o' human life — nae licht that's no
mair astoundin than the blackness o' darkness — but that o'
Revelation, that ae day or ither shall illumine the uttermost
pairts o' the earth.
North. Noble. These Impersonations by Ducrow, James,
prove that he is a man of genius.
Shepherd. Are they a* his ain inventions ?
North. Few or none. Why, if they were, he would be the
The Apollo. 391
greatest of sculptors. But thus to convert his frame into
such forms — shapes — attitudes — postures — as the Greek
imagination moulded into perfect expression of the highest
states of the soul — that, James, shows that Ducrow has a
spirit kindred to those who in marble made their mythology
immortal.
Shepherd. That's bonny — na, that's gran'. It gars a body
grue — just like ain o' thae lines in poetry that suddenly
dirls through you — just like ae smite on a single string by a
master's haun, that gars shiver the haill harp.
Tickler. Ducrow was not so successful in his Apollo.
North. 'Twas the Apollo of the painters, Tickler ; not of
the sculptors.
Tickler. True. But why not give us the Belvidere ?
North. I doubt if that be in the power of mortal man.
But even were Ducrow to show us that statue with the same
perfection that crowns all his other impersonations, unless he
were to stand for hours before us, we should not feel, to the
full, its divine majesty ; for in the marble it grows and grows
upon us as our own spirits dilate, till the Sun-god at last
almost commands our belief in his radiant being, and we
hear ever the fabled Python groan !
Tickler. Yes, North, our emotion is progressive — just as
the worshipper who seeks the inner shrine feels his adoration
rising higher and higher at every step he takes up the
magnificent flight in front of the temple.
Shepherd. Na, na, na — this 'ill never do. It's manifest that
you twa hae entered intil a combination again' me, and are
comin ower me wi' your set speeches, a' written doun, and
gotten aff the nicht afore, to dumfounder the Shepherd.
What bit o' paper's that, Mr. Tickler, keekin out o' the pocket
o' your vest ? Notts. Notts in short haun — and a' the time
you was pretendin to be crunklin't up to licht the tip o' your
392 Tickler detected.
segawr, hae you been cleekin baud o' the catch-word — and
that's the gate yon deceive the Snuggery intil admiration o'
your extemporawneous eeloquence ! The secret's out noo —
an' I wunner it was never blawn afore ; for noo that my een
are opened, they set till richts my lugs ; and on considerin
hoo matters used to staun' in the past, I really canna chairge
ma memory wi' a mair feckless cretur than yoursel at a
reply.
North. You do me cruel injustice, James — were I to pre
pare a single paragraph, I should stick—
Shepherd. Oh ! man, hoo I would enjoy to see you stick !
stickin a set speech in a ha' fu' o' admirin, that is, wunnerin
hunders o' your fellow-citizens, on Parliamentary Reform,
for instance, or Slavery in the Wast Indies, or —
North. The supposition, sir, is odious ; I —
Shepherd. No in the least degree odious, sir — but superla
tively absurd, and ludicrous far ayont the boun's o' lauchter —
excepp that lauchter that torments a' the inside o' a listener
and looker-on, an internal earthquake that convulses a body
frae the pow till the paw, frae the fingers till the feet, till a*
the pent-up» power o' risibility bursts out through the mouth
like the lang-smouldering fire vomited out o' the crater o' a
volcawno, and then the astonished warld hears, for the first
time, what heaven and earth acknowledge by their echoes to
be indeed — a Guffaw !
North. James, you are getting extremely impertinent !
Shepherd. Nae personality, sir ; nae personality sail be
alloo'd, in ma presence at least, at a Noctes. That's to say,
nae personality towards the persons present — for as to a' the
rest o' the warld, men, women and children, I carena though
you personally insult, ane after anither, a' the human race.
North. I insult ?
Shepherd. Yes — you insult. Haena ye made the hail!
Tickler assumes the Crod. 393
civileesed warld your enemy by that tongue and that pen o'
yours, that spares neither age nor sect ?
North. I ? ? ?
Shepherd. You ! ! !
Tickler. Come, come, gentlemen, remember where you are,
and in whose presence you are sitting ; but look here — here is
the
APOLLO BELVIDERE.
[TICKLER is transformed into Apollo Belvidere.
Shepherd. That's no canny.
North. In his lip " what beautiful disdain ! "
Shepherd. As if he were smellin at a rotten egg.
North. There " the Heavenly Archer stands."
Shepherd. I wadna counsel him to shoot for the Guse
Medal. Henry Watson * would ding him till sticks.
North. I remember, James, once hearing an outrageous dis
pute between two impassioned connoisseurs, amateurs, men of
vertu, cognoscenti, dilettanti, about this very Apollo Belvidere.
Shepherd. Confoun' me gin he's no monstrous like marble !
His verra claes seem to hae drapped aff him — and I'se no pit
on my specks, for fear he should pruve to be naked. — What
was the natur o' the dispute ?
North. Simply whether Apollo advanced his right or left
foot —
Shepherd. Ane o' the disputants maun hae been a great
fule. Shouldna Apollo pit his best fit foremost, that is the
richt ane, on such an occasion as shootin a Peethon ? Hut
tut. — Stop a wee — let's consider. Na, it maun be the left fit
foremost — unless he was ker-haun'd. f Let's try't.
* Mr. Henry Watson, an accomplished member of the Queen's Body-Guard,
the Royal Scottish Archers, is a brother of the distinguished painter, Sir
John Watson Gordon. [Mr. Watson, who is still (1876) hale and hearty,
has recently endowed a " Fine Art Chair " in the University of Edinburgh,
as a memorial to his brother.]
t Ker-haun'd— leftr-handed.
394 Which is the true Apollo ?
[The SHEPHERD rises, and puts himself into the attitude of
the Apollo Belvidere — insensibly transforming himself into
another TICKLER of a shorter and stouter size.
North. I could believe myself in the Louvre, before Mrs.
Hemans wrote her beautiful poem on the Restoration of the
Works of Art to Italy. Were the two brought to the hammer,
an auctioneer might knock them down for ten thousand
pounds each.
Shepherd. Whilk of us is the maist Apollonic, sir ?
North. Why, James, you have the advantage of Tickler in
being, as it were, in the prime of youth — for though by the
parish register you have passed the sixtieth year-stone on the
road of life, you look as fresh as if you had not finished the
first stage.
Shepherd. Do you hear that, Mr. Tickler ?
North. You have also most conspicuously the better of Mr.
Tickler in the article of hair. Yours are locks — his leeks.
Shepherd. Mr. Tickler, are you as deaf and dumb's a statue,
as weel's as stiff ?
North. As to features, the bridge of Tickler's nose — begging
his pardon — is of too prominent a build. The arch reminds
me of the old bridge across the Esk at Musselburgh.
Shepherd. What say you to that, Mr. Tickler ?
North. " 'Tis more an antique Roman than a — "
Shepherd. Mr. Tickler!
North. But neither is the nose of the gentle Shepherd pure
Grecian.
Tickler. Pure Peebles !
Shepherd. Oho ! You've fun' the use o' your tongue.
North. Of noses so extremely —
Shepherd. Mine's, I ken, 's a cockit ane. Our mouths ?
North. Why, there, I must say, gentleman, there's a wide
opening for —
" Pan himself 7" 396
Tickler. Don't blink the buck teeth.
Shepherd. Better than nane ava.
North. Of Tickler's attitude I should say generally — that
is—
[Here TICKLER reassumes SOUTHSIDE, and taking the Snug
gery at a stride, usurps THE CHAIR, and outstretches him
self to his extremest length, with head leaning on the ridge,
and his feel some yards off on the fender.
Shepherd, (leaping about}. Huzzaw — huzzaw — huzzaw! —
I've beaten him at Apollo ! Noo for Pan.
[The SHEPHERD performs Pan in a style that would have
seduced Pomona.
Tickler. Ay — that's more in character.
North. Sufficient, certainly, to frighten an army.
Tickler. The very picture of our Popular Devil.
North. Say, rather, with Wordsworth —
" Pan himself,
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god."
Shepherd. Keep your een on me — keep your een on me —
and you'll soon see a change that will strike you wi' astonish
ment. But rax me ower the poker, Mr. North — rax me ower
the poker.
[NORTH puts the poker into Pan's paws, and imtanter he is
Hercules.
Tickler, (clapping his hands). Bravo! Bravissimo !
North. I had better remove the crystal. Wheels the circular
closer to the hearth. James, remember the mirror.
Tickler. At that blow dies the Nemean lion.
[The SHEPHERD, flinging down the poker-club, seems to drat/
up the carcase of the Monster with a prodigious display oj
muscularity, and then stooping his neck, heaves it over hu
head, as into some profound abyss.
North. Ducrow's Double !
396 North's Impersonation
Shepherd, (proudly). Say rather the Dooble, that's Twa, o*
Ducraiv. Ducraw's nae mair fit to ack Hercules wi' me, than
he is to ack Samson.
Tickler. I believe it.
Shepherd. I could tell ye a droll story about me and Mr.
Ducravv. Ae nicht I got intil an argument wi' him at the
Caffee, about the true scriptral gate o' ackin the Fear o' the
Philistines, and I was pressin him geyan hard about his
method o' pu'in doun the pillars, when he turns about upon
me — and bein' putten to his metal — says, "Mr. Hogg, why
did not you object to my representing in one scene — and at
one time — Samson carrying away the gates of Gaza, and also
pulling down the pillars ? "
North. There he had you on the hip, James.
Shepherd. I hadna a word to say for't — but confessed at
ance that it's just the way o' a' critics, wha stumble ower
molehills, and yet mak naething o' mountains. The truth is,
that a' us that are maisters in the fine arts, kens ilka ane
respectively about his ain airt a thousan' times mair nor
ony possible body else — and I thocht on the pedant lecturin
Hannibal on war, or ony ither pedant me on poetry, or St.
Cecilia on music, or Christopher North on literatur, or Sir
Isaac Newton on the stars, or —
North. Now, James, that you may not say that I ever
sulkily or sullenly refuse to contribute my quota of " weel-
timed damn " to the Noctes — behold me in
HERCULES FURENS.
[NORTH off with his coat and waistcoat in a jiffy, and goes to
work.
Shepherd. That's fearsome ! Dinna tear your shirt to rags —
dinna tear your shirt to rags, sir !
Tickler. The poison searches his marrow-bones now !
Shepherd. His bluid's liquid fire !
Of Hercules Furens. 397
Tickler. Lava.
Shepherd. Linens is cheap the noo, to be sure — dinna tear
your shirt, sir — dinna tear your shirt. \Vhat pains maun a'
that shuin * on the breist and collar hae cost Mrs. Gentle !
Tickler. O Dejanira ! Dejanira ! Dejanira !
Shepherd. That out-hercules's Hercules ! Foamin at the
mouth like a mad dowg ! The Epilepsy ! The quiverin o'
his hauns ! The whites o' his een, noo flickerin and noo
fixed ! Oh ! *dire misshapen lauchter, drawin his mouth awa
up alang the tae side o' his face, outower till ane o' his lugs !
Puir Son o' Alknomook !
Tickler. Alcmena, James.
Shepherd. A' his labours are near an end noo ! A' the fifty,
if crooded and crammed intil ane, no sae terrible as the last !
Loup — loup — loup — tummle — tummle — tummle — sprawl —
sprawl — sprawl — row — row — row — roun' about — rouri' about
— roun' about — like an axle-tree — then ae sudden streek out
intil a' his length, and there lies he straught, stiff, and stark,
after the dead-thraws, like a gnarled oak-trunk that had
keept knottin for a thousan' years.
Tickler. But for an awkward club-foot too much, would
I exclaim —
" Cedite Roman! imitatores I Cedite Graii.'*
Shepherd (raising North from the floor). Do you ken, sir,
you fairly tyuck me in — and I'm a' in a trummle. It's like
Boaz frichtenin Ingleby f wF his ain ba's.
North. Rather hot work, my dear James. I'm beginning
to perspire.
Shepherd (feeling North 's forehead). Beginnin till perspire ! !
Never afore, in this weary warld, was a man in sic an even-
* Shuin — sewing.
+ Boaz and Ingleby were one and the same racket-player.
398 " The Old Man eloquent "—
doun pour o' sweet ! A perspiration-fa' ! The same wi' your
breist ! What ? You couldna hae been watter had you stood
after a thunner-plump for an hour under a roan.
North. Say spout, James, roan is vulgar — it is Scotch —
and your English is so pure now, that a word like that
grates harshly on the ear, so that were you in England, you
would undeceive and alarm the natives. But let us recur
to the subject under spirited discussion immediately before
Raphael's Dream — I mean the Jug.
Shepherd. Let us come our wa's in till the fire.
The Three are again seated at " the wee bit ingle blinking
bonnily."
North. Where were we ?
Shepherd. Ou ay. I was beginnin to pent a pictur o' you,
sir, stickin a speech on Slavery or Reform. Slowly you rise
— and at the uprisin o' " the auld man eeloquent " hushed is
that assemblage as sleep. But wide awake are a' een — as
fixed on Christopher North, the orator o' the human race.
Tickler. As is usual to say on such occasions — you might
hear a pin fall — say a needle, which, having no head, falls
lighter.
Shepherd. He begins laigh, and wi' a dimness in and around
his een — a kind o' halo, sic as obscures the moon afore a
storm. But sune his vice gets louder and louder, musical at
its tapmost hicht, as the breath o' a silver trumpet. Action
he has little or nane — noo and then the richt haun on the
heart, and the left arm at richt angles till the body — just sae,
— like Mr. Pitt's, — only this far no like Mr. Pitt's — for there's
nae sense in that — no up and doun like a haunle o' a well-
pump. What reasonin 1 What imagination ! Fancy free and
fertile as an auld green flowery lea! Pathos pure as dew —
and wit bricht as the rinnin waters, translucent.
" At touch ethereal o' heaven's fiery rod ! "
—Sticks ! 399
Tickler. Spare his blushes, Shepherd, spare his blushes.
Shepherd. Wae's me — pity on him — but I canna spare his
blushes — sae, sir, just hang doun your head a wee, till I
conclude. In the verra middle o' a lang train o' ratiocina
tion — (I'm gratefu' for havin gotten through that word) —
surrounded ahint and afore, and on a' sides, wi' countless
series o' syllogisms — in the very central heart o' a forest o'
feegurs, containin many a garden o' flowers o' speech —
within sicht, nay, amaist within touch o' the feenal cleemax,
at which the assemblage o' livin sowls were a' waitin to break
out intil thunder, like the waves o' the sea impatient for the
first smiting o' a storm seen afar on the main, — at that verra
crisis and agony o' his fame, Christopher is seized wi' a
sudden stupification o' the head and a' its faculties, his brain
whirls dizzily roun', as if he were a' at ance waukenin out
o' a dream, at the edge o' a precipice, or on a " coign o' dis
advantage," outside the battlements o' a cloud-capt tower ;
his eyes get bewildered, his cheeks wax white, struck seems
his tongue wi' palsy, he stutters — stutters — stutters — and
'• of his -stutterin finds no end " till — HE STICKS !
Tickler. Fast as a wagon mired up to the axle-tree, while
Roger, with the loosened team, steers his course back to the
farm-steading, with arms akimbo on old Smiler's rump.
Shepherd. He fents ! a cry for cauld spring-water —
North (frowning). Hark ye — when devoid of all proba
bility — nay, at war with possibility — fiction is falsehood, fun
folly, mirth mere maundering, humor, forsooth! idiocy,
would-be wit " wersh as parritch without sau i" James a
merry- Andrew, and the Shepherd — sad and sorry am I to
say it — a Buffoon !
Shepherd. Haw ! haw ! haw ! Oh, man, but you're angry.
It's aye the way o't. Them that's aye tryin ineffecktwally
to make a fule o' ithers, when the tables are turned on them,
4*00 A Misunderstanding.
gang red- wud-stark-s taring mad a'thegither, and scarcely
leave theirsels the likeness o' a dowg. But forgie me, sir — •
forgie me — I concur wi' you that the description was nae-
thing but a tissue — as you hae sae ceevily and coortusly
said — o' fausehood, folly, maunderin idiocy, and wersh
parritch —
Tickler. James a merry-Andrew, and the Shepherd a
Buffoon !
Shepherd. Dinna " louse your tinkler jaw," sir, as Burns
said o' Charlie Fox, on me, Mr. Tickler — for I'll no thole
frae you a tithe, Timothy, o' what I'll enjoy frae Mr. North
— an' it's no twice in the towmont I ventur to ca' him
Kit.
North. Next time you pay me a visit, James, at No. 99 *—
I'll show you THE PICTURE.
Shepherd. I understaun' you, sir — Titian's Venus— or is't
his Danaw yielding to her yellow Jupiter ^victorious in a
shower o' gold ? Oh the selfish hizzie !
North. James, such subjects —
Shepherd. You had better, sir, no say anither . syllable
about them — it may answer verra weel for an auld bachelor
like you, sir, to keep that sort o' a serawlio, naked limmers
in iles, a shame to ony honest canvas, whatever may hae been
the genius o' the Penter that sent them sprawling here ; but
as for me, I'm a married man, and —
North. My dear James, you are under a gross delusion —
Shepherd. It's nae delusion. Nae pictur o' the sort, na, no
e'en although ane o' the greatest o' the auld Maisters, sail
ever hang on ma wa's — I should be ashamed to look the
servant lassies in the face when they come in to soop the floor
or ripe the ribs —
* No. 99 Moray Place was Christopher's imaginary residence in Edinburgh.
No. 6 Gloucester Place was his real abode.
TJte defence of Socrates. 401
North (rising with dignity). No picture, sir, shall ever hang
on my walls, on which her eye might not dwell —
Shepherd. Mrs. Gentle ! A bit dainty body — wi' a' the
modesty, and without ony o' the demureness, o' the Quaker
leddie ; and as for yon pictur o' her aboon the brace-piece o'
your Sanctum, by Sir Thomas Lawrence —
North. John Watson Gordon, if you please, my dear James.
Shepherd. It has the face o' an angel.
North, (sitting down with dignity). I was about to ask you,
James, to come and see my last work — my masterpiece — my
chef-d'oeuvre —
Shepherd. The subjeck ?
North. The Defence of Socrates.
Shepherd. A noble subjeck indeed, sir, and weel adapted
for your high intellectual and moral genie.
North. My chief object, James, has been to represent the
character of Socrates. I have conceived of that character as
one i-n which unshaken strength of high and clear Intellect —
and a moral Will fortified against all earthly trials — sublime
and pure — were both subordinate to the principle of Love.
Shepherd. Gude, sir, — gude. He was the Freen o' Man.
North. I felt a great difficulty in my art, James — from the
circumstances purely historical — that neither the figure nor
the countenance of Socrates were naturally commanding —
Shepherd. An' hae ye conquered it to your satisfaction, sir ?
North. I have. Another difficulty met me too, James, in
this — that in his mind there was a cast of intellect — a play of
comic wit — inseparable from his discourse — and which must
not be forgotten in any representation of it.
Shepherd. Profoond as true.
North. To give dignity and beauty to the expression of
features, and a figure of which the form was neither dignified
nor beautiful, was indeed a severe trial for the power of art
402 The Cardinal Motive.
Shepherd. An' hae you conquered it too, sir ?
North. Most successfully. In the countenance, therefore^
my dear James, to answer to what I have assigned as the
highest principle in the character, Love, there is a prevailing
character of gentleness — the calm of that unalterable mind
has taken the appearance of a celestial serenity — an expres
sion caught, methinks, from the peaceful heart of the uncloud
ed sky brooding in love over rejoicing nature.
Shepherd. That's richt, sir.
North. Such expression I have breathed over the forehead,
the lips, and the eyes ; yet is there not wanting either the
grandeur, nor the fire, nor the power of intellect, nor the
boldness of conscious innocence.
Shepherd. I'll come and see't, sir, the morn's inornin,* afore
breakfast. Fowre eggs.
North. That one purpose I have pursued and fulfilled by
the expression of all the Groups in the piece.
Shepherd. Naething in pentin kitlier than groupin.
North. You behold a prevalent expression of Love in the
countenance of his friends and followers — of love greater
than even reverence, admiration, sorrow, anxiety, and fear !
Shepherd. Though doutless a' thae emotions, too, will be
expressed — and familiar hae they been to you, sir, through
the coorse o' a strangely chequered though not unhappy
life.
North. Then, too, James, have I had to express — and I
have expressed it — the habitual character belonging to many
there — besides the expression of the moment ; countenances
of generous, loving, open-souled youth ; middle-aged men of
calm benign aspect, but not without earnest thought ; and not
unconspicuous, one aged man, James, almost the counterpart
of Socrates himself, only without his high intellectual power,
* The morn's mornin — to-rnorrow morning.
Of the Picture. 403
— a face composed, I may almost say, of peace, the only one of
all perfectly untroubled.
Shepherd. That's an expressive thought, sir — and it's
original — that's to say, it never occurred to me afore you
mentioned it.
North. He, like Socrates, reconciled to that certain death,
familiar with the looks of the near term of life, and not with
out hopes beyond it.
Shepherd. Believed thae sages, think ye, sir, in the immor
tality o' the sowl ?
North. I think, James, that they did — assuredly Socrates.
Shepherd. I'm glad o't for their sakes, though they hae a'
been dead for thousan's o' years.
North. Then, James, how have I managed his judges?
Shepherd. Hoo ?
North. In all their faces, with many expressions, there is
one expression — answering to the predominant disposition
assigned to the character of Socrates — the expression of
Malignity towards Love.
Shepherd. You've hit it, sir ; you've hit it. Here's your
health.
North. An expression of malignity in some almost lost on
a face of timidity, fear, or awe, in others blended almost
brutally with impenetrable ignorance.*
Shepherd. That comes o' studying the passions. I think
but little noo o' Collins's Odd.
North. Then, James, I have given the countenances of the
people.
Shepherd. A fickle people — ever ready to strike doun
offensive Virtue — and ever as ready to shed tears o' over-
actin remorse on her ashes !
* North might have taken some hints for his picture from Plato's Dialogue
of Euthyphroii, in which Socrates describes his accuser, Meletus, as a person
" with long straight hair, a scanty beard, and a hooked nose."
404 The passions of the People.
North. In the countenances of the people, James, I have
laboured long, but succeeded methinks at last, in personifying
as it were the Vices which drove them on to sacrifice the
father of the city — to dim the eye and silence the tongue of
Athens, who was herself the soul of Greece.
Shepherd. A gran' idea, sir — and natural as gran' — ane that
could only visit the sowl o' a great Maister.
North. There you see anger, wrath, rage, hatred, spite,
envy, jealousy, exemplified in many different natures. That
Figure, prominent in the hardened pride of intellect, with
his evil nature scowling through, eyeing Socrates with
malignant, stern, and deadly revenge — is the King of the
Sophists.
Shepherd. About to re-erect his Throne, as he hopes, on the
ruins o' that Natural Theology which Socrates taught the
heathens.
North. You see, then, James, — you feel that the purpose
of the painter on the whole picture has been to express, as I
said, his conception of the character of Socrates — a various
and manifold reflection of one image ; but the image itself,
giving the same due proportion — where Love sits on the
height of moral and intellectual power, and Intellect in their
triple union, though strong in its own character, is yet
subordinate to Both.
Shepherd. What a pictur it maun be, if the execution be
equal to the design !
North. Many conceptions, my dear James, troubled my
imagination, before, in the stedfastness of my delight in
Love, I finally fixed upon this — which I humbly hope the
world " will not willing let die."
Shepherd. It's the same way wi' poems. They aye turn out
at last something seemingly quite different frae the origina
tion form, — but it's no sae — for a spirit o' the same divine
Waiting for the Verdict. 405
sameness breathes throughout, though ye nae langer ken the
bit bonny bud in " the bricht consummate flower."
North. In one sketch — I will make you a present of it, my
dear James —
Shepherd. Thank ye, sir — thank ye; you're really ower
kind — ower gude to your Shepherd ; but dinna forget, sir —
see that you dinna forget — for you'll pardon me for hintin
that sometimes promises o' that sort slip your memory —
North. In one sketch, James, I have represented Socrates
speaking — and I found it more difficult to give the character
of the principal figure — because the fire of discourse, of
necessity, gave a disproportionate force to the intellectual
expression ; while, again, I found it easier to give the char
acter of all the rest, who looked upon Socrates, under the
power of his eloquence, simply commanding, with almost an
undivided expression, in which individual character was either
lost or subdued.
Shepherd. Never mind — send me the Sketch.
North. I will — and another. For. again, I chose that
moment when, having closed his defence, Socrates stands look
ing upon the consulting judges, and awaiting their decision.
Shepherd. Oh ! sir ! and that was a time when his ain
character, methinks, micht wi' mair ease be most beautifullj
expressed !
North. Most true. But then, the divided and conflicting
expression of all the other figures, some turned on the judges
with scrutinizing eagerness, to read the decision before it was
on their lips — some certain of the result — looking on Socrates
— or on the judges — with what different states of soul ! These,
James, I found difficult indeed to manage, and to bring them
all under the one expression, which in that sketch too, as
in my large picture, it was my aim to breathe over the
canvas.
406 The Last Discourse.
Shepherd. You maun try, sir, to mak a feenished pictur
frae that sketch, sir, — you maun indeed, sir. I'll lend it to
you for that purpose — and no grudge 't though ye keep it in
your ain possession till next year.
North. I have not only made a sketch of another design,
James, but worked in some of the colors.
Shepherd. The dead colors ?
North. No — colors already instinct with life. I have
chosen that calmer time, when, after the pronouncing of the
sentence, Socrates resumes his discourse — you may read it,
James, in that divine dialogue of Plato * —
Shepherd. But I'm no great haun at the Greek.
North. Use Floyer Sydenham's translation, or — let me see
— has he done that dialogue ? Take, then, that noble old
man's, Taylor of Norwich. Socrates resumes his discourse,
and declares his satisfaction in death, and his trust in immor
tality. A moment, indeed, for the sublime in art, but afford
ing to the painter opportunity for a different purpose from
that which was mine in my great picture. For in this sketch,
instead of intending, as my principal and paramount object,
the representation of individual historical character — I have
designed to express — rather — the Power among men of the
sublime Spirit of their being — exemplified among a people
dark with idolatry — using the historical subject as subser
vient to this my purpose — inasmuch as it shows a single
mind raised up by the force of this feeling above nature
— yea, shows the power of that feeling within that one
mind, resting in awe upon a great multitude of men. For,
surely, my dear James, it is not to be believed that at
that moment one countenance would preserve unchanged
*ts bitter hostility, when revenge was in part defeated by
seeing triumph arise out of doom — when malignant hate
* The Phatdon.
Shepherd kneela 407
had got its victim — and when murder, that had struck its
blow, might begin to feel its heart open to the terror of
remorse.
Shepherd. My dear Mr. North, gie me baith your twa
hauns. That's richt. Noo that I hae shucken, and noo that
I hae squozen them in my ain twa nieves no unlike a vice,
though you're no the king upon the throne, wi' a golden
croon on his head, and a sceptre in his haun — that's King
William the Fourth, God bless him — yet you are a king ;
and, as a loyal subject, loyal but no servile, for never was a
slave born i' the Forest, here do I, James Hogg, the Ettrick
Shepherd, kneel doun on ae knee — thus — and kiss the richt
haun o' King Kit.
[The SHEPHERD drops on his knee — does as he says, in spite of
NORTH'S struggles to hinder him — rises — wipes the dust
from his pans — and resumes his seat.
North. " How many of my poorest subjects," James, " are
now asleep ! " Look at Tickler.
Tickler. Asleep ! Broad-awake as the Baltic in a blast.
But when under the power of Eloquence, I always sit with
my eyes shut.
Shepherd. But what for snore ? Hae ye nae mercy on the
sick man through the partition ?
North. After Painting, let us have some Politics.
Shepherd. Na — na — na — na — na ! Come, Mr. Tickler, gie's
a sang — to the fiddle. See hoo your Cremona is smilm on
you to haunle her frae her peg.
[The SHEPHERD takes down the celebrated Cremona from
the wall, and, after tuning it, gives it to TICKLER.
Tickler (attempting a prelude). Shade of Stabilirii ! heard'st
thou ever grated such harsh discord as this ? 'Tis like a
litter of pigs. [TICKLER tunes his instrument.
Shepherd. Oh, for Geordie Cruckshanks ! " TICKLER AT
408 Roasted Groose.
THE TUNING ! " What for, Mr. North, dinna ye get Geordie
to invent a series o' Illustrations o' the Noctes, and publish
a Selection in four volumms octawvo ?
North. Wait, James, till " one with moderate haste might
count a HUNDRED."
Shepherd. What if we're a' dead ?
North. The world will go on without us.
Shepherd. Ay — but never sae weel again. The verra earth
will feel a dirl at her heart, and pause for a moment pen
sively oi\ her ain axis.
(TICKLER sings to an accompaniment of his own composition
for the Cremona, "Demos.")
Shepherd. Soun' doctrine weel sung. (A pause.) Do you
ken, sir, that I admire guses — tame guses — far mair nor
wild anes. A wild guse, to be sure, is no bad eatin, shot in
season— out o' season, and after a lang flicht, what is he but
a rickle o' banes ? But a tame guse, aff the stubble, sirs
— (and what'n a hairst this 'ill be for guses, the stooks hae
been sae sair shucken !) — roasted afore a clear fire to the
swirl o' a worsted string — stuffed as fu's he can haud frae
neck to doup wi' yerbs — and devoured wi' about equal pro
portions o' mashed potawtoes and a clash o' aipple-sass —
the creeshy breist o' him shinin outower a' its braid beautifu'
rotundity, wi' a broonish and a yellowish licht, seemin to be
the verra concentrated essence o' tastefu' sappiness, the bare
idea o' which, at ony distance o' time and place, brings a
gush o' water out o' the pallet — his theeghs slightly crisped
by the smokeless fire to the preceese pint best fitted for
crunchin — and, in short, the toot-an-sammal o' the Bird a
perfeck specimen o' the beau-ideal o' the true Bird o' Para-
<3ise) — for sic a guse, sir, — (but oh ! may I never be sair sairly
tempted) — wad a man sell his kintra or his conscience — arid
neist day strive to stifle his remorse bygobblin up the giblet-pie.
Is discussed. 409
North. To hear you speak, James, the world would take
you for an epicure and glutton, who bowed down five times
a day in fond idolatry before the belly-god. What a
delusion !
(Enter PICARDY and Tail, with all the substantialities of
the season.)
Shepherd. Eh ! Eh ! What'n a guse ! Mr. Awmrose. —
Dinna bring in a single ither guse, till we hae despatched
our freen at the head o' the table. — Mr. Tickler, whare 'ill ye
sit ? and what 'ill ye eat ? and what 'ill ye drink ? and what
'ill ye want to hear ? and what 'ill ye want to say ? For oh,
sir ! you've been pleesant the nicht — in ane o' your lown,
but no seelent humors. [The Three tackle to.
XXIV.
IN WHICH, IN THE RACE FROM THE SALOON TO THE
SNUGGERY, TICKLER AND THE SHEPHERD ARE
DISTANCED BY NORTH.
Scene, — the Snuggery. Time, — Five o'Clock. Actors, — NORTH,
TICKLER, and the SHEPHERD. Occupation, — Dinner.
Shepherd. What'n a bill o' fare ! As lang's ma airm was
the slip o' paper endorsed wi' the vawrious eatems,* and I
was feared there micht be delusion in the promise ; but here,
far ayont a' hope, and aboon the wildest flichts o' fancy, the
realization o' the Feast !
North. Mine host has absolutely outdone to-day all his
former outdoings. You have indeed, sir.
Ambrose. You make me too happy, sir.
Shepherd. Say ower proud, Picardy.
Ambrose. Pride was not made for man, Mr. Hogg. — Mr.
North, I trust, will forgive me, if I have been too bold.
Shepherd. Nor woman neither. Never mind him ; I forgie
you, and that's aneuch. You've made a maist excellent
observe.
Tickler. Outambrosed Ambrose, by this regal regale !
Shepherd. I ken nae mair impressive situation for a human
being to find himsel placed in, than in juxtaposition wi' a
mony-dished deuner afore the covers hae been removed. The
* Eatems — items.
410
Anticipations. 411
sowl sets itself at wark wi' a' its faculties, to form definite
conceptions o' the infinite vareeities o' veeands on the eve
o' being brocht to licht. Can this, it asks itsel in a laigh
vice — can this dish, in the immediate vicinity, be, do ye
think, a roasted fillet o' veal, sae broon and buttery on the
outside, wi' its crisp faulds o' fat, and sae white and sappy
wi' its firm breadth o' lean in the in ? Frae its position, I
jalouse * that ashet can conteen nothing less than a turkey —
and I could risk my salvation on't, that while yon's West-
phally ham on the tae side, yon's twa how-towdies on the
ither. Can you —
Tickler. No man should speak with his mouth full.
Shepherd. Nor his head empty. But you're mistaken if
you mean me, Mr. Tickler, for ma mouth was at no period o'
ma late discourse aboon half fu', as I was carefu' aye to
keep swallowing as I went alang, and I dinna believe you
could discern ony difference in ma utterance. But, besides,
I even-doun deny the propriety, as weel's the applicability, o'
the apothegm. To enact that nae man shall speak during
denner wi' his mouth fu', is about as reasonable as to pass a
law that nae man, afore or after denner, shall speak wi' his
mouth empty. Some feeble folk, I ken, hae a horror o' doin
twa things at ance ; but I like to do a score, provided they
be in natur no only compatible but congenial.
Tickler. And who, pray, is to be the judge of that ?
Shepherd. Mysel ! Every man in this warld maun judge
for himsel ; and on nae account whatsomever suffer ony ither
loon to judge for him, itherwise he'll gang to the deevil at a
haun-canter.
North. Nobody follows that rule more inviolably than
Tickler.
Shepherd. In the body, frae the tie o' his crawvat a' the
* Jalouse — suspect.
412 The Covers are lifted.
way doun to that o' his shoon — in the sowl, frae the lightest
surmise about a passing cloud on a showery day, to his maist
awfu' thochts about a future state, when his " extravagant
and erring spirit hies " intil the verra bosom o' eternity.
Tickler. James, a caulker.
Shepherd. Thank ye, sir, wi' a' my wull. That's prime.
Pure speerit. Unchristened. Sma' stell. Gran' worm.
Peat-reek. Glenlivet. Ferintosh. It wad argue that a man's
heart wasna in the richt place, were he no, by pronouncin
some bit affectionate epithet, to pay his debt o' gratitude to
sic a caulker.
North. James, resume.
Shepherd. Suppose me, sir, surveying the scene, like Moses
frae the tap o' Pisgah the Promised Land. There was a
morning mist, and Moses stood awhile in imagination. But
soon, sun-smitten, burst upon his vision through the trans
lucent ether the region that flowed with milk and honey —
while sighed nae mair the children o' Israel for the flesh-pats
o' Egypt. Just sae, sirs, at the uplifting o' the covers, flashed
the noo * on our een the sudden revelation o' this lang-
expected denner. Howsimultawneous the muvement! As
if they had been a' but ae man, a Briareus, like a waff o'
lichtnin gaed the hauns o' Picardy, and Mon. Cadet, and
King Pepin, and Sir Dawvid Gam, and Tappytoorie, and the
Pech, and the Hoi Polloi , and, lo and behold ! towerin
tureens and forest-like epergnes, overshadowing the humbler
warld o' ashets ! Let nae man pretend after this to tell me
the difference atween the Beautifu' and the Shooblime.
North. To him who should assert the distinction I would
simply say, " Look at that Round ! "
Shepherd. Ay, he wad fin' some diffieeculty in swallowin
that, sir. The fack is, that the mawgic o' that Buttock o'
* The noo (the now)— at this moment.
Epicures and G-luttons. 413
Beef considered as an objeck o' intellectual and moral Taste,
lies in — Harmony. It reminds you o' that fine line in Byron,
which beyond a' doubt was originally inspired by sic anither
objeck, though afterwards differently applied : —
" The soul, the music breathing from that face ! "
Tickler. Profanation !
Shepherd. What ! is there ony profanation in the applica
tion o' the principles and practice o' poetry to the common
purposes o' life ? Fancy and Imagination, sirs, can add an
inch o' fat to round or sirloin, while at the same time they sae
etherealeese its substance, that you can indulge to the suppos-
able utmost in greediness, without subjectin yoursel, in your
ain conscience, to the charge o' grossness — ony mair than did
Adam or Eve when dining upon aipples wi' the angel Raphael
in the bowers o' Paradise. And Heaven be praised that has
bestowed on us three the gracious gift o' a sound, steady, but
not unappeasable appeteet.
Tickler. North and I are Epicures — but you, James, I fear,
are a —
Shepherd. Glutton. Be't sae. There's at least this comfort
in ma case, that I look like ma meat —
Tickler. Which at present appears to be cod's head and
shoulders.
Shepherd. Whereas, to look at you, a body would imagine
that you leeved exclusively on sheep's head and trotters. As
for you, Mr. North, I never could faddom the philosophy o'
your fondness for soups. For hotch-potch and cockyleekie
the wisest o' men may hae a ruling passion ; but to keep
plowterin, platefu' after platefu', amang broon soup, is surely
no verra consistent wi' your character. It's little better than
moss-water. Speakin' o' cockyleekie, the man was an atheist
that first polluted it wi' prunes.
414 The Fastidious Tickler.
North. At least no Christian.
Shepherd. Prunes gie't a sickenin sweetness, till it tastes
like a mouthfu' o' a cockney poem ; and, scunnerin, you
splutter out the fruit, afraid that the loathsome lobe is a
stinkin snail.
Tickler. Hogg, you have spoilt my dinner.
Shepherd. Then maun ye be the slave o' the senses, sir,
and your very imagination at the mercy of your palat — or
rather, veece versa, the roof o' your mouth maun baud the
tenure o' its taste frae anither man's fancy — a pitiable con
dition — for a single word may change luxuries intil necessaries,
and necessaries intil something no eatable, even during a
siege.
North. 'Tis all affectation in Tickler this extreme fastidi
ousness and delicacy.
Shepherd. I defy the utmost powers o' language to disgust
me wi' a gude denner. My stamack would soar superior —
Tickler. Mine, too, would rise.
Shepherd. Oh, sir, you're wutty ! but I hate puns. — Tickler,
is that mock ?
Tickler. I believe it is ; but the imitation excels the original,
even as Byron's Beppo is preferable to Frere's Giants.
Shepherd. A' but the green fat.
North. Deep must be the foundation and strong the super
structure of that friendship which can sustain the shock
of seeing its object eating mock-turtle soup from a plate of
imitation silver—
Shepherd. Meaner than pewter, as is the soup than sowens.
An invaluable apothegm !
North. Not that I belong, James, to the Silver-Fork School.*
Shepherd. The flunkeys — as we weel ca'd them, sir — a
contumelious nickname, which that unco dour and somewhat
Novelists of the Theodore Hook class had been thus characterized.
The Wooden Spoon. 415
stupit radical in the Westminster would try to make himsel
believe he invented ewer again, when the impident plagiary
changed it — as he did the ither day — into " Lackey."
North. I merely mean, James, that at bed or board I abhor
all deception.
Shepherd. Sae, sir, div * I. A plated spoon is a pitifu'
imposition ; recommend me to horn ; and then nane o' your
egg-spoons, or pap-spoons for weans, but ane about the
diameter o' my loof, that when you put it weel ben into
your mouth, gars your cheeks swall, and your een shut wi'
satisfaction.
Tickler. I should like to have your picture, my dear James,
taken in that gesture.
North. Finely done in miniature, by MacLeay.
Tickler. No. By some savage Rosa.
Shepherd. A' I mean, sirs, is sincerity and plain-dealing.
"One man," says the auld proverb, *'is born wi' a silver
spoon in his mouth, and another wi' a wudden ladle." Noo,
what would be the feelings o' the first, were he to find that
fortune had clapt iutiJ his mouth, as Nature was geein him to
the warld, what to a' appearance was a silver spoon, and by
the howdie and a' the kimmers f sae denominated accordingly,
but when shown to Mr. Morton the jeweller, or Messrs.
Mackay and Cunninghame, was pronounced plated ? He
would sigh sair for the wudden ladle. Indeed, gents, I'm no
sure but it's better nor even the real siller metal. In the
first place, it's no sae apt to be stown ; $ in the second, maist
things taste weel out o' wud ; thirdly, there's nae expense
in keepin't clean, whereas siller requires constant pipe-clay,
leather, or flannen ; fourthly, I've seen them wi' a maist
beautifu' polish, acquired in coorse o' time by the simple pro
cess o' sookin the horn as it gaed in and out o' the mouth ;
* Div— do. f Kimmers— gossips. t Stowri— stolen.
416 Memory and Intellect.
fifthly, there's ten thousand times mair vareeity in the
colors ; sixthly —
Tickler. Enough in praise of the Wooden Spoon.* Poor
fellow ! I always pity that unfortunate annual.
Shepherd. Unfortunate annual ! You canna weel be fou
already ; yet, certes, you're beginnin to haver — and indeed I
have observed, no without pain, that a single caulker some-
hoo or ither superannuates ye, Mr. Tickler.
North. James, you have spoken like yourself on the subject
of wooden spoons. 'Twas a simple but sapient homily.
" Worms, madam ! nay, it is." Be that my rule of life.
Shepherd. The general rule admits but o' ae exception —
Vermicelli ? What that sort o' soup's composed o' I never
hae been able to form ony feasible conjecture. Aneuch for
me to ken, on your authority, Mr. North, that it's no worms-
North. I have no recollection of having ever given you
such assurance, James.
Shepherd. Your memory, my dear sir, you'll excuse me for
metionin't, is no just what it used to be —
North. You are exceedingly im —
Shepherd. Pertinent. Pardon me for takin the word out
o' your mouth, sir — but as for your judgment —
North. I believe you are right, my dear James. The
memory is but a poor power after all — well enough for the
mind in youth, when its business is to collect a store of
ideas —
Shepherd. But altogether useless in auld age, sir, when the
Intellect —
North. Is Lord Paramount — and all his subjects come
flocking of their own accord to lay themselves in loyality at
his feet.
Shepherd. There he sits on his throne, on his head a croon,
* The lowest graduate in honors at Cambridge is so called.
In Old Age. 417
and in his haun a sceptre. Cawm is his face as the sea —
and his brow like a snaw-white mountain. By divine right
a king !
North. Spare my blushes.
Shepherd. I wasna speakin o' you, sir — sae you ueedna
blush. I was speakin o' the Abstrack Power o' Intellect per
sonified in an Eemage, " whose stature reached the sky," and
whose countenance, serenely fu' o' thocht, partook o' the
majestic stillness o' the region that is glorified by the setting
sun.
North. My dear boy, spare my blushes.
Shepherd. Hem. (His face can nae mair blush than the
belly o' a hen redbreast.) What philosopher, like an adjutant-
general, may order out on parawde the thochts and feelings,
and, strick though he be as a disciplinawrian, be obeyed by
that irregular and aften mutinous Macedonian phalanx ?
North. I confess it does surprise me to hear you, James,
express yourself so beautifully over haggis.
Shepherd. What for ? What's a wee haggis but a big
raggoo ? — an' a big raggoo, but a wee haggis ? But will you
believe me, Mr. Tickler, I was sae taen up wi' the natural
sentiment, that I kentna what was on my plate.
Tickler. And probably have no recollection of having,
within the last ten minutes, eat a how-towdy.
Shepherd. What the deevil are you twa about ? Circum
navigating the table in arm-chairs ! What ! Am I on
wheels too ?
[ The SHEPHERD follows NORTH and TICKLER round the
genial hoard.
North. How do you like this fancy, my dear James ?
Shepherd. Just excessively, sir. It gies us a perfeck com
mand o' the entire table, east and wast, north and south;
and at present, I calculate that I am cuttin the equawtor.
418 The Curricles.
North. It relives Mr. Ambrose and his young gentlemen
from unnecessary attendance — and, besides, the exercise is
most salutary to persons of our age, who are apt to get fat
and indolent.
Shepherd. Fozy. So ye contrive to rin upon horrals,* halt
ing before a darling dish, and then away on a voyage o' new
discovery. This explains the itherwise unaccountable size o'
this immense circle o' a table. Safe us ! It would sit forty !
And yet, by this ingenious contrivance, it is just about
sufficient size for us Three. Hae ye taen out a pawtent ?
North. No. I hate monopolies.
Shepherd. What ! You, the famous foe o' Free-tredd !
North. With our national debt —
Shepherd. Dinna tempt me, sir, to lose a' patience under a
treatise on taxes —
North. Well — I won't. But you admire these curricles ?
Shepherd. Moveable at the touch o' the wee finger. Whase
invention ?
North. My own.
Shepherd. You Daedalus !
North. The principle, James, I believe is perfect — but I
have not been yet able to get the construction of the vehicle
exactly to my mind.
Shepherd. I dinna ken what mair you could howp for,
unless it were to move at a thocht. Farewell, sirs, I'm an*
across the line to yon pie — nae sma' bulk even at this
distance. Can it be pigeons ?
[SHEPHERD wheels away south-east.
North. Take your trumpet.
Shepherd. That beats a'. For ilka man a silver speakin-
trumpet! Let's try mine. (Shepherd puts his trumpet to his
mouth.) Ship ahoy ! Ship ahoy !
• Horrali or whorles—very small wheels.
Southside in Pursuit. 419
North (trumpet-tongued). The Endeavor* — bound for —
Shepherd. Whist — whisht — sir. — I beseech you whisht.
Nae drums can staun' siccan a trumpet, blawn by siccan
lungs (laying down his trumpet}. This is, indeed, the Pie o'
Pies. I howp Mr. Tickler 'ill no think o' wheelin roun' to
this quarter o' the globe.
Tickler (on the trumpet). What sort of picking have you got
at the Antipodes, James ?
Shepherd. Roar a little louder — for I'm dull o' hearin. Is
he speakin o' the Bench o' Bishops ?
Tickler (as before, but louder). What pie ?
Shepherd. Ay — ay.
Tickler (lar ghetto). What pie ?
Shepherd. Ay — ay. What'n a gran* echo up in yon
corner !
[TICKLER wheels away in search of the north-west passage —
and on his approach the SHEPHERD weighs anchor with
the pie, and keeps beating up to windivard — close-hauled —
at the rate of eight knots, chased by SOUTSHIDE, who is
seen dropping fast to leeward.
North. He'll not weather the point of Firkin.f
Shepherd (putting about under North's stern). I'll rin for pro
tection frae the Pirrat,t under the guns o' the old Admiral —
and being on the same station, I suppose he's entitled to his
ain share o' the prize. Here, my jolly veteran, here's the Pie.
Begin wi' a couple o' cushats, and we'll divide atween us
the croon o' paste in the middle, about as big's the ane the
King — God bless him — wore at the coronation.
[TICKLER wheels his chair into the nook on the right of the
chimney-piece.
Southside, hae you deserted the diet ? O man ! you're
* Professor Wilson had a yacht on "Winder-mere named " The Endeavor."
t A point of land running into Loch Lomond is so called. J Pirate.
420 Sound the Trumpets!
surely no sulky ? Come back — come back, I beseech you —
and let us shake hauns. It'll never do for us true Tories to
quarrel amang oursels at this creesis. What'n a triumph to
the Whigs, when they hear o' this schism ! Let's a' hae a
finger in the pie, and as the Lord Chancellor said, and I pre
sume did, in the House o' Lords — " on my bended knees, I
implore you to pass this bill ! " *
[The SHEPHERD kneels before TICKLER, and presents to him
a plateful of the pie.
Tickler (returning to the administration). James, we have
conquered, and we are reconciled.
North. Trumpets ! [ Three trumpet cheers.
Gurney (rushing in alarm from the ear of Dionysius).
Gentlemen, the house is sArrounded by a mob of at least fifty
thousand Reformers, who with dreadful hurrahs are shouting
for blood.
Shepherd. Fifty thousan' ! Wha counted the radical ras
cals ?
Gurney. I conjecture their numbers from their noise. For
Heaven's sake, Mr. North, do not attempt to address the
mob —
North. Trumpets ! [ Three trumpet cheers.
Gurney (retiring much abashed into his ear). Miraculous !
Ambrose (entering with much emotion). Mr. North, I fear the
house is surrounded by the enemies of the constitution,
demanding the person of the Protector —
Shepherd. Trumpets !
[Three trumpet cheers. Exit AMBROSE in astonishment.
North. Judging from appearances, I presume dinner is over.
* Lord Brcagham concluded his speech on Parliamentary Reform,
October 7, 1831, in the following terms : — " I pray and exhort you not to
reject this measure. By all you hold most dear — by all the ties that bind
every one of us to our common OKler and our common country, I solemnly
adjure you, I warn you,— I implore,— yea, on my bended knees, I supplicate
you— Reject not this Bill."
The Start. 421
Shepherd. A'm stawed.*
North. There is hardly any subject which we have not
touched, and not one have we touched which we did not
adorn.
Shepherd. By subjecks do you mean dishes ? Certes, we
have discussed a hantle o' them — some pairtly, and ithers
totally ; but there's food on the brodd yet sufficient for a
score o' ordinar men —
Tickler. And we shall have it served up, James, to supper.
Shepherd. Soun' doctrine. What's faith without warks ?
North. Now, gentlemen, a fair start. Draw up on my
right, James — elbow to elbow. Tickler, your place is on the
extreme gauche. You both know the course. The hearth-rug
of the snuggery's the goal. All ready ? Away !
[The start is the most beautiful thing ever seen — and all Three
at once make play.
SCENE II. — The Snuggery.
Enter NORTH in his Jlying chair, at the rate of the Derby f
beating, by several lengths, TICKLER and the SHEPHERD,
now neck and neck.
North (pulling up as soon as he has passed the Judges' stand).
Our nags are pretty much on a par, I believe, in point of con
dition, but much depends, in a short race, on a good start,
and there the old man showed his jockeyship.
Shepherd. 'Twas a fause start, sir — 'twas a fause start — I'll
swear it was a fause start till ma deein day — for I hadna
gotten mysel settled in the saiddle, till ye was aff like a shot,
and afore I could get intil a gallop, you was half-way across
the flat o' the saloon.
North. James, there could be no mistake. The signal to
start was given by Saturn himself ; and —
« Stored— surfeited.
422 Hbffff refers his Claim
Shepherd. And then Tickler, afore me and him got to the
fauldin-doors, after some desperate crossin and jostlin, I alloo,
on baith sides, ran me clean aff the coorse, and I had to make
a complete circle in the bow-window or I could get the
head o' my horse pinted again in a richt direction for winnin
the race. Ca' ye that fair ? I shall refer the haill business
to the decision o' the Jockey Club.
North. What have you to say, Tickler, in answer to this
very serious charge ?
Tickler. Out of his own mouth, sir, I convict him of con
duct that must have the effect of debarring the Shepherd
from ever again competing for these stakes.
Shepherd. For what stakes ? Do you mean to mainteen,
you brazen-faced neerdoweel, that I am never to be alloo'd
again to rin Mr. North frae the saloon to the Snuggery for
ony steaks we choose, or chops either ? Things 'ill hae come
to a pretty pass, when it sail be necessar to ask your leave
to start — you blacklegs !
Tickler, He's confessed the crossing arid jostling.
Shepherd. You lee. Wha began't ? We started sidey-by
sidey, ye see, sir, frae the rug afore the fire, where we was a'
three drawn up, and just as you was gaun out o' sicht atween
the pillars, Tickler and me ran foul o' ane anither at the nor',
east end o' the circular. There was nae faut on either side
there, and a'm no blamin him, except for ackwardness, which
was aiblius mutual. As sune's we had gotten disentangled,
we entered by look o' ee, if no word o' mouth, intil a social
compact to rin roun' opposite sides o' the table — which we
did — and in proof that neither of us had gained an inch on
the ither, no sooner had we rounded the south-west cape,
than together came we wi' sic a clash, that I thocht we had
been baith killed on the spat. There was nae faut on either
side there, ony mair than there had been at the nor'-east ;
To the Jockey Club. 423
but then began his violation o' a' honor ; for ha'in succeeded
in shovin mysel aff, I was makin for the fauldin-doors — due
west — ettlin for the inside, to get a short turn — when, whup-
pin and spurrin like mad, what does he do but charge me
richt on the flank, and drive me, as T said afore, several yards
aff the coorse, towards the bow-window, where I was neces
sitated to fetch a circumbendibus that wad hae lost me the
race had I ridden Eclipse. Ca' ye that fair ? But it was
agreed that we were to be guided by the law of Newmarket,
sae I'll refer the haill affair to the Jockey Club.
Tickler. Hear me for a moment, sir. True, we got en
tangled at the nor'-west — most true at the sou '-west came we
together with a clash. But what means the Shepherd by
shoving off ? Why, sir, he caught hold of my right arm as
in a vice, so that I could make no use of that member, while
at the same time he locked me into his own rear, and then
away he went like a two-year-old, having, as he vainly
dreamt, the race in hand by that manosuvre, so disgraceful
to the character of the carpet.
North. If you please, turf.
Tickler. Under such circumstances, was I to consider my
self bound by laws wbteh he himself had broken and reduced
to a dead letter ? No. My subsequent conduct he has accu
rately described ; off the course — for we have a bit of speed
in us — I drove him ; but as for the circumbendibus in the
bow-window, we must believe that on his own word.
Shepherd. And daur you, sir, or ony man breathin, to dout
ma word —
North. Be calm, gentlemen. The dispute need not be re
ferred to the Club ; for, consider you were nowhere.
Shepherd. Eh?
North. You were both distanced.
Shepherd. Baith distanced ! Hoo ? Where's the post ?
424 The Coalition against North.
North. The door-post of the Snuggery.
Shepherd. Baith our noses were through afore you had reach
ed the rug. I'll tak ma Bible-oath on't. Werena they, Tickler ?
Tickler. Both.
North. Not a soul of you entered this room for several
seconds after I had dismounted —
Shepherd. After ye had dismounted ? Haw ! haw ! haw !
Tickler ! North confesses he had dismounted afore he was
weighed — and has thereby lost the race. Hurrah ! hurrah !
hurrah ! Noo, ours was a dead heat — so let us divide the
stakes —
Tickler. With all my heart ; but we ran for the Gold Cup.
Shepherd. Eh ! sae we did, man ; and yonner it's on the
sideboard — a bonny bit o' bullion. Let's keep it year about ;
and, to prevent ony hargle-barglin about it, let the first turn
be mine ; oh ! but it'll do wee Jamie's heart gude to glower
on't stannin aside the siller punch-bowl I got frae my friend
Mr. What's the matter wi' ye, Mr. North ? What for
sae doun i' the mouth ? Why fret sae at a trifle ?
North. No honor can accrue from a conquest achieved by
a quirk.
Shepherd. Nor dishonor frae defeat; — then, "prithee why
so pale, wan lover ? prithee why so pale ? "
Tickler. I can hardly credit my senses when I hear an old
sportsman call that a quirk, which is in fact one of the
foundation-stones of the law of Racing.
Shepherd. I maun gang back for ma shoon.
North. Your shoon.
Shepherd. Ay,ma shoon — I flung them baith in Mr. Tickler's
face — for which I noo ask his pardon — when he ran me aff
the coorse —
Tickler. No offence, my dear James, for I returned the
compliment with both snuff-boxes —
The Dessert. 425
North. Oh ! ho ! So you who urge against me the objection
of having dismounted before going to scale, both confess that
you flung away weight during the race !
Shepherd. Eh ? Mr. Tickler, answer him —
Tickler. Do, James.
Shepherd (scratching his head with one hand, and stroking his
chin with the other). "We've a' three won, and we've a' three
lost. That's the short and the lang o't — sae the Cup maun
staun' ower till anither trial.
North. Let it be decided now. From Snuggery to Saloon.
Shepherd. What ! after frae Saloon to Snuggery ? That
would be reversin the order o' nature. Besides, we
maun a' three be unco dry — sae let's turn to, till the table
— and see what's to be had in the way o' drink. What'n
frutes !
North. These are Ribstons, James — a pleasant apple —
Shepherd. And what's thir ?
North. Golden pippins.
Shepherd. Sic jargonels ! shaped like peeries — and yon
Auchans * (can they be ripe?) like taps. And what ca' je
thae, like great big fir-cones, wi' outlandish-lookin palm-tree
leaves archin frae them wi' an elegance o' their ain, rouch
though they seem in the rin', and aiblins prickly ? What ca'
ye them ?
North. Pine-apples.
Shepherd. I've aften heard tell o' them — but never clapped
een on them afore. And these are pines ! Oh ! but the
scent is sweet, sweet — and wild as sweet — and as wild resto
rative. I'se tak some jargonels afterwards — but I'll join you
noo, sir, in a pair o' pines.
[NORTH fives the SHEPHERD a pine-apple.
Hoo are they eaten ?
* Auchans—a tiud of pear.
426 The Flavor of Pine-Apple.
Tickler. With pepper, mustard, and vinegar, like oysters,
James.
Shepherd. I'm thinkin you maun be leein.
Tickler. Some people prefer catsup.
Shepherd. Haud your blethers. Catchup's gran' kitchen *
for a' kinds o' flesh, fish, and fule, but for frutes the rule is
" sugar or naething," — and if this pine keep the taste o'
promise to the palat, made by the scent he sends through the
nose, nae extrawneous sweetness will he need, self-sufficient
in his ain sappiness, rich as the color o' pinks, in which it is
sae savorily enshrined. 1 never pree'd ony taste half sae
delicious as that in a' ma born days ! Ribstanes, pippins,
jargonels, peaches, nectrins, currans and strawberries, grapes
and grozets, a' in ane ! The concentrated essence o' a' ither
frutes, harmoneesed by a peculiar tone o' its ain — till it melts
in the mouth like material music.
North (pouring out for the Shepherd a glass of sparkling
champagne}. Quick, James — quick — ere the ethereal particles
escape to heaven.
Shepherd. You're no passin aff soddy f upon me ? Soddy's
ma abhorrence — it's sae like thin soap suds.
North. Fair play's a jewel, my dear Shepherd.
" From the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France—"
Shepherd. —
" See the day-star o' liberty rise."
That beats ony guseberry — and drinks prime wi' pine. An-
ither glass. And anither. Noo put aside the Langshanks —
and after a' this daffin let's set in for serious dririkin, thinkin,
lookin, and speakin — like three philosophers as we are — and
still let our theme be — Human Life.
* Kitchen— relish. t Soda water.
North is sick of Life. 427
North. James, I am sick of life. With me " the wine of
life is on the lees."
Shepherd. Then drink the dregs and be thankfu'. As lang's
there's anither drap, however drumly, in the bottom o' the
bottle, dinna despair. But what for are you sick o' life ?
You're no a verra auld man yet — and although ye was, why
mayna an auld man be geyan happy ? That's a' ye can
expeck noo. But wha's happy — think ye — perfeckly happy
— on this side o' the grave ? No ane. I left yestreen wee
Jamie — God bless him — greetin as his heart would break for
the death o' a bit wee doggie that he used to keep playin wi'
on the knowe mony an hour when he ought to hae been at
his byuck — and when he lifted up his bonny blue een a' fu'
o' tears to the skies, after he had seen me bury the puir tyke
in the garden, I'se warrant he thocht there was a sair change
for the waur in the afternoon licht — for never did callant loe
collie as he loed Luath ; and to be sure he, on his side, wasna
ungratefu' — fr>r Luath keepit lichin his haun till the verra
last gasp, though he dee'd of that cruel distemper. Fill your
glass, sir.
North. I have been subject to fits of blackest melancholy
since I was a child, James.
Shepherd. An' think ye, sir, that naebody has been subjeck
to fits o' blackest melancholy since they were a bairn but
yoursel ? Wi' some it's constitutional, and that's a hopeless
case ; for it rins, or rather stagnates, in the bluid, and meesery
has been bequeathed frae father to son, doun mony dismal
generations — nor has ceased till some childless suicide, by a
maist ruefu' catastrophe, has closed the cleemax, by the
unblessed extinction o' the race. But you, my dear sir, are
come o' a cheerfu' kind, and mirth laughed in the ha's o' a'
your ancestors. Cheer up, sir — cheer up — fill your glass wi'
Madeiry — an' nae mair lolly about fits — for you're gettin fatter
428 The Young and Happy.
an' fatter every year, and what you ca' despair 's but the
dumps.
North. O, mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos !
Shepherd. Ay — passion gies vent to mony an impious
prayer ! The mair I meditat on ony season o' my life, the
mair fearfu' grows the thocht o' leevin't ovver again, and my
sowl recoils alike frae the bliss and frae the meesery, as if
baith alike had been sae intense that it were impossible they
could be re-endured !
North. James, I regard you with much affection.
Shepherd. I ken you do, sir — and I repay't three-fauld ; but
I canna thole to hear you talkin nonsense. What for are ye
no drinkin your Madeiry ?
North. How pregnant with pathos to an aged man are
those two short lines of Wordsworth — about poor Ruth ! —
" Ere she had wept, ere she had moum'd,
A young and happy child."
Shepherd. They are beautifu' where they staun', and true ;
but fause in the abstrack, for the youngest and happiest child
has often wept and mourned, even when its mither has been
try in to rock it asleep in its cradle. Think o' the teethin,
sir, and a' the colic-pains incident to babbyhood !
North. " You speak to me who never had a child."
Shepherd. I'm no sae sure o' that, sir. Few men hae leeved
till threescore and ten without being faithers ; but that's no
the pint ; the pint is the pleasures and pains o' childhood,
and hoo nicely they are balanced to us poor sons of a day !
I ken naething o' your childhood, sir, nor o' Mr. Tickler's,
except that in very early life you maun hae been twa stirrin
gentlemen —
Tickler. I have heard my mother say that I was a remark
ably mild child till about —
Shepherd. Six — when it cost your faither an income for
Childhood of Tickler. 429
tawse to skelp out o' you the innate ferocity that began to
break upon you like a rash alang wi' the measles —
Tickler. It is somewhat singular, James, that I never have
had measles — nor small pox — nor hooping-cough — nor scarlet-
fever — nor —
Shepherd. There's a braw time comin, for these are com-
plents nane escape ; and I shouldna be surprised to see you
at next Noctes wi' them a' fowre — a' spotted and blotched, as
red as an Indian or a tile-roof, and crawin like a cock, in a
fearsome manner — to which add the Asiatic cholera, and
then, ma man, I wadna be in your shoon for the free gift o'
the best o' the Duke's store-farms, wi' a' the plenishin — for
the fifth comin on the ither fowre, lang as you are, wad cut
you aff like a cucumber.
North. —
" Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade I
Ah, fields beloved in vain !
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain."
Shepherd. That's Gray — and Gray was the best poet that
ever belanged to a college — but —
North. All great (except one) and most good poets have
belonged to colleges.
Shepherd. Humph. But a line comes soon after that is the
key to that stanza —
" My weary soul they seem to soothe ! "
Gray wasna an auld man — far frae it — when he wrote that
beautifu' Odd — but he was fu' o' sensibility and genius — and
after a lapse o' years, when he beheld again the bits o' bricht
aiid bauld leevin eemages glancin athwart the green — a' the
Eton College callants in full cry — his heart amaist dee'd
within him at the sicht and the soun' — for his pulse, as he
430 The Joy of Grief!
put his finger to his wrist, beat fent and intermittent in com
parison, and nae wunner that he should fa' intil a dooble
delusion about their happiness and his ain meesery. And
sae the poem's colored throughout wi' a pensive spirit o'
regret, in some places wi' the gloom o' melancholy, and in
ane or twa amaist black wi' despair. It's a fine picture o'
passion, sir, and true to nature in every touch. Yet frae
beginnin to end, in the eye o' reason, and faith, and religion,
it's a' ae lee. Fause, surely, a' thae forebodings o' a fatal
futurity. For love, joy, and bliss are not banished frae this
life ; and in writin that verra poem, maunna the state o'
Gray's sowl hae been itsel divine ?
North. Tickler?
Tickler. Good.
Shepherd. What are mony o' the pleasures o' memory, sirs,
but the pains o' the past spiritualeezed ?
North. Tickler?
Tickler. True.
Shepherd. A' human feelings seem somehow or ither to
partake o' the same character, when the objects that awake
them have withdrawn far, far awa intil the dim distance, or
disappeared for ever in the dust.
Tickler. North?
North. The Philosophy of Nature.
Shepherd. And that Tarn Cawmel maun hae felt, when he
wrote that glorious line — •
" And teach impassion'd souls the joy of grief ! "
North. The joy of grief ! That is a joy known but to the
happy, James. The soul that can dream of past sorrows till
they touch it with a pensive delight can be suffering under
no severe trouble —
Shepherd. Perhaps no, sir. But may that no aften happen
The Blue Devils. 431
too, when the heart is amaist dead to a' pleasure in the
present, and loves but to converse wi' phantoms ? I've seen
pale still-faces o' widow-women, — ane sic is afore me the noo,
whase husband was killed in the wars lang lang ago in a
forgotten battle — she leeves on a sma' pension in a laigh
and lonely house, — that bespeak constant communion wi'
the dead, and yet nae want either o' a meek and mournfu'
sympathy wi' the leevin, provided only ye show them by the
considerate gentleness o' your manner, when you chance to
ca' on them on a week-day, or meet them at the kirk on
Sabbath, that you ken something o' their history, and hae a
Christian feelin for their uncomplainin affliction. Surely,
sir, at times, when some tender gleam o' memory glides like
moonlight across their path, and reveals in the hush some
ineffable eemage o' what was lovely and beloved o' yore,
when they were, as they thocht, perfectly happy, although
the heart kens weel that 'tis but an eemage, and nae mair —
yet still it maun be blest ; and let the tears drap as they will
on the faded cheek, I should say the puir desolate cretur did
in that strange fit o' passion suffer the joy o' grief.
North. You will forgive me, James, when I confess, that
though I enjoyed just now the sound of your voice, which
seemed to me more than usually pleasant, with a trembling
tone of the pathetic, I did not catch the sense of your
speech.
Shepherd. I wasna makin a speech, sir — only uttering a sort
o' sentiment that has already evaporated clean out o' mind
or passed awa like an uncertain shadow.
North. Misery is selfish, James — and I have lost almost all
sympathy with my fellow-creatures, alike in their joys and
their sorrows.
Shepherd. Come, come, sir — cheer up, cheer up. It's nae-
thing but the blue devils.
432 The Blue Devils.
North. All dead — one after another — the friends in whom
lay the light and might of my life — and memory's self is
faithless now to the " old familiar faces." Eyes — brows —
lips — smiles — voices — all — all forgotten ! Pitiable, indeed,
is old age, when love itself grows feeble in the heart, and yet
the dotard is still conscious that he is day by day letting
some sacred remembrance slip for ever from him that he once
cherished devoutly in his heart's core, and feels that mental
decay alone is fast delivering them all up to oblivion !
Shepherd. Sittin wi' rheumy een, mumblin wi' his mouth
on his breist, and no kennin frae ither weans his grandchil
dren, wha have come to visit him wi' their mother, his ain
bricht and beautifu' dauchter, wha seems to him a stranger
passing alang the street.
North. What said you, James ?
Shepherd. Naething, sir, naethiiig. I wasna speakin o' you
— but o' anither man.
North. They who knew me — and loved me — and honored
me — and admired me — for why fear to use that word, now
to me charmless? — all dust! What are a thousand kind
acquaintances, James, to him who has buried all the few
friends of 'his soul — all the few — one — two — three — but
powerful as a whole army to guard the holiest recesses of
life!
Shepherd. An' am I accounted but a kind acquaintance and
nae mair ? I wha —
North. What have I said to hurt you, my dear James ?
Shepherd. Never mind, sir — never mind. I'll try to forget
it — but —
North. Stir the fire, James — and give a slight touch to
that lamp.
Shepherd There's a bleeze, sir, at ae blast. An' there's
the Orrery, bricht as the nicht in Homer's Iliad, about which
The Salmon Medal. 433
you wrote sic eloquent havers. And there's your bumper-
glass. Noo, sir, be candid, and tell me gif you dinna think
that you've been a verra great fule ?
North. I believe I have, my dear James. But, by all that
is ludicrous here below, look at Tickler ! [ Tickler sleeps
Shepherd. Oh for Cruckshank!
North. By the bye, James, who won the salmon medal this
season on the Tweed ?
Shepherd. Wha, think ye, could it be, ye coof, but mysel ?
I bet them a' by twa stane wecht. Oh, Mr. North, but it
wad hae done your heart gude to hae daunered alang the
banks wi' me on the 25th, and seen the slauchter. At the
third thraw the snout o' a famous fish sookit in ma flee — and
for some seconds keepit stedfast in a sort o' eddy that gaed
sullenly swirlin at the tail o' yon pool — I needna name't — for
the river had risen just to the proper pint, and was black as
ink, except when noo and then the sun struggled out frae
atween the clud-chinks, and then the water was purple as
heather-moss in the season of blaeberries. But that verra
instant the flee began to bite him on the tongue, for by a
jerk o' the wrist I had slightly gien him the butt — and sun
beam never swifter shot frae Heaven, than shot that saumon-
beam down intil and out o' the pool below, and alang the
saugh-shallows or you come to Juniper Bank. Clap — clap —
clap — at the same instant played a couple o' cushats frae an
aik aboon my head, at the purr o' the pirn, that let out in a
twinkling a hunner yards o' Mr. Phin's best, strang aneuch
to haud a bill or a rhinoceros.
North. Incomparable tackle !
Shepherd. Far, far awa doun the flood, see till him, sir-
see till him, — loup-loup-loupin intil the air, describin in
the spray the rinnin rainbows ! Scarcely could I believe, at
sic a distance, that he was the same fish. He seemed a
434 Hogg in his Cork-Jacket
saumon divertin himsel, without ony connection in this
warld wi' the Shepherd. But we were linked thegither, sir,
by the inveesible gut o' destiny — and I chasteesed him in
his pastime wi' the rod o' affliction. Windin up — windin up,
faster than ever ye grunded coffee — I keepit closin in upon
him, till the whalebone was amaist perpendicular outower
him, as he stoppit to tak breath in a deep plum. You see
the savage had gotten sulky, and you micht as weel hae
rugged at a rock. Hoo I leuch ! Easin the line ever so
little, till it just moved slichtly like gossamer in a breath o'
wund — I half persuaded him that he had gotten aff ; but na,
na, ma man, ye ken little about the Kirby-bends gin ye
think the peacock's harl and the tinsy hae slipped frae your
jaws ! Snoovin up the stream, he goes hither and thither,
but still keepin weel in the middle — and noo strecht and
steddy as a bridegroom ridin to the kirk.
North. An original image.
Shepherd. Say rather application ! Maist majestic, sir,
you'll alloo, is that flicht o' a fish when the line cuts the
surface without commotion, and you micht imagine that
he was sailin unseen below in the style o' an eagle about to
fauld his wings on the cliff.
North. Tak tent, James. Be wary, or he will escape.
Shepherd. Never fear, sir. He'll no pit me aff my guard
by keepin the croon o' the causey in that gate. I ken what
he's ettlin at — and it's naething mair nor less nor yon island.
Thinks he to himsel, wi' his tail, " Gin I get abreist o' the
broom, I'll roun' the rocks, doun the rapids, and break the
Shepherd." And nae sooner thocht than done — but bauld in
my cork -jacket —
North. That's anew appurtenance to your person, James;
I thought you had always angled in bladders.
Shepherd. Sae I used — but last season they fell doun to ray
Plays his Salmon. 435
heels, and had nearly diooned me — sae I trust noo to my
bodyguard.
North. I prefer the air life-preserver.
Shepherd. If it bursts you're gone. Bauld in my cork-jacket,
I took till the soomin, haudin the rod aboon my head —
North. Like Caesar his Commentaries.
Shepherd. And gettin fittin on the bit island — there's no a
shrub on't, you ken, aboon the waistband o' my breeks — I
was just in time to let him easy ower the Fa', and Heaven
safe us ! he turned up, as he played wallop, a side like a
house ! He fand noo that he was in the hauns o' his maister,
and began to loss heart ; for naethin cows the better pairt o'
man, brute, fool, or fish, like a sense o' inferiority. Some
times in a large pairty it suddenly strikes me dumb —
North. But never in the Snuggery, James — never in the
Sanctum —
Shepherd. Na, na, na — never i' the Snuggery, never i' the
Sanctum, my dear auld man ! For there we're a' brithers,
and keep bletherin withouten ony sense o' propriety — I ax
pardon — o' inferiority — bein' a' on a level, and that lichtsome,
like the parallel roads in Glenroy, when the sunshine pours
upon them frae the tap o' Ben Nevis.
North. But we forget the fish.
Shepherd. No me. I'll remember him on my deathbed.
In body the same, he was entirely anither fish in sowl. He
had set his life on the hazard o' a die, and it had turned up
blanks. I began first to pity, and then to despise him — for
f-ae a fish o' his appearance I expeckit that nae ack o' his
life wad hae sae graced him as the closin ane — and I was
pairtly wae and pairtly wrathfu' to see him dee soft! Yet, to
do him justice, it's no impossible but that he may hae druv
his snout again' a stane, and got dazed — and we a' ken by
experience that there's naething mair likely to calm courage
436 The Last Leap.
,han a brainin knock on the head. His organ o' locality had
gotten a clour, for he lost a' judgment atween wat and dry,
and came fioatin, belly upmost, in amang the bit snail-bucky-
shells on the sand around my feet, and lay there as still
as if he had been gutted on the kitchen-dresser — an enormous
fish.
North. A sumph.
Shepherd. No sic a sumph as he looked like — and that
you'll think when you hear tell o' the lave o' the adventure.
Bein' rather out o' wund, I sits doun on a stane, and was
wipin ma broos, wi1 ma een fixed upon the prey, when a' on
a sudden, as if he had been galvaneesed, he stotted up intil
the lift, and wi' ae squash played plunge into the pool, and
awa doun the eddies like a porpus. I thocht I should hae
gane mad, Heaven forgie me — and I fear I swore like a
trooper. Loupin wi' a spang frae the stane, I missed ma feet,
and gaed head-ower-heels intil the water — while amang the
rushin o' the element I heard roars o' lauchter as if frae the
kelpie himsel, but what afterwards turned out to be guffaws
frae yourfriens Boyd and Juniper Bank,* wha had been wut-
nessin the drama frae commencement to catastrophe.
North. Ha ! ha ! ha ! James ! it must have been excessively
droll.
Shepherd. Risin to the surface wi' a guller, I shook ma
nieve at the neerdoweels, and then doun the river after the
sumph o' a saumon, like a verra otter. Followin noo the
sicht and noo the scent, I wasna lang in comin up wi' him
— for he was as deid as Dawvid — and lyin on his back, I pro
test, just like a man restin himsel at the soomin. I had for
gotten the gaff — so I fastened ma tooth intil the shouther o'
him — and like a Newfoundlan' savin a chiel frae droonin, I
* Messrs. Boyd of Innerleithen and Thorburn of Juniper Bank, a farm
on Tweedside.
The Shepherd on Shakespeare. 437
bare him to the shore, while, to do Boyd and Juniper justice,
the lift rang wi' acclamations.
North. What may have been his calibre ?
Shepherd. On puttin him intil the scales at nicht, he just
turned three stane tron.
Tickler (stretching himself out to an incredible extent). Alas!
'twas but a dream !
Shepherd. Was ye dreamin, sir, o' beio' hanged?
Tickler (recovering his first position). Eh !
North. " So started up in his own shape the Fiend." We
have been talking, Timothy, of Shakespeare's Seven Ages.
Tickler. Shakespeare's Seven Ages.
Shepherd. No Seven Ages — but rather seven characters.
Ye dinna mean to mainteen that every man, afore he dees,
maun be a sodger and a justice o' the peace ?
Tickler. Shepherd versus Shakespeare — Yarrow versus
Avon.
Shepherd. I see no reason why me, or ony ither man o'
genius, michtna write just as weel's Shakspeer. Arena we a'
mortal ? Mony glorious glints he has, and surpassin sun
bursts — but oh ! sirs, his plays are desperate fu' o' trash —
like some o' ma earlier poems —
Tickler. The Queen's Wake is a faultless production.
Shepherd. It's nae sic thing. But it's nearly about as
perfeck as ony work o' human genius ; whereas Shakspeer's
best plays, sic as Hamlet, Lear, and Othello, are but strang
daubs —
Tickler. James —
Shepherd. Are they no, Mr. North ?
North. Rather so, my dear Shepherd. But what of his
Seven Ages ?
Shepherd. Nothing — except that they're very poor. What's
the first?
138 The First
North. —
" At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in its nurse's arms ! "
Shepherd. Weel, then, the verra first squeak or skirl o* a
newborn wean in the house, that, though little louder nor
that o' a rotten, fills the entire tenement frae grun'-wark to
riggin, was far better for the purposes o' poetry than the
raewlin and pukin — for besides bein' onything but disgustfu'
though sometimes, I alloo, as alarmin as unexpected, it is the
sound the young Roscius utters on his first appearance on
any stage ; and on that latter account, if on nae ither, should
hae been seleckit by Shakspeer.
North. Ingenious, James.
Shepherd. Or the moment when it is first pitten,* trig as
a bit burdie, intil its father's arms.
Tickler. A man-child — the imp.
Shepherd. Though noo sax feet fower, you were then your
sel, Tickler, but a span lang — little mair nor the length o'
your present nose.
Tickler. 'Twas a snub.
Shepherd. As weel tell me that a pawrot, when it chips the
shell, has a strecht neb.
Tickler. Or that a hog does not show the cloven foot till he
has learnt to grunt.
Shepherd. Neither he does — for he grunts the instant he's
farrowed — like ony Christian — sae you're out again there,
and that envenomed shaft o' satire fa's to the grun'.
North. No bad blood, gents !
Shepherd. Weel, then — or, when yet unchristened, it lies
awake in the creddle — and as its wee dim een meet yours, as
you're lookin doun to kiss't, there comes strangely ower its
bit fair a something joyfu', that love construes intil a smile
* Pitten — put.
Of the Seven Ages. 439
Tickler. " Beautiful exceedingly." Hem.
Shepherd. Or, for the first time o' its life in lang-claes, held
up in the hush o' the kirk, to be bapteesed — while
Tickler. The moment the water touches its face, it falls into
a fit of fear and rage —
Shepherd. Sune stilled, ye callous carle, in the bosom o' ane
o' the bonny lassies sittin on a furm in the transe, a' dressed
in white, wha wi' mony a silent hushaby lulls the lamb, noo
ane o' the flock, into haly sleep.
Tickler. Your hand, my dear James.
Shepherd. There. Tak a gude grup, sir, for in spite o' that
sneerin, you've a real gude heart.
North. This is the second or third time, my dear James,
that we have been cheated by some chance or other out of
your Seven Ages. But hark ! the timepiece strikes nine —
and we must away to the Library. Two hours for dinner in
the Saloon — two for wine and walnuts in the Snuggery — then
two for tea-tea and coffee-tea in the Library — and finally, two
in the blue-parlor for supper. Such was the arrangement for
the evening. So lend me your support, my dear boys — we
shall leave our curricles behind us — and start pedestrians. I
am the lad to show a toe. £ Exeunt.
XXV.
IN WHICH NORTH ERECTS HIS TENT IN THE FAIRY'S
CLEUGH,AND IS CROWNED KING OF SCOTLAND
BY THE FOREST WORTHIES.
SCENE I. — Tent in the Fairy's Cleugh. NORTH and the
REGISTRAR * lying on the brae. (In attendance, AM
BROSE and his Tail.)
Registrar. And here we are in the Fairy's Cleugh, among
the mountains of —
North. Peeblesshire, Dumfriesshire, Lanarkshire, for here
all three counties get inextricably entangled ; yet in their
pastoral peace they quarrel not for the dominion of this nook,
central in the hill-heart, and haunted by the Silent People.
Registrar. You do not call us silent people ! Why, you
ouL-talka spinning-jenny, and the mill-clapper stops in despair
at the volubility of your speech.
North. Elves, Sam — Elves. Is it not the Fairy's Cleugh ?
Registrar. And here have been " little feet that print the
ground." But 1 took them for those of hares —
North. These, Sam, are not worm-holes — nor did Mole the
miner upheave these pretty little pyramids of primroses — for
* " The Registrar " was Mr. Samuel Anderson, formerly of the firm of
Brougham and Anderson, wine merchants, Edinburgh. He afterwards ob
tained from Lord Chancellor Brougham (his partner's brother) the appoint
ment of Registrar of the Court of Chancery. He was an esteemed friend
of Professor Wilson's, and a general favorite in society. He died in 1849.
440
North as a Fairy. 441
these, Sam, are all Fairy palaces, — and yonder edifice that
towers above the Lady-Fern — therein now sleeps — let us
speak low, and disturb her not — the Fairy Queen, waiting for
the moonlight — and soon as the orb shows her rim rising
from behind Birk-fell — away to the ring will she be gliding
with all the ladies of her Court —
Registrar. And we will join the dance — Kit —
North. Remember — then — that I am engaged to —
Registrar. So am I — three-deep.
North. Do you know, Sam, that I dreamed a dream ?
Registrar. You cannot keep a secret, for you blab in your
sleep.
North. Ay — both talk and walk. But I dreamed that I
saw a Fairy's funeral, and that I was myself a fairy.
Registrar. A warlock.
North. No — a pretty little female fairy not a span long.
Registrar. Ha! ha! ha!
North. And they asked me to sing her dirge, and then I
sang — for sorrow in sleep, Sam, is sometimes sweeter than
any joy — ineffably sweet — and thus comes back wavering
into my memory the elegiac strain.
THE FAERY'S BURIAL.
Where shall our sister rest ?
"Where shall we bury her ?
To the grave's silent breast
Soon we must hurry her J
Gone is the beauty now
From her cold bosom !
Down droops her livid brow,
Like a wan blossom !
Not to those white lips cling
Smiles or caresses !
Dull is the rainbow wing,
Dim the bright tresses !
442 The Fairy s Burial
Death now hath claimed his spoil-
Fling the pall over her !
Lap we earth's lightest soil,
Wherewith to cover her 1
Where down in yonder rale
Lilies are growing,
Mourners the pure and pale
Sweet tears bestowing !
Morning and evening dews
Will they shed o'er her ;
Each night their task renews
How to deplore her !
Here let the fern-grass grow,
With its green drooping I
Let the narcissus blow,
O'er the wave stooping I
Let the brook wander by,
Mournfully singing !
Let the wind murmur nigh,
Sad echoes bringing.
And when the moonbeams shower,
Tender and holy,
Light on the haunted hour
Which is ours solely,
Then will we seek the spot
Where thou art sleeping,
Holding thee unforgot
With our long weeping I
Amorose (rushing out of the Tent). Mr. Tickler, sirs, Mr.
Tickler ! Tender's his head and shoulders rising over the
knoll — in continuation of his herald the rod.
North (savagely). Go to the devil, sir.
Ambrose ( petrified). Ah ! ha ! ha ! ah ! si — sir — pa—
North (unmottified). Go to the devil, I say, sir. Are you
deaf?
Ambrose (going, going, gone). I beseech you,Mr. Registrar—
North is admonished. 443
North (grimly). " How like a fawning publican he looks ! "
Registrar. A most melancholy example of a truth I never
believed before, that poetical and human sensibility are alto
gether distinct — nay, perhaps incompatible ! North, forgive
me (North grasps the crutch] ; but you should be ashamed of
yourself — nay, strike, but hear me !
North (smiling after a sort). Well — Themistocles.
Registrar. You awaken out of a dream-dirge of Faery
Land — where you, by force of strong imagination, were a
female fairy, not a span long — mild as a musical violet, if
one might suppose one, " by a mossy stone half-hidden from
the eye," inspired with speech.
North. 1 feel the delicacy of the compliment.
Registrar. Then you feel something very different, sir, I
assure you, from what I intended, and still intend, you shall
feel; for your treatment of my friend Mr. Ambrose was
hocking.
North. I declare on my conscience, I never saw Ambrose !
Registrar. What ! aggravate your folly by falsehood 1
Then are you a lost man — and —
North. I thought it a stirk staggering in upon me at the
close of a stanza that —
Registrar. And why did you say " sir " ? Nay — nay — that
won't pass. From a female fairy, not a span long, " and even
the gentlest of all gentle things," you suffer yourself to trans
form you into a Fury six feet high ! and wantonly insult a
man who would not hurt the feelings of a wasp !
North (humbly). I hope I am not a wasp.
Registrar. I hope not, sir ; but permit me, who am not one
of your youngest friends, to say to you confidentially, that
you were just now very unlike a bee.
North (hiding his face with both his hands). All sting — a"nd
no honey. Spare me, Sam.
444 He apologizes.
Registrar. I will. But the world would not have credited
it, had she heard it with her own ears. Are you aware, sir,
that you told Mr. Ambrose " to go to the devil " ?
North (agitated}. And has he gone ?
Registrar (beckoning on Ambrose, who advances). Well,
Ambrose ?
North. Ambrose ! Do you forgive me ?
Ambrose, (falling on one knee). No — no — no — my dear
sir — my honored master —
North. Alas ! Ambrose — I am not even master of myself.
Ambrose. It was all my fault, sir. I ought to have looked
first to see if you were in the poetics. Such intrusion was
most unpardonable — for (smiling and looking down) shall
mere man obtrude on the hour of inspiration — when
" The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, turns them to shape,
And gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."
Registrar. Who suffers, Ambrose ?
Ambrose. Shakespeare, sir. Mr. Tickler ! Mr. Tickler ! Mr.
Tickler ! (catching up his voice) Mr. Tick —
Registrar. Yea — verily — and 'tis no other !
Tickler (stalking up the brae — rod in hand — and creel on his
shoulder — with his head well laid back— and his nose pretty per
pendicular with earth and sky). Well — boys — what's the
news ? And how are you off for soap ? How long here ?
Ho ! ho ! The Tent.
North. Since Monday evening — and if my memory serve
me right, this is either Thursday or Friday. Whence,
Tim?
* Tickler. From the West. But is there any porter ?
Ambrose (striving to draw). Ay — ay — sir.
Arrival of Tickler. 445
*
Tickler. You may as well try to uproot that birk. Give it
me.
\JPut the bottle between his feet — stoops — and lays on his
strength.
Registrar (jogging North). Oh ! for George Cruikshank !
Tickler (loud explosion and much smoke). The Jug.
Ambrose. Here, srr.
Tickler (teeming). Brown stout. The porter's in spate.
THE QUEEN !
Omnes. Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra !
hurra ! hurra !
Ambrose. Hip — hip — hip —
Registrar. Hush !
Tickler. Hech ! That draught made my lugs crack. Oh I
Kit ! — there was a grand ploy at Paisley.
Ambrose. Dinner on the table, sir,
North. As my old friend Crewe — the University Orator at
Oxford — concludes his fine poem of Lewesdon HiU
" To-morrow for severer thought, but now
To dinner, and keep festival to-day."
SCENE II.— Time,— Four tf Clock.
Scene changes to the interior of the tent. DINNER — Salmon —
Turbot — Trout— Cod — Haddocks —Whitings — Turkey —
Goose — Veal-pie — Beaf steak ditto — Chicken — Ham —
THE ROUND— Damson, Cherry, Currant, Grozet (this year's)
Tarts, £c., frc., £c.,
SCENE III.— Time,— Five o' Clock.
Without change of place. DESSERT — Melons — Grapes — Grozets
— Pine-apples — Golden Pippins — New Yorkers — Filberts
— Hazels. WINES — Champagne — Claret — Port — Madeira
446 TJie Fairy s Cleugh.
— Cold Punch in the Dolphin — GLENLIVET IN THE
TOWER OP BABEL — Water in the Well.
North. Ambrose, tuck up the tent- door. Fling it wide
open. [AMBROSE lets in heaven.
Registrar. " Beautiful exceedingly ! "
North. Ne'er before was tent pitched in the Fairy's Cleugh !
1 selected the spot from a memory, where lie many thousand
worlds — great and small — and of the tiny not one sweeter,
sure, than this before our eyes !
Registrar. I wonder how — by what fine process — you
chose ! Yet why, might I ask my own heart — why now do
I fix on one face, one form, and see but them — haunted as
my imagination might be with the images of all the loveliest
in the land ?
Tickler. Sam ! you look as fresh as a daisy.
North. That is truly a vista. Those hills — for we must not
call them mountains — how gently they come gliding down
from the sky, on each side of the vale-like glen ! —
Registrar. Vale-like glen ! Thank you, North — that is the
very word.
North. separated but by no wide level of broomy
greensward — if that be a level, broken as you see it with fre
quent knolls — most of them rounded softly off into pastures,
some wooded, and here and there one with but a single, tree,
the white-stemmed, sweet-scented birk —
Registrar. Always lady -like with her delicate tresses, how
ever humble her birth.
North. Should we say that the " spirit of the scene" is
sylvan or pastoral ?
Registrar. Both.
North. Sam ! how is it I see no sheep ?
Registrar. Sheep and lambs there must be many — latent
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! 447
somewhere ; and I have often noticed, sir, a whole green
region without a symptom of life, though I knew that it was
not a store-farm, and that there must be some hundred scores
of the woolly people within startling of the same low mut
ter of the thunder-cloud.
North. How soon a rill becomes a river !
Registrar. A boy a man !
North. That is the source of the Woodburn, Sam, that
well within five yards of our tent.
Registrar. How the Naiad must be enjoying the wine-
cooler ! Imbibing — inhaling the aroma, yet returning more
than she receives, and tinging the taste of that incomparable
claret — vintage 1811 — with her own sweet breath!
North. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! cuckoo ! — Yonder she goes ! —
see, see, Sam ! — flitting along the faint blue haze on the hill
side, across the burn. In boyhood, never could I catch a
glimpse of the bird any more than Wordsworth.
" For thou wert still a hope ! — a joy
Still longed for, never seen."
But so 'tis with us in our old age. All the mysteries that
held our youth in wonderment, and made life poetry, dissolve
— and we are sensible that they were all illusions ; while
other mysteries grow more awful ; and what we sometimes
hoped, in the hour of passion, might be illusions, are seen to
be God's own truths, terrible to sinners, and wearing a
ghastly aspect in the gloom of the grave !
Tickler. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! cuckoo !
North. She has settled again on some spray — for she is
always mute as she flies ! And I have stood right below
her, within three yards of her anomalous ladyship, as, down
head and up tail, with wings slightly opening from her sides,
and her feathers shivering, she took far and wide possession
of the stillness with her voice, mellow as if she lived oj
448 The Elf-Well
honey ; and indeed I suspect, Sam — though the bridegroom
eluded my ken — that with them two 'twas the honeymoon.
Ambrose (rushing into the Tent, stark naked, except his flan
nel drawers}. Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! — hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! —
hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! Who'll dance — who'll dance with me
— waltz — jig — Lowland reel — Highland fling — gallopade ?
Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! (Keeps dancing round the Tent table,
yelling, and snapping Ms fngers.)
North. Be seated, gentlemen — I see how it is — he has
been drinking of the elf-well, up among the rocks behind the
Tent, and human lip never touched that cold stream, but
man or woman lost his or her seven senses, and was insane
for life.
Registrar. A pleasant prospect.
Tickler. That may be — but, confound me, if Ambrose be
the man to be caught in that kind of trap. Where's the
Tower of Babel ?
North. There!
Ambrose (pirouetting}. Look yonder, mine honored mas
ter, through those rocks.
North. Nay, Brose, I can see as far through a millstone, or
a milestone either, as most men, but as for looking through
rocks —
Ambrose. I saw him, with these blessed eyes of mine, I saw
him on horseback, sir, driving down the hill yonder, sir, at
full gallop —
North. Whom ? — ye saw whom ?
Ambrose. Himself, sir — his very own self, sir — as I hope to
be saved.
Registrar. I fear his case is hopeless. Those sudden
accesses are fatal.
Tickler. Who, his drawers will be at his heels if —
Ambrose (somewhat subsiding}. I had gone into the dookin,
The Wild Huntsman I 449
gentlemen, as you say in Scotland, and was ploutering about
in the pool, when, just as I had squeezed the water out of
my eyes after a plunge, I chanced to look up the hillside,
and there I saw him — with these blessed eyes I saw him —
his own very self.
(Horses'1 hoofs heard at full gallop nearing the Tent.
Tickler. The Wild Huntsman !
[Horse and rider charge the Tent — horse all of a sudden
halts — thrown bock on his haunches — and rider, flying
over his head, alights on his feet — while his foraging cap
spins over the Lion's fiery mane, now drooping in the after
noon calm from the mast-head.
Omnes. THE SHEPHERD! THE SHEPHERD! THE SHEP
HERD ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra !
hurra ! hurra !
Shepherd. Hurra w ! hurraw ! hurraw !
North (white as a sheet, and seeming about to swoon). Water I
Shepherd. Whare's the strange auld tyke ? Whare's the
queer auld fallow ? Whare's the canty auld chiel ! Whare's
the dear auld deevil ? Oh ! North — North — North — North
— ma freen — ma brither — ma faither — let's tak ane anither
intil ane anither's arms — let's kiss ane anither's cheek — as
the guid cheevalry knichts used to do — when, ha'in fa'en out
aboot some leddy-luve, or some disputed laun', or some king's
rhangefu' favor, or aiblins aboot naething ava but the stupit
lees o' some evil tongues, they happened to forgather when
riding opposite ways through a wood, and flingin themsels,
wi' ae feeling and ae thocht, aff their twa horses, cam clashin
thegither wi' their mailed breists, and began sobbin in the
silence o' the auncient aiks that were touched to their verra
cores to see sic forgiveness and sic affection atween thae twa
stalwart champions, wha, though baith noo weepin like weans
or women, had aften ridden side by side thegither, wi' shields
450 The Feud Is healed.
on their breists and lang lances shootin far out fearsomely
afore them, intil the press o' battle, while their chargers, red-
wat-shod, gaed gallopin wi' their hoofs that never ance
touched the grun' for men's faces bashed bluidy, and their
sodden corpses squelchin at every spang o' the flying dragoons.
But what do I mean by all this talkin to mysel ? — Pity me —
Mr. North — but you're white's a ghaist ! Let me bear ye
in my airms until the Tent.
[SHEPHERD carries NORTH into the Tent.
North. I was much to blame, James — but —
Shepherd. I was muckle mair to blame mysel nor you, sir,
and —
North. Why, James, it is by no means improbable that you
were —
Shepherd. O ye auld Autocrat ! But will ye promise me—
gin I promise ye —
North. Anything, James, in the power of mortal man to
perform.
Shepherd. Gie's your haun ! Noo repeat the words after
me — (NORTH keeps earnestly repeating the words') — I swear, in
this Tent pitched in the Fairy's Cleugh, in presence o'
Timothy Tickler and Sam An —
North. They are not in the Tent.
Shepherd. I wasna observin. That's delicate. That Iwull
never breathe a whusper even to ma ain heart — at the lane-
liest hour o' midriicht — except it be when I am sayin my
prayers — dinna sab, sir — o' ony misunderstaunin that ever
happened atween us twa — either about Mawga, or ony ither
toppic — as lang's I leeve — an' am no deserted by my senses
— but am left in fu' possession o' the gift o' reason ; an' I noo
dicht aff the tablets o' my memory ilka letter o' ony ugly
record, that the enemy, takin advantage o' the corruption o'
our fallen natur — contreeved to scarify there, wi' the pint o'
How the News Spread. 451
an aim pen — red-het frae yon wicked place — I noo dicht them
a' aff , just as I dicht aff frae this table thae wine-draps wi'
ma sleeve — and I forgio ye frae the verra bottom o' ma
sowl — wi' as perfeck forgiveness — as if you were my aiu
brither, deein at hame in his father's house — shune after his
return frae a lang voyage outower the sea!
[NORTH and the SHEPHERD again embrace — their faces wax
exceedingly < heerful — and they sit for a little while without
saying a word.
North. My dear James, have you dined ?
Shepherd. Dined ? Why, man, I've had ma fowre-hours.
But I maun tell ye a' about it. A bit lassie, you see, that
had come to your freen Scottie's to pay a visit to a sister o'
hers — a servant in the family — that was rather dwinin — frae
the kintra down about Annadale-wise, past by the Tent in the
grey o' the morning, yesterday, afore ony ane o' you were out
o' the blankets, except a cretur that, frae the description,
maun hae been Tappytoorie, and she learned frae him that
the Tent belanged to a great lord they ca'd North — Lord
North — and that he had come out on a shootin and a fishin
ploy, and, forby, to tak a plan o' a' the hills, in order to mak
a moddle o' them in cork, wi' quicksiller for the lochs and
rinnin waters, and sheets o' beaten siller for the waterfa's,
and o' beaten gold for the element at sunset — and that twa
ither shinin characters were in his rettenue — wham Tappy
ca'd to her — as she threeped * — Sir Teemothy Tickleham,
Bart., o' Southside, and the Lord High Registrar o' Lunnon.
Ma heart lap to ma mouth, and then after some flutterm
becam as heavy's a lump o' cauld lead. The wife gied me
sic a smile ! And then wee Jamie was a' the while, in his
affectionat way, leanin again' ma knee. I took a walk by
mysel ; and a' was licht. Forthwith I despatched some
* Threeped — asserted.
452 The Shepherd on the Road.
gillies to wauken the Forest. I never steekit an ee, and by
skreigh o' day * was aff on the beast. But I couldna ken how
ye micht be fennin f in the Tent for fish, sae I thocht I micht
as weel tak a whup at the Meggat. How they lap ! $ I filled
ma creel afore the dew-melt ; and as it's out o' the poo'r o'
ony mortal man wi' a heart to gie ower fishin in the Meggat
durin a tak, I kent by the sun it was nine-hours, and by that
time I had filled a' my pouches, the braid o' the tail o' some
o' them whappin again' my elbows. You'll no be surprised,
Mr. North — for though you're far frae bein' sic a gude angler
as you suppose, and as you cry yoursel up in Mawga, oh !
but you're mad fond o't — that I had clean forgotten the beast !
After a lang search I fand him a mile doun the water, and
ma certes, for the next twa hours the gress didna grow aneath
his heels. I took a hantle o' short cuts, for I ken the kiutra
better than ony fox. But I forgot I wasna on foot — the
beast gotblawn, and coming up the Fruid, § reested wi' me on
Garlet-Dod. The girth burst — aff fell the saddle, and he
fairly laid himsel doun ! I feared he had brak his heart, and
couldna think o' leavin him, for, in his extremity, I kent the
raven o' Gameshope wad hae picked out his een. Sae I just
thocht I wad try the Fruid wi' the flee, and put on a pro
fessor. || The Fruid's fu' o' sma' troots, and I sune had a
string. I couldna hae had about me, at this time, ae way
and ither, in ma several repositories, string and a,' less than
thretty dizzen o' troots. I heard the yaud nicherin, and
kent he had gotten second wun', sae having hidden the
saddle among the brackens, munted, and lettin him tak it
easy for the first half-hour, as I skirted Earlshaugh holms T
got him on the haun -gallop, and I needna tell you o' the
* SJcreigho' day — break of day. t Fennin — faring.
$ Lop— leaped. § A tributary of the Tweed.
0 A fly, so called after Professor Wilson.
Tickler is *' trotted:' 453
Arab-like style in which I feenally brocht him in, for, con
sidering that I carried wecht, you'll alloo he wad be cheap
at a hunder guineas, and for that soum, sir, the beast's your
ain ! — Rax me ower the jug. — But didna I see a naked
man:
[Re-enter TICKLER and the REGISTAR.
Tickler. O King of the Shepherds, mayst thou live for
ever!
Shepherd (looking inquisitively to NORTH). Wha's he that9
(Turning to TICKLER) — Sir ! you've the advantage of me — for
I really cannot say that I ever had the pleasure o' seein you
atween the een afore ; but you're welcome to our Tent — sit
douu, and gin ye be dry, tak a drink.
Registrar. James?
Shepherd. Ma name's no James. But what though it was ?
Folk shouldna be sae familiar at first sight. To NORTH in an
undertone) — A man o' your renown, sir, should really be mair
seleck.
Tickler. I beg pardon, sir — but I mistook you for that half
witted body, the Ettrick Shepherd.
Shepherd. Ane can pardon ony degree o' stoopidity in a
fallow that has sunk sae laigh in his ain esteem, as weel's in
that o' the warld, as to think o' retreevin his character by
pretendin to pass himsel aff, on the mere strength o' the
length o' his legs, for sic an incorrigible ne'er-do-weel as
Timothy Tickler. But let me tell you, you had better keep
a gude tongue in your head, or I'll maybe tak you by the cuff
o' the neck, and turn ye out o' the Tent.
North to the (SHEPHERD in an undertone.") Trot him, James,
— trot him — he's sensitive.
Shepherd. You maybe ken him? Ts't true that he's gotten
in til debt, and that Southside's adverteezed ?
Tickler (coloring). It's a lie.
454 The Lord High Registrar.
Shepherd. That pruves it to be true. Nay, it amaist, too,
pruves you to be Tickler. Oh ! nae mair nonsense — nae mair
nonsense, sir — Southside, Southside — but I'm happier to see
you, sir, than tongue can tell — but as the heart knoweth its
a'n bitterness, sae knoweth it its ain sweetness too ; and noo
that I'm sittin again atween you twa (putting one arm over
CHRISTOPHER'S shoulder, and one over TIMOTHY'S, starting
up and rushing round the circular) — " gude faith, I'm like to
greet." Sam ! Sam ! Sam !
Registrar. God bless you, James.
Shepherd. Arid hae ye come a' the way frae Lunnon to the
Fairy's Cleugh ? And werena ye intendin to come out to
Altrive to see the auld Shepherd ? Oh ! but we were a' glad,
man, to hear o' your appointment, though nane o' us ken
very distinckly the nature o't, some sayin they had made you
a Bishop, only without a seat among the Lords, some a Judge
o' the Pleas ; and there was a sugh for a while — but frae
you're bein' here the noo, during the sittin o' Parliament,
that canna weel be true — that the King, by the recommenda
tion o' Lord Broom and Vox, had appointed you his Premier,
on the death o' Yearl Grey ; but tell me, was the lassie richt
after a' in denominatin ye, on the authority o' Tappytoorie,
Lord High Registrar o' Lunnon, and is the post a sinecure,
and a free gift o' the Whigs ?
Registrar. That, James, is my appointment — but 'tis no
sinecure. The duties are manifold, difficult, and important.
North. I wish somebody would knock me "down for a song.
Shepherd. I'll do that — but recollect — nae fawsettoes — I
canna thole fawsettoes — a very tailor micht be ashamed o'
fawsettoes — for fawsettoes mak ye think o' something less
than the ninety-ninth pairt o' a man — and that's ten timea
less than a tailor — and amaist naething ava — sae that the
man vanishes intil a pint. Nae fawsettoes.
Studies from the Antique. 455
(NORTH sings " Sam Anderson.")
Tickler. That must be all Greek to you, James.
Registrar. The less you say, the better, Tim, about Greek.
The Shepherd was not with us when I sung a scrap of old
Eubulus — but —
Shepherd. I have been studyin the Greek for twa wunters.*
Wunter afore last I made but sma' progress, and got but a
short way ayont the roots — for the curlin cam in the way —
but this bygane wunter there was nae ice in the Forest — or
at Duddistane either — and I majstered, during the lang nichts
at name, an incalculable crood o' dereevative vocables, and a
hantle o' the kittlest compounds.
Registrar. What grammars and lexicons do you use, Shep
herd ?
Shepherd. Nane but the maist common. I hae completed
a version o' Theocritus, and Bion, and Moschus — no to men
tion Anacreon ; and gin there's nae curlin neist wunter either
— and o' that there's but sma' chance, for a change has been
gradually takin place within these few years, in the ellipse o'
the earth — I suspect about the ecliptic — I purpose puttin a'
ma strength upon Pindar. His Odds are dark — but some
grand, as ane o' thae remarkable simmer-nichts when a' below
is lown, and yet there is storm in heaven, the moon glimps
ing by fits through cluds, and then a' at ance a blue spat fu'
o' stars.
North. The Theban Swan —
Shepherd I'm ower happy to sing this afternoon, but I'm
able, I think, to receet ; and here's ane o' my attempts on an
Eedle o' Bion — the third Eedle — get the teetle frae Tickler.
Tickler. Third Idyl of Bion.
* " I canna read Greek," the Shepherd had said on an earlier evening
'* except in a Latin translation done into English."
456 An Idyl of Bion.
(SHEPHERD recites.
Great Venus once appeared to me, still slumbering in my bed,
And Cupid in her beauteous hand, a tottering child she led ;
And thus with winning words she spake, " See, Cupid here I bring.
Oh, take him ! shepherd dear to me, and teach him how to sing ! "
She disappeared, and I began, a baby in my turn,
To teach him all the shepherd's songs— as though he meant to learn,
How Pan the crooked pipe found out, Minerva made the flute,
How Hermes struck the tortoise-shell, and Phoebus formed the lute.
All this J taught, but little heed gave Cupid to my speech ;
Then he himself sweet carols sung, and me began to teach
The loves of God and men, and all his mother did to each.
Then I forgot what I myself to Cupid taught before :
But all the songs he taught to me, I learnt them evermore 1
North. Quite in the style of Trevor, who did such fine
versions for my articles on the Greek Anthology.
Shepherd. I canna mak out, Mr. North, the cause o' the
effect o' novelty as a source o' pleasure. Some objects aye
please, however common.
Tickler. Don't prose, Jamie.
Shepherd. Ass ! There's the Daisy. Naebody cares muckle
about the Daisy — till you ask them — and then they feel they
hae aye liked it, and quote Burns. Noo naebody tires o'
the daisy. A' the warld would be sorry gin a' daisies were
dead.
Tickler. Puir auld silly body.
Shepherd. There again are Dockens. What for are they a
byword ? Theyre saft, and smooth, and green, and hae naa
bad smell. Yet a' the warld would be indifferent were a'
dockens dead.
Tickler. I would rather not.
Shepherd. What for ? Would a docken, think ye, Mr.
North, be " beauteous to see, a weed o' glorious feature," if
it were scarce and a hot-house plant ? Would leddies and
gentlemen, gin it were ony ways an unique, pay to get a
The Loving Ways of Dogs. 457
look at a docken ? But I fin' that I'm no thrawin ae single
particle o' licht on the subjeck ; and the perplexing question
will aye recur, " Why is the daisy, though sae common, never
felt to be commonplace ? and the docken aye ? "
Tickler. The reason, undoubtedly, is —
Shepherd. Haud your arrogant tongue, Southside, and never
again, immediately after I hae said that ony metapheezical
subjeck's perplexing, hae the insolence and the silliness to say,
" The reason, undoubtedly, is." If it's no coorse, it's rude —
and a man had better be coorse nor rude ony day — but oh,
sirs, what'n a pity that in the Tent there are nae dowgs !
Tickler. I hate curs.
Shepherd. A man ca'in himsel a Christian, and hatin poetry
and dowgs !
Tickler. Hang the brutes.
Shepherd. There's nae sic perfeck happiness, I suspeck, sir,
as that o' the brutes. No that I wuss I had been born a
brute — yet aften hae I been tempted to envy adowg. What
gladness in the cretur's een, gin ye but speak a single word
to him, when you and him's sittin thegither by your twa sels
on the hill. Pat him on the head, and say, " Hector, ma
man!" and he whines wi' joy — snap your thooms, and he
gangs dancing round you like a whirlwind — gie a whusslin
hiss, and he loups frantic ower your head — cry halloo, and
he's aff like a shot, chasing naething, as if he were mad.
North. Alas ! poor Bronte !
Shepherd. Whisht, dinna think o' him, but in general o'
dowgs. Love is the element a dowg leeves in, and a' that's
necessary for his enjoyment o' life is the presence o' his
master.
Registrar. " With thee conversing, he forgets all time."
Shepherd. Yet, wi' a' his sense, he has nae idea o' death,
True, he will lie upon his master's grave, and even howk wi'
458 The Wayside Pan.
his paws in an affeckin manner, but for a' that, believe me, he
has nae idea o' death. He snokes wi' his nose into the hole
his paws are howkin, just as if he were after a moudiewarp.
North. God is the soul of the brute creatures.
Shepherd. Ay, sir — instinct wi' them's the same's reason
wi' us, — only we ken what we intend — they do not; we
reflect in a mathematical problem, for example, how best to
L.g a house ; they reflect nane, but what a house they big !
Sir Isaac Newton, o' himsel, without learnin the lesson frae
the bees, wadna hae contrived a hive o' hinney-combs, and
biggen them up, cell by cell, hung the creation, like growing
fruit, on the branch o' a tree !
North. You that are a Greek scholar, James, do you
remember an inscription for a wayside Pan, by Alcaeus?
Shepherd. I remember the speerit o't, but I forget the words.
Indeed, I'm no sure if ever I kent the words ; but that's nae-
thing — at this moment I feel the inscription in the original
Greek to be very beautiful ! For sake o' Mr. Tickler, perhaps
you'll receet it in English ?
North.—
Wayfaring man, by heat and toil oppressed,
Here lay thee down thy languid limbs to rest,
Upon this flowery meadow's fragrant breast.
Here the pine leaves, where whispering zephyrs stray,
Shall soothe thee listening to Cigala's lay,
And on yon mountain's brow the shepherd swain
Pipes by the gurgling fount his noontide strain,
Secure beneath the plantane's * leafy spray,
From the autumnal dog-star's siiltry ray.
To-morrow thou'lt get on, wayfaiing man,
So listen to the good advice of Pan.
Shepherd. Thae auncients, had they been moderns, would
hae felt a' we feel oursels ; and sometimes I'm tempted to
confess, that in the matter o' expression o' a simple thocht,
* Plantane— the plane-tree.
The Forest is wakened. 459
th-y raU.er excel us — for, however polished may be ony ane
o heir iiaist carefu' compositions, it never looks artificial,
an- 1 the verra finish o' the execution seems to be frae the
fin ; finger o' Nature's ain inspired sel ! Oh, how I hate the
artilicial !
Registrar. Not worse than I.
Skepherd. Ca' a thing artificial that's no ony sic thing, and
ye make me like it less and less till I absolutely dislike it ;
but then the sense o' injustice comes to ma relief, and I love
it better than afore — as, for example, a leddy o' fine educa
tion, or a garden flower. For, I'll be shot, if either the ane
or the ither be necessarily artificial, or no just as bonny,
regarded in a richt licht, as a lass or a lily o' low degree.
Ony ither touchin trifle frae the Greek, sir?
North. We have had Pan — now for Priapus.
Shepherd. Ye maun heed what you say, sir, o' Priawpus.
North. Archias is always elegant, James.
Registrar. And often more than elegant, North — poetical.
He had a fine eye, too, sir, for the picturesque.
North.—
Near to the shore, upon this neck of land,
A poor Priapus, here I ever stand.
Carved in such guise, and forced such form to take,
As sons of toilsome fishermen could make,
My feetless legs, and cone-shaped, towering head,
Fill every cormorant with fear and dread.
But when for aid the fisher breathes a prayer,
I come more swiftly than the storms of air.
I also eye the ships that stem the flood:
'Tis deeds, not beauty, show the real God.
[Loud hurras heard from the glen, and repeated by all tht
echoes.
North. Heavens ! what's that ?
Shepherd. Didna I tell ye I had waukened the Forest ?
What's twunty, thretty, or fifty miles to the lads and lassies
460 The Forest Worthies arrive
o' the South o' Scotland ? Auld women and weans '11 walk
that atwecn the twa gloamins, — and haena they gigs, and
carts, and pownies for the side-saddle, and lang bare-backed
yauds that can carry fower easy — and at a pinch, by haudin
on by mane and tail, five ? Scores hae been paddin the hoof*
sin' mornin frae the head o' Clydesdale — Annan-banks hae
been roused as by the sound o' a trumpet — and the auld Grey
Mare f has been a' day whuskin her tail wi' pleasure to see
Moffatdale croudin to the Jubilee.
[They all take their station outside on the brae, and hold
up their hands.
North. I am lost in amazement !
Tickler. A thousand souls !
Registrar. I have been accustomed to calculate the numbers
of great multitudes — and I fix them at fifteen hundred, men,
women, and children.
Shepherd. Twa hunder collies, and, asses and mules in
cluded, a hunder horse.
Registrar. Of each a Turm.
Shepherd. Oh ! sir, isna't a bonny sicht ? There's a Tredd's
Union for you, sir, that may weel mak your heart sing for
joy — shepherds and herdsmen, and ploughmen, and woods
men, that wad, if need were, fecht for their kintra. ^vi*
Christopher North at their head, against either foreign or
domestic enemies ; but they come noo to do him homage at
the unviolated altar which Nature has erected to Peace.
Registrar. A band of maidens in the van — unbonneted —
silken-snooded all. And hark — they sing ! Too distant for
us to catch the words — but music has its own meanings —
and only that it is somewhat more mirthful, we might think
it was a hymn !
* raddin the hoof— trudging on foot.
t The waterfall so called near St. Mary's Loch.
To crown the King of Scotland! 461
Shepherd (to Tickler and the Registrar) . Dinna look at him,
he's greetin. If that sound was sweet, isna this silence
sublime ?
Tickler. What are they after now, James ?
Shepherd. They hae gotten their general orders — and a' the
leaders ken weel hoo to carry them intil ejffeck. The phalanx
is noo breakin into pieces noo, like camstrary* cluds — ae speerit
inspires and directs a' its muvements, and it is deploying,
Mr. Tickler, round yon great hie-kirk-looking rocks, intil a
wide level place that's a perfect circle, and which ye wha
hae been here the best part o' a week, I'se warrant, ken
naething about ; for Natur, I think, maun hae made it for
hersel ; and such is the power o' its beauty, that sittin there
aften in youth, hae I clean forgotten that there was ony ither
warld.
Registrar. —
" Shaded with branching palm, the sign of Peace."
Shepherd. Ay, mony o' them are carrying the boughs o1
trees — and it's wonderfu' to see how leafy they are so early
in the season. But Spring, prophetic o' North's visit, has
festooned the woods.
Tickler. Not boughs and branches only
Shepherd. But likewise furms. There's no a few mechanics
amang them, sir, house-carpenters and the like, and seats 'ill
be sune raised a' round and round, in an hour or less
you'll see sic a congregation as you saw never afore, a' sittin
in an amphitheatre — and aneath a hangin rock a platform —
and on the platform a throne wi' its regal chair — and in the
chair wha but Christopher North — and on his head a crown
o' Flowers — for lang as he has been King o' Scotland — this —
this is Coronation Day. Hearken to the bawn ! f
* Camstrary or camsteery — unmanageable. 1 Baton — band.
XXVI.
A NIGHT ON THE LEADS OF THE LODGE.
SCENE. — The Leads of the Lodge. Present — NORTH, TICKLER.
the SHEPHERD, BULLER. Time — Evening.
Shepherd. This fane}7 beats a', and pruves o' itsel, sir, that
you're a poet. In fine weather, leevin on the leeds ! And
siccan an awnin ! No a threed o' cotton about it, or linen
either, but dome, wa's, cornishes, and fringes — a' silk. Oh !
but she's a tastefu' cretur, that Mrs. Gentle — for I see the
touch o' her haim in the hangings, the festoonins, the
droopins o' the draperies — andit'sasair pity that ye twa, who
are seen to be but ae* speerit, arena likewise ae flesh. Par
don the allusion, Mr. North, but you'll never be perfectly
happy till she bears your name, or aiblins you'll tak hers, my
dear auld sir, and ca' yoursels Mr. and Mrs. North Gentle ;
or gin you like better to gie hers the precedence, Mr. and Mrs.
Gentle Christopher North. But either o' the twa would be
characteristic and euphonous — for you're humane, sir, by
nature, though by habit rather savage, and a' you want to saften
you back into your original constitution is to be a husband —
Tickler. And a father.
Shepherd. As likely to be that as yoursel, Mr. Tickler, and
likelier too ; and a' the warld would admire to see a bit canty
callant or yellegant lassie trottin at his knee
* Ae— one.
462
The Conservatory. 463
Tickler.
" With all its mother's tenderness,
And all its father's fire I "
North. James, is it not a beautiful panorama ?
Shepherd. A panorama ! What ? wad you wush to hae a
panorama o' weans ?
North. I mean the prospect, James.
Shepherd. A prospect o' a panorama o' weans !
North. Poo — poo — my dear Shepherd — you wilfully mis
apprehend my meaning — look round you over land and sea !
Shepherd. I canna look farrer than the leeds. Oh ! but it's
a beautiful Conservatory ! I never afore saw an Orange-tree.
And it's true what I hae read o' them — blossom and fruit on
the same plant — nae dout an evergreen — and in this caulder
clime o' ours bricht wi' its gowden ba's as if we were in the
Wast Indies ! — What ca' ye thir ? *
North. These are mere myrtles.
Shepherd. Mere myrtles ! Dinna say that again o' them —
mere ; an ungratefu' word, o' a flowery plant a' fu' o' bonny
white starnies — and is that their scent that I smell ?
North. The balm is from many breaths, my dear James.
Nothing that grows is without fragrance—
Shepherd. However fent.f I fand that out when a toddler
— for I used to fling awa or drap whatever I pu'd that I
thocht had nae smell — till ae day I began till suspect that the
faut micht lie in my ain nose, and no in the buds or leaves,
— and frae a thousand sma' experiments I was glad to learn
it was sae — and that there was scent — as ye weel said the
noo — in a' that grows. Wasna that kind o' Nature ! Hoo
else could that real poet, Tamson, hae said, "the air is
bawm ! "
Tickler. I desiderate the smell of dinner.
« Thir— these. t Pent— faint.
464 " Help yvurself^ James."
Shepherd. What'n a sensual sentiment! The smell o*
vittals is delicious whan the denner's gettin dished, and
during the time o' eatin, but for an hour or mair after the
cloth has been drawn, the room to ma nose has aye a close
het smell, like that o' ingans. It's no the custom o' the
kintra to leeve wi' the leddies — but nae drawin-room like the
leeds. — What'n frutes !
North. Help yourself, James.
Shepherd. I'll thank ye, Mr. Tickler, to rax me ower thae
oranges.
Tickler. They are suspiciously dark in the color — but
perhaps you like the bitter ?
Shepherd. They're nae mair ceevil* than yoursel — but
genuine St. Michaelers — and as they're but sma', half-a-dizzen
o' them will sharpen the pallet for some o' thae American
aipples that never put ane's teeth on edge — which is mair
than you can say for Scotch anes, that are noo seldom sweeter
than scribes.
Butter. Scribes ?
Shepherd. Crabs. Mr. North, we maun tak tent what we're
aboot, for it wouldna answer weel to stoiter ower the edge o'
the leeds ; nor yet to tummle doun the trap-door stairs.
North. The companion-ladder, if you please, James.
Shepherd. Companion-ladder ? I suppose because only ae
person can climb up at a time — though there's room aneuch,
that's true, for severals to fa' doun at ance — but the term's
nowtical, I ken — and you're a desparate ere turf or thinkino*
the sea.
North. Would that Tom Cringlef were here — the best
sketcher of sea-scenery that ever held a pen !
* Seville— Garrick's poor pun on being pelted with oranges,
t Michael Scott, the author of Tom Cringle's Log, was born In Glasgow
in 1789, and died in 1835.
The Preliminaries.
Butter. Glascock, sir, can tell, too, a Story as well as the
best of them all — Hall, or Marryat, or Chamier — of the Gun
room and the Captain's cabin.
North. He can — and eke of the Admiral's. Marryat and
Glascock in a bumper, with all the honors.
Shepherd. Na. I wunna drink' t.
North. James ! ! !
Tickler. What the devil's the matter with you now ?
Butter. Mr. Hogg !
Shepherd. If I drink't, may I be — •
North. No cursing or swearing allowed on board this ship.
Tickler. Call the master-of-arms, and let him get a dozen.
Shepherd. If ony man says that ever I cursed or sweered
either in ship or shielin, then he's neither mair nor less than
a confoonded leear. Fules ! fules ! fules ! Sumphs ! sumphs !
sumphs ! Sops ! sops ! sops ! Saps ! saps ! saps ! Would
you cram the healths o' twa siccan men, wi' a' the honours,
intil ae bumper ? Let's drink them separate — and in
tumblers.
North. Charge.
Ticker. Halt. " I wunna drink't."
Shepherd. I'll no be mocked, Tickler. Besides, that's no
the least like ma vice.
Tickler. " I wunna drink't " — unless we all quaff, before
sitting down, another tumbler to Basil Hall.
North. With all my heart.
Shepherd. And sowl.
Butter. And mind. Stap — " I wunna drink't."
Shepherd. That's real like me — for an Englisher.
Tickler. Craziness is catching.
North. Well said, Son of Isis.
Butter. Tom Cringle.
30
466 TJie Bumpers are emptied.
Omnes. Ay, ay, sir. — Ay, ay, sir. — Ay, ay, sir.
North. Instead of the rule seniores priores — to prove our
equal regard — let us adopt an arithmetical order— and drink
them in Round Robin.
[Four (that is, sixteen) bumper tumblers (not of the higher
ranks, but the middle orders) are emptied arithmetically,
with all the honors, to the healths of Captains Cringle,
Glascock, Hall, and Marryat. For a season there is
silence on the leads, and you hear the thrush — near his
second or third brood — at his evening song.
Shepherd. Fowre tummlers, taken in instant sequence, o'
strang drink, by each o' fowre men — a' fowre nae farder
back than yestreen sworn-in members o' the left-haun branch
o' the Temperance Society ! I howp siccan a decided excep
tion, while it is pruvin, mayna explode, the general rule.
The general rule wi' us fowre when we forgather, is to
drink naething but milk and water — the general exception
to drink naething but speerits o' wine, — that was a lapsus
lingy — speerits and wine. It's a pleasant sicht to see a
good general rule reconciled wi' a good general exception ;
and it's my earnest desire to see a' the haill warld shakin
hauns.
North. Peter, place my pillows. [PETER does so.
Shepherd. There's ane geyan weel shued up.*
Tickler. St. Peter ? I'm Pope. Kiss my toe, James.
Shepherd. Drink aye maks him clean daft.
Stiller. 'Tis merry in the hall, when beards wag all. Then
all took a smack — a smack, at the old black-jack — to the
sound of the bugle-horn — to the sound of the bugle-horn.
Such airs I hate, like a pig in a gate — give me the good old
strain — and nought is heard on every side but signoras and
signors — like a pig in a gate, to the sound of the bugle-horn.
* Shued up — sewed up.
Peter is cross-examined. 467
Shepherd. Drink maks him musical — yet he seems to re
member the words better nor the tune. North ! nae snorin
alloo'd on the leeds. Tickler ! do you hear ? nae snorin
alloo'd on the leeds. Buller, pu' baith their noses. Fa'en
ower too ! Noo, I ca' that a tolerable nawsal treeo. It's
really weel snored. Tickler ! you're no keepin time. Kit,
your'e gettin out o' tune. Buller, nae fawsetto. Come here,
Peter, I wush to speak to you. (PETER goes to the SHEP
HERD.) Isna Mr. North gettin rather short in the temper ?
Haena ye observed, too, a fa'in aff o' some o' his faculties —
sic as memory — and, I fear, judgment ? And what's this I
hear o' him ? (whispering PETER.) I do indeed devoutly trust
it 'ill no get wun' ! (PETER puts his finger to his nose, and
looking towards NORTH, winks the SHEPHERD to be mum.) Ye
needna clap your finger on your nose, and wunk, and screw
your mouth in that gate, for he's in a safe snorin sleep.
Peter (indignantly). Mr. Hogg, I trust I shall never be so
far left to myself as to act in any manner unbecoming my
love, gratitude, and veneration for the best and noblest of
men and masters.
Shepherd. You did put your forefinger to your nose — you
did wunk — ye did screw your mouth — ye did gesticulate
that ye suspeckit his sleep wasna as real's his snore — and
ye did nod yes when I asked you wi' a whusper in your lug
if it was true that he had taken to tipplin by himsel in the
forenoons ?
North (starting up}. Ye backbiting hog in armor — but I
will break your bones — Peter, the crutch !
Shepherd. The crutch is safe under lock and key in its am
case — and the key's in ma pocket — for you're no in a condi
tion to be trusted wi' the crutch. As for backbiting, what
I said I said afore your face — and if you was pretendin to be
asleep, let what you overheard be a lesson till you never to
468 The Antidote.
act so meanly again, for be assured, accordin to the auld
apothegm, listeners never hear ony gude o' theirsels. Do
they, Buller?
Buller. Seldom.
Shepherd. Do they ever, Tickler ?
Tickler. Never.
Shepherd. Then I propose that we all get sober again.
Peter — THE ANTIDOTE ! It's time we a' took it — for I've seen
the leeds mair stationary — half-an-hour back, I was lookin
eastward, but I'm sair mistaen if ma face be na noo due
wast.
North. Yes— Peter. [PETER administers the Antidote.
Shepherd. Wasna that a blessed discovery, Mr. Buller! Ae
glass o' THE ANTIDOTE taken in time no only remedies the
past, but ensures the future — we may each o' us toss aff ither
fowre bumper tummlers with the same impunity as we
despatched their predecessors- — and already what a difference
in the steadiness o' the leeds !
Buller. Hermes' Molly !
Tickler. The Great Elixir !
North. Oh, sweet oblivious ANTIDOTE indeed — for out of
the grave of memory in bright resurrection rises Hope — and
on the wings of Imagination the rekindled Senses seem to
hold command over earth and heaven !
Shepherd. Oh coofs — coofs — coofs ! wha abuse the wine-
bibbers o' the Noctes.
Buller. Coofs indeed !
Shepherd. Never, Mr. Buller, shall they breathe empyrean
air.
Buller. Never.
Shepherd. For them nover shall celestial dews distil from
evening's roseate cloud —
Buller. Never.
The Glory of the Sunset. 469
Shepherd. Nor setting suns their fancy ever fill with visions
born o' golden licht — when earth, sea, cloud, and sky are a*
interfused wi' ae speerit — and that speerit, sae beautifully
hushed in high repose, tells o' something within us that is
divine, and therefore that will leeve for ever ! Look ! look !
Butter. Such a sunset !
Shepherd. Let nae man daur to word it. It's daurin
aneuch even to look at it. For oh ! ma freens ! arena thae
the gates o' glory — wide open for departed sneerits — that
they may sail in on wings intil the* heart o' eternal life ! *
Let that sicht no be lost on us.
North. It is melting away.
Shepherd. Changed — gane ! Anither sun has set — surely
a solemn thocht, sirs — yet, come, let's be cheerfu' — Mr.
North, let me see a smile on your face, man — for, my dear
sir, I canna thole noo bein' lang melancholy at ae time — for
every year sic times are growin mair frequent — and* I howp
the bonny Leddy Moon 'ill no be lang o' risin, nor do I care
whether or no she brings wi' her ane, nane, or ten thousan'
stars. Here comes the caffee.
(Enter AMBROSE, with tea and coffee silver-service.)
Ambrose. Tea or coffee, sir ?
Shepherd. Chaclat. Help the rest. Mr. North ?
North. Sir!
Shepherd. Is that America, on the other side of the Firth ?
North. Commonly called the Kingdom of Fife.
* " Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad
And see to what fair countries ye are bound I
And if some Traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noontide on the gras/sy ground,—
Ye Genii ! to his covert speed,
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! "
WORDSWORTH'S Evening Ode.
470 Over the Water.
Shepherd. Noo that steam's brocht to perfection, aiblins I
may mak a voyage there before I dee. Can you assure me
the natives are no cannibals ?
North. They are cannibals, James, and will devour you —
with kindness ; for to be hospitable, free, affectionate, and
friendly, is to be Fifdsh.
Shepherd. I see through the blue haze toons and villages
alang the shores, the kintra seems cultivated, but no cleared
— for yon maun be the wudds o' bonny Aberdour atween
whilk and the shore o' Scotland sleep the banes o' Sir Patrick
Spens and a' his peers. We can write na sic ballant noo-a-
days as —
"The king sat in Dunfermline Tower,
Drinking tlie blood-red wine."
The simplest pawthos, sir, sinks deepest in the heart — and
lies there — far down aneath the fleetin storms o' life — just as
that, wreck itsel is lyin noo, bits o' weed, and aim, and banes,
lodged immovably amang other ruefu' matter at the bottom
o' the restless sea.
Bidler. Exquisite !
Shepherd. Eh ! what said ye, sir ? did ye apply that epithet
to my sentiment, or to your sherry ?
Buller. To both. United, " they sank like music in my
heart."
Shepherd. Here's to you, Mr. Buller. Did I ever ask, sir, if
you're ony relation to the Bullers o' Buchan ? *
Buller. Cousins.
Shepherd. I thocht sae, sir, frae the sound o' your vice.
* " On the east coast of Scotland, a few miles south of Peterhead, are the
Bullers of Buchan, a nearly round basin, about thirty yards wide, formed
In a hollow rock which projects into the sea, towards which there is an
arch by which the waves enter. It is open also at the top, round which
there is a narrow path about thirty yards from the water ; when the sea is
high in a storm, this scene is exceedingly grand."— Penny Cyclopedia.
The Shepherd in London. 471
You're a fine bauld dashin family, and fling the cares o' the
warld aff frae your sides like rocks.
Butter. Scotland seems to me, if possible, improved since
my last visit — even
" Stately Edm borough, throned on crags' "
more magnificently wears her diadem.
Shepherd. Embro' as a town, takin't by itsel, 's no muckle
amiss, but I canna help considerin't but a clachan * sin' my
visit to Lunnon. Mercy on us, what a roar o' life ! Ane
would think the haill habitable yerth had spewed its haill
population intil that whirlpool ! or that that whirlpool had
sookt it a' in — mair like a Maelstrom than a Metropolis.
North. There's poetry for you !
Butter. It is.
Shepherd. Whales and mennows a' are yonner, sir, dwinnled
doun or equaleezed intil the same size by the motion o'
millions, and a' sense o' individuality lost. The verra first
morning I walked out o' the hotel I clean forgot I was James
Hogg.
Butter. Yet, a few mornings after, Mr. Hogg, allow me
to say, that the object most thought of there was the Ettrick
Shepherd.
Shepherd. Na — no on the streets. Folk keepit shoalin
past me — me in ae current o' flesh, and them in anither —
without a single ee ever seemin to see me — a' een lookin
straucht forrit — a' faces in full front, — sae that I couldna
help askin mysel, Will a' this break up— is it a' but the maist
wonderfu' o' dreams ?
Butter. But in the Park.
Shepherd. Ay ! that was a different story — I cam to my
seven senses on Sunday in the Park — and I had need o' them
Clachan— a. small village.
472 The Shepherd in the Park.
a' — for gif I glowered, they glowered — and wherever I went,
I couldna but see that I was the centre —
Tickler. " The cynosure of neighboring eyes."
Shepherd. O man ! wheesht. The centre — the navel o*
the great wheel that keepit circumvolving round, while rays,
like spokes, innumerable frae leddies' een shot towards me
frae the circumference, and hadna my heart been pierced, it
wad hae been no o' wudd, but o' stane.
North. 0 thou Sabbath breaker !
Shepherd. That thocht saddened me, but I shook it aff, and
T howp I may be forgiven, for it wasna my ain faut, but the
faut o' that Lord that munted me on his ain charger, and
would show me — whether I would or no — in the Dress-
Rings.
Tickler. And how were you dressed, James ?
Shepherd. Wiser-like than you in your ordinar — just in
the Sabbath claes I gang in to Yarrow kirk.
North. Simple son of genius ! Buller, is he not a jewel ?
gutter. He is.
Shepherd. Fie, lads — think shame o' yoursels — for I ken
that ahint ma back you ca' me a rouch diamond.
North. But the setting, my dear James ! How farther were
you set?
Shepherd. I hadna on the blue bannet — for I had nae wush
to be singular, sir — but the plaid was atower my shouthers — •
North. And across your manly breast, my Shepherd, which
must have felt then and there, as here and now, entitled to
beat with the pride of conscious genius and worth.
Shepherd. I shanna say that I wasna proud but I shall
say that I was happy : for the Englishers I hae ever held to
be the noblest race o' leevin men except the Scotch — and for-
by that, sirs, a poet is nae mair a poet in his ain kintra than
a prophet a prophet ; but yonner my inspiration was acknowl
The Shepherd in the Park. 473
edged, and I thocht mair o' mysel as the owther o' the
Queen's Wake, five hunder miles awa frae the forest, than I
ever had ony visible reason to do sae in the city ower which
Mary Stuart ance rang,* and in the very shadow o' Holyrood.
North. How you must have eclipsed Count d'Orsay ! f
Shepherd. I eclipsed nane. There's nae eclipsin yonner —
for the heaven was a' shinin wi' mony thousan' stars. But the
sugh went that the Ettrick Shepherd was in the Park — the
Shepherd o' the Wake, and The Pilgrims, and Kilmeny —
North. And the Noctes —
Shepherd. Ay, o' the Noctes — and what were they ever, or
wad they ever again hae been, withouten your am auld
Shepherd ?
North. Dark — dark — irrecoverably dark !
Shepherd. Your haun. Thousans o' trees were there — but
a* I kent o' them, as they gaed gliding greenly by, was that
they were beautifu' ; as for the equipages, they seemed a' ae
equipage —
Tickler. Your cortege.
Shepherd. Wheesht — wheesht — 0 man, wunna ye wheesht !
— Representin — containin — a' the wealth, health, rank,
beauty, grace, genius, virtue o' England —
Tickler. Virtue !
Shepherd. Yes — virtue. Their een were like the een o'
angels ; and if virtue wasna smilin yonner, then 'twould be
vain to look for her on this side o' heaven.
North. I fear, my dearest Shepherd, that you forgot the
Flowers of the Forest.
Shepherd. Clean. And what for no ? Wasna I a stranger
in Lunnon ? and would I alloo fancy to flee awa wi' me out
* Rang — reigned.
t This accomplished gentleman, and leader of the fashion in his day, died
In 1862.
474 "The Forest for me!"
the gates o* Paradise ? Na — she couldna hae dune that, had
she striven to harl me by the hair o' the head. Oh, sir!
sufficient for the hour was the beauty thereof — sowl and
senses were a' absorbed in what I saw — and I became —
Tickler. The Paragon of the Park.
Shepherd. Wull you no fine him, sir, in saut and water?
North. Silence, Tim !
Shepherd. He disturbs one like the Death-Tick.
North. Well, James ?
Shepherd. The Forest for me, after a' ! Sae would it hae
been, sir, even had I been ca'd up to Lunnon in my youth or
prime. Out o' utter but no lang forgetfulness it would hae
risen up, stretchin itsel out in a' its length and breadth, wi'
a' its lochs and mountains, and hills and streams — St. Mary's
and the Yarrow, the dearest o' them a' — and wafted me alang
wi't, far an0 and awa frae Lunnon, like a man in a warld o'
his ain, swoomin northward through the air, wi' motion true
to that ae airt, and no deviatin for sake o' the brichtest
southern star.
Buller. Most beautiful.
Shepherd. If it would hae been sae even then, Mr. Buller,
hoo much mair maun it hae been sae but some three simmers
back, when my hair, though a gey dour broon, was yielding to
the grey ? You was never at Mount Benger, sir, nor Altrive,
and the mair's the pity, for happy should we a' be to see sic
a fine, free, freenly fallow — and o' sic bricht pairts — though
the weans michtna just at first follow your English —
Buller. For their sakes, my dear Shepherd — forgive my
familiarity — I should learn their own Doric in a day.
Shepherd. That you wad, my dear Mr. Buller ; and thinkna
ye, gin if I ever, for a flaff, * in the Park, forgot my ain cosy
bield, that the thocht on't cam na back on my heart — ay, the
» Flaff— iustant.
A Monosyllable. 475
verra sicht o't afore my een — dearer than ever for sake o' the
wee bodies speerin at their mother when faither was comin
hame — and for sake o' her, who, for my sake, micht at that
moment be lettin drap a kiss on their heads.
Tickler. Now that we have seen the Shepherd in the Park,
pray, James, exhibit yourself at the Play.
Shepherd. The last exhibition you made o' yoursel, Mr.
Tickler, at the Play, as you ca't — meanin, I presume, in the
Playhouse — wasna quite sae creditable as your freens wad
hae wished — sittin in ane o' the upper boxes wi' a pented
wax-doll — no to ca' them waur — on ilka haun —
North. Is that a true bill, Tickler ?
Tickler. A lie.
Shepherd. I never answer that monosyllable * — but canna
help followin't up, on the present occasion, wi' an apothegm ,
to wit, that a man's morals may be judged by his mainners.
But I tell you, Mr. North, and you, Mr. Buller, that I was
in ane of the houses — ance, and but ance ; I gaed there out o'
regard to some freens, and I ever after staid awa out o' regard
to mysel — for o' a' the sichts that ever met my een, there
never was the like o' yon; and I wonder hoo men-folk and
women-folk, sittin side by side, could thole't in a public
theatre.
[There is silence for a time. NORTH rings the silver bell, and
appear PETER and AMBROSE with the cold round, ham and
fowls and tongues, and the unassuming but not unsubstantial
et-ceteras of such a small snug Midsummer supper as you
may suppose suitable at a Nodes on the Leads of the '
Lodge. NORTH nods, and PETER lets on the gas.
* " But ae word explains a'— genius— genius— wttll a' the metaphizziana in
the warld ever expound that mysterious monosyllable ?
" Tickler. Monosyllable, James, did you say ?
" Shepherd. Ay— monosyllable ! Doesna that mean a word o' three syll*
bles?
" Tickler. It is all one in the Greek, my dear James."
476 The Tailors' Strike.
Shepherd. Fareweel to the moon and stars.
North. What will you eat, James ?
Shepherd. I'll tak some hen. Mr. Buller, gie me the twa
legs arid the twa wings and the breist — and then haun the
hen ower to Mr. Tickler.
[They settle down into serious eating. The SHEPHERD taking
the lead — hard pressed by NORTH.
North. James, what is your opinion of the state of public
affairs ?
Shepherd. O, sir ! but yon was like to be a great national
calamity !
North. Probably it was, James. Pray, what was it?
Tickler. The Plague ?
Shepherd. Far waur than the Plague — 'cause threatenin to
be mair universal — though, like the Plague, it was in Lunnon
— thank heaven — where it first brak out — THE TAILORS'
STRIKE !
North. Twas an appalling event — and, like the great
earthquake at Lisbon, was, no doubt, felt all over
Europe.
Shepherd. The rural districts, as you ca' them, Mr. North,
haena aye escaped sic a calamity. I weel remember, in the
year wan, * a like visitation in the Forest. It wasna on sae
big a scale — for the boonds wadna admit o' its bein sae — but
the meesery was nae less — though contrackit within a nar
rower circle.
Tickler. Diffused over a wider sphere.
North. When?
Tickler. And how ?
Shepherd. The Tailor at Yarrow Ford, without having
* Wan— one. " The year wan "—an ellipsis for the year 1801.
The Strike in the Forest. 477
shown ony symptoms o' the phoby the nicht afore, ae morning
at sax o'clock — strack !
North. How dreadful !
Shepherd. You may weel say that, sir. 'Twas just at
the dawn o' the Season o' Tailors, when a' ower the Forest
there begins the makin o' new claes and the repairin o'
auld —
North. Making — as Bobby says —
" The auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.*'
Shepherd. The maist critical time o' the haill year.
North. Well, James ?
Shepherd. At sax he strack — and by nine it was kent frae
Selkirk to the Grey-Mare's Tail. A' at ance — ordinar claes
only — but mairrage-shoots and murnins were at a deid
staun. A' the folk in the Forest saw at ance that it was im
possible decently to get either married or buried. For, wad
ye believe't, the mad body was aff ower the hills, and bat*
Watty o' Ettrick Pen ! Of coorse he strack — and in his turn
aff by a short cut to the Lochs, and bat Bauldy o' Bourhope,
wha loupt frae the buird like a puddock. and flang the guse
in the fire, swearin by the shears, as he flourished them round
his head, and then sent them intil the ass-hole, that a' man
kind micht thenceforth gang nakit for him up to the airm-
pits in snaw !
North. We are all listening to you, James, with the most
intense interest.
Shepherd. The Three Tailors formed themsels intil a union
~and boond themsels by an aith — the words o' which hae
never transpired — but nae dout they were fearsome and
they ratified it — it has been said — wi' three draps each o'
their ain bluid, let out wi' the prick o' a needle — no to shue
478 The Forest Rises
anither steek gin the Forest were to fa' doun afore them on
its knees !
North. Impious !
Shepherd. But the Forest had nae sic intention — and
bauldly stood up again' the Rebellion. Auld Mr. Laidlaw —
the faither o' your freens, Watty, George, and James — took
the lead — and there was a gatherin on Mount Benger — the
same farm that, by a wonderfu' coincidence, I afterwards
came to hauld — at which resolutions were sworn by the
Forest no to yield, while there was breath in its body, though
back and side micht gang bare. I there made ma maiden
speech ; for it wasna ma maiden speech — though it passed for
such, as often happens — the ane ye heard, sir — ma first in the
Forum.
North. I confess I had my suspicions at the time, James,
I thought I saw the arts of the sophist in those affected hesi
tations — and that I frequently heard, breaking through the
skilful pauses, the powers, omnipotent in self-possession, of
the practised orator.
Shepherd. Never was there sic a terrible treeo as them o'
Yarrow Ford, Ettrick Pen, and Bourhope ! Three decenter
tailor lads, a week afore, ye micht hae searched for in vain
ower the wide warld. The streck changed them into demons.
They cursed, they swore, they drank, they danced, they
focht — first wi' whatever folk happened to fa' in wi' them on
the stravaig — and then, castin out amang theirsels, wi' ane
anither, till they had a' three black een — and siccan noses !
Tickler. 'Tis difficult for an impartial, because unconcerned,
spectator to divine the drift of the different parties in a fight
of three.
Shepherd. They couldna ha divined it theirsels — for there
was nae drift amang them to divine. There they were a'
three lounderin at hap-hazard, and then gaun heid-ower-heels
Against the Tailors. 479
on the tap o' ane anither, or colleckit in a knot in the glaur ;
and I couldna help sayin to Mr. Bryden — father o' your
favorite Watty Bryden, to whom ye gied the tortoise-shell
mull — " Saw ye ever, sir, a Tredds- Union like that."
Tickler. Why not import ?
Shepherd. As they hae dune since in Luunon frae Ger
many ? Just because naebody thocht o't. Importin tailors to
ensure free tredd ! !
Tickler. And how fared the Forest ?
Shepherd. No weel. Some folk began tailorin for theirsels
— but there was a strong prejudice against it — and to them
that made the attempp the result was baith ridiculous and
painfu', and in ae case, indeed, had nearly proved fatal.
Tickler. James, how was that ?
Shepherd. Imagine yoursel, Mr. Tickler, in a pair o' breeks,
wi' the back pairt afore — the seat o' honor transferred to
the front — •
North. Let us all so imagine, Tickler.
Shepherd. They shaped them sae, without bein' able to help
it, for it's a kittle airt cuttin out.
Tickler. But how fatal ?
Shepherd. Dandy o' Dryhope, in breeks o' his ain gettin
up, rashly daured to ford the Yarrow — but they grupped him
sae ticht atween the fork, that he could mak nae head gain'*
the water comin doun gey strung, and he was soopit aff his
feet, and taen out mair like a bundle o' claes than a man.
Tickler. How ?
Shepherd. We listered him like a fish.
North. ".Time and the hour run through the roughest
day ! "
Shepherd. And a' things yerthly hae an end. Sae had the
streck. To mak a lang story short — the Forest stood it out
* Gain,— against.
480 Watty o the Pen
— the tailors giecl in — and the Tredd's-Union fell to pieces.
But no before the Season o' Tailors was lang ower, and pairt
o' the simmer too — for they didna return to their wark till
the Langest Day. It was years afore the rebels recovered
frae the want o' wage and the waste o' pose ; * but atween
1804 and 1808 a' three married, and a' three, as you ken,
Mr. North — for I hae been direckin mysel to Mr. Tickler
and Mr. Buller — hae been ever sin' syne weel-behaved and
weel-to-do — and I never see ony o' them without their tellin
me to gie you their compliments, mair especially the tailor
o' Yarrow Ford, — for Watty o' the Pen — him, Mr. Buller,
that used to be ca'd the Flyiri Tailor o' Ettrick — sometimes
fears that Christopher North hasna got ower yet the beatin
he gied him in the ninety-odd — the year Louis XVI. was
guillotined — at hap-stap-and-loup.
North. He never beat me, Mr. Buller.
Buller. From what I have heard of you in your youth, sir,
indeed I can hardly credit it. Pardon my skepticism, Mr.
Hogg.
Shepherd. You may be as great a skeptic as you choose —
but Watty bate Kitty a' till sticks.
North. You have most unkindly persisted, Hogg, during
all these forty years, in refusing to take into account my
corns —
Shepherd. Corns or nae corns, Watty bate you a' till sticks.
North. Then I had been fishing all day up to the middle in
the water, with a creel forty pound weight on my back—
Shepherd. Creel or nae creel, Watty bate you a? to sticks.
North. And I had a hole in my heel you might have put
your hand into —
Shepherd. Sound heels or sair heels, Watty bate you a' to
sticks.
* Pose— a secret hoard of money ; savings.
Beat North to Sticks. 481
North. And I sprained one of my ankles at the first rise.
Shepherd. Though you had sprained baith, Watty wad hae
bate you a' till sticks.
North. And those accursed corduroys cut me —
Shepherd. Dinna curse the corduroys — for in breeks or out
o' breeks, Watty bate ye a' till sticks.
North. I will beat him yet for a —
Shepherd. You shanna be alloo'd to mak sic a fule o your-
sel. You were ance the best louper I ever saw — excepp ane
— and that ane was wee Watty o' the Pen — the Flyin Tailor
o' Ettrick — and he bate ye a' till sticks.
North. Well — I have done, sir. All people are mad on
some one point or other — and your insanity —
Shepherd. Mad or no mad, Watty bate you a' till sticks.
North. Peter, let off the gas. (Rising with marked dis
pleasure.)
Shepherd. Oh man ! but that's puir spite ! Biddin Peter
let aff the gas, merely 'cause I tauld Mr. Buller what a' the
Forest kens to be true, that him the bairns noo ca' the
AULD HIRPLIN HURCHEON, half-a-century sin', at hap-stap-
and-loup, bate Christopher North a' till sticks.
North (with great vehemence). Let off the gas, you stone !
Shepherd. That's pitifu' ! Ca'in a man a stane ! a man
that has been sae lang too in his service — and that has gien
him nae provocation — for it wasna Peter but me that was
obleeged to keep threepin that Watty o' the Pen — by folk o*
my time o' life never ca'd onything less than the Flying
Tailor o' Ettrick, though by bairns never ca'd onything mair
but the Auld Hirplin Hurcheon, at hap-stap-and-loup — on
fair level mossy grun' — bate him a' till sticks.
North (in a voice of thunder). You son of a sea-gun, let off
the gas.
Shepherd. Passion's aften figurative, and aye forgetfu'
482 Sunrise on the Sea.
But I fear he'll be breakin a bluid-veshel — sae I'll remind
him o' the siller bell. Peter has orders never to shaw his
neb but as soun' o' the siller bell. — Sir, you've forgotten
the siller bell. Play tingle — tingle — tingle — ting.
North (ringing the silver bell). Too bad, James. Peter, let
off the gas. [PETER lets off the gas.
Shepherd. Ha ! the bleeze o' morn ! Amazin ! 'Twas
shortly after sunset when the gas was let on — and noo that
the gas is let aff, lo ! shortly after sunrise !
Buller. With us there has been no night.
Shepherd. Yesterday was the Twunty-first o' June — the
Langest Day. We could hae dune without artificial licht —
for the few hours o' midnicht were but a gloamin — and we
could hae seen to read prent.
Buller. A deep dew.
North. As may be seen by the dry lairs in the wet grass of
those cows up and at pasture.
Shepherd. Naebody else stirrtn. Look, there's a hare
washin her face like a cat wi' her paw. Eh man ! look at
her three leverets, like as mony wee bit bears.
Buller. I had no idea there were so many singing birds so
near the surburbs of a great city.
Shepherd. Hadna ye ? In Scotland we ca' that the skreigh
o' day.
North. What has become of the sea ?
Shepherd. The sea ! somebody has opened the sluice, and
let aff the water. Na — there it's — fasten your een upon yon
great green shadow — for that's Inchkeith — and you'll sune
come to discern the sea waverin round it, as if the air grew
glass, and the glass water, while the water widens out intil
the Firth, and the Firth awa intil the Main. Is yon North
Berwick Law or the Bass — or baith — or naither — or a cape
o' cloudland, or a thocht ?
A Scottish Breakfast. 483
North.—
" Under the opening eyelids of the morn."
Shepherd. See ! Specks — like black water-flees. The boats
o' the Newheeven fishermen. Their wives are snorin yet
wi' their head in mutches — but wull sune be risin to fill
their creels. Mr. Buller, was you ever in our Embro' Fish-
Market ?
Buller. No. Where is it, sir ?
Shepherd. In the Parliament Hoose.
Buller. In the Parliament House ?
Shepherd. Are you daft ? Arieath the North Brig.
Buller. You said just now it was in the Parliament House.
Shepherd. Either you or me has been dreamin. But, Mr.
North, I'm desperate hungry — are ye no intendin to gie us
ony breakfast ?
North (ringing the silver bell). Lo ! and behold !
(Enter PETER, AMBROSE, KING PEPIN, SIR DAVID GAM,
and TAPPYTOORIE, with trays.)
Shepherd. Rows het frae the oven ! Wheat scones ! Barley
scones ! Wat and dry tost ! Cookies ! Baps ! Muffins !
Loaves and fishes ! Rizzars ! Finnans ! Kipper ! Speldrins !
Herring! Marmlet ! Jeely ! Jam! Ham! Lamb! Tongue!
Beef hung ! Chickens ! Fry ! Pigeon pie ! Crust and
broon aside the Roon' — but sit ye doun — no — freens, let's
staun' — haud up your haun — bless your face — North, gie's a
grace. — (NORTH says grace.) Noo let's fa' too — but hooly —
hooly — hooly — what vision this ! What vision this ! An
Apparition or a Christian Leddy ! I ken, I ken her by her
curtshy — did that face no tell her name and her nature. — Oh
deign, Mem, to sit doun aside the Shepherd. — Pardon me —
tak the head o' the table, ma honored Mem — and let the
Shepherd sit doun aside YOU — and may I mak sae bauld as
184 A Creature of the Element.
to introduce Mr. Buller to you, Mem ? Mr. Buller, clear your
een — for on the Leads o' the Lodge, in face o* heaven and
he risin sun, I noo introduce you till Mrs. GENTLE.
North (starting and looking wildly round). Ha !
Shepherd. She's gane !
North (recovering some of his composure). Too bad, James.
Shepherd. Saw your nocht ? Saw naebody ocht ?
Omnes. Nothing.
Shepherd. A cretur o' the element ! like a' the ither love
liest sichts that veesit the een o' us mortals — but the dream
o' a dream ! But, thank heaven, a's no unsubstantial in this
warld o' shadows. Were ony o' us to say sae, this breakfast
would gie him the lee ! Noo, Gurney, mind hoo ye extend
your short-haun.
Small still Voice. Ay, ay, sir.
duller. " Oh Gurney ! shall I call thee bird, or but a wan
dering voice ! "
North.—
" O blessed Bird ! the world we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial faery-place,
That is fit home for Thee t "
XXVII.
A DINNER IN THE FOREST.
SCENE I. — The Shepherd's Study, Altrive. — The SHEPHERD
seated at dinner. Time — Six o' Clock. — AMBROSE in
waiting.
(Enter, hurriedly, NORTH and TICKLER.)
Shepherd. What for keep ye folk waitin in this way, sirs,
for denner ! and it past sax ! Sax is a daft-like hour for
denner in the Forest, but I'm aye wullin to humor fules
that happen to be reseedin in ma ain house at hame. Whare
were you — and what hae ye been about ? No * shavin at
least — for twa sic bairds I dinna remember ha'in witnessed
sin' I was in Wales — towards the close o' the century — and
they belanged to twa he-goats glowerin ower at me frae the
ruins o' Dolbaldron Castle. Tak your chairs — ye Jews.
Moses ! sit you on my richt haun — and Aaron ! sit you on
<ny left. [NORTH and TICKLER sit down as commanded.
North. 'Tis the first time in my life that I have been one
moment behind the hour.
Shepherd. I believ't. For you can regulat your stamack
like a timepiece. It gangs as true's a chronometer — and on
board a ship you could tell by't to a nicety when she would
reach ony particular port. I daursay it's correck the noo by
• NO— not.
485
486 The Dinner-bell at Altrive.
the sun — but I aye mak Girrzzy bate * the girdle twa-three
minutes afore the chap o' the knock, f
Tickler. Bate the girdle ?
Shepherd. Ay, just sae, sir — bate the girdle. I used to
hae a bell hung on the bourtree at the gable-end — the auld
Yarrow kirk-bell — but it got intil its dotage, its tongue had
the palsy, it's cheeks were crackit — and pu' the rape as you
would, it's vice was as puir's as a pan's. Then the lichtnin,
that maun hae had little to do that day, melted it intil the
shape o' an aim icicle, and it grew perfeckly useless — sae I
got a drum that ance belanged to the militia, and for some
seasons it diverted the echoes that used to tak it aff no amiss,
whether braced or itherwise — but it too waxed auld and
impotent, and you micht as weel for ony music that was in't,
hae bate the kitchen-dresser wi' the lint-beetle — sae I then
got a gong sent ower frae India frae your freen and mine,
Dr. Gray — God bless him — and for a lang, deep, hollow
trummlin, sea-like, and thunderous sound, it bate a' that
ever was heard in this kintra — but it created sic a dis
turbance far and wide, that, sair against my wull, I had to
shut it up in the garret.
North. Wherefore, James ?
Shepherd. In the first place, it was sae like thunner that
folk far aff couldna tell whether it was thunner or no ; and
I've kent them yoke their carts in a hurry to carry in their
hay afore it was dry for stacking, fearing a plump. Ae Sun
day the sound keepit a? the folk frae the kirk, and aften they
wadna ventur on the fuirds, in dread o' a sudden spate frae
a water-spoot. I learnt at last to bate it more gently ; but
then it was sae like the sound o' a bill afore he breaks out
intil the bellow, that a' the kye in the forest grew red-wild-
mad ; sae then I had to take to batin the girdle — an idea
* Bale— heat. t Chap o' the knock— striking of the clock.
The Covers are lifted. 487
that was suggested to me ae day on the swarmin o' a tap
swarm o' a skep o' bees in the garden — and I find that on a
clear day sic as this, when the atmosphere's no clogged, that
it answers as weel's either the kirk-bell, the drum, or the
gong. You would hear't ayont the knowe, sirs ; and wasna't
bonny music?
Arcades Ambo. Beautiful, exceedingly.
Shepherd. If her I needna name had been at hame, there
would hae been a denner on the table wordier* o' my twa
maist esteemed and dearest freens ; but I howp wi' sic as we
hae — without her mair immediate yet prospective care — you
will be able to make a fend.f
North. Bread and cheese would be a feast with the Shep
herd.
Shepherd. 'Deed it wad be nae sic thing. It's easy to
speak o' feasting on cheese and breed, and butter and breed — •
and in our younger days they were truly a feast on the hill.
But noo our pallets, if they dinna require coaxin, deserve a
goo ; $ and I've seen a barer buird. Mr. Awmrose, lift the
lids. [Mr. AMBROSE smilingly lifts the lids.
North and Tickler (in delighted wonder). Bless us !
Shepherd. That's hotch-potch — and that's cocky-leeky — the
twa best soups in natur. Broon soup's moss-water — and
white soup's like scauded milk wi' worms in't. But see, sirs,
hoo the ladle stauns itsel in the potch — and I wush Mr.
Tickler could see himsel the noo in a glass, curlin up his
nose, wi' his een glistening, and his mouth waterin, at sicht
and smell o' the leeky. We kilt a lamb the day we got
your letter, sir, and that's a hind-quarter twal-pund wecht.
Ayont it's a beef-stake poy — for Geordy Scougal slaughtered
a beast last market day at Innerleithen — and his meat's aye
prime. Here are three fules — and that ham's nae sham, sae
* Wordier— worthier. t Fend— shift. t Goo— provocative.
488 The Dishes are disclosed.
we sail ca' him Japhet. I needna tell ye yon's a roasted
green-guse frae Crosslee — and neist it mutton -chaps — but the
rest's a' ggem. That's no cat, Tickler — but hare — as you
may ken by her lugs and fud. That wee bit black beastie — •
I wuss she niayna be wizened in the roastin — is a water-hen ;
the twa aside her are peaseweeps — to the east you may
observe a leash o' grouse — wastwards ho ! some wild dyucks
— a few pints to the south a barren pair o' paitricks — and
due north a whaup.
North (helping himself to a couple of 'flappers .)—
" O' a' the airts the wund can blaw
I dearly loe the west,
For there the bonny dyuckie lies,
The dyuck that I loe best."
Shepherd. But you maunna be expeckin a second and third
coorse. I hate to hae denner set afore me by instalments ;
and, frae my no havin the gift o' prophecy, I've kent dish
efter dish slip through my fingers in a succession o' coorses,
till I had feenally to assuage my hunger on gratins they ca'
parmesan. Sir George Warrenner * will recollek hoo I pickit
them aff the plate as if I had been famished, yet frae first to
last there had been nae absolute want o' vittals. I kept aye
waitin for the guse ; but nae guse o' an edible kind made his
appearance, and I had to dine ower again at sooper in my am
hottle.* That's a sawmon.
Ambrose. There is somebody at the door, sir.
Shepherd. Let him in. (AMBROSE opens the door, and enter
Clavers, Giraffe, Rover, Guile, and Fang.) It's the dowgs.
Gentlemen, be seated. [ The Canine take their seats.
North. " We are seven."
* I believe that Sir George Warrender presided at a public dinner given to
Hogg in London,
t Hottle— hotel.
Symptoms of Hydrophobia. 489
Shepherd. A mystical nummer —
North. The Pleiades.
Tickler.—
" And lend the Lyre of heaven another string."
Shepherd. I ken, Mr. Tickler, ye dinna like dowgs. But ye
needna be feared, for nane o' them's got the hydrophoby —
excepp it may be Fang. The cretur's been very snappish
sin' the barommator reached ninety, and bat a goslin that
began to bark — but though the goslin bat him again, he
hasna yet been heard to quack ony, sae he's no muckle mad.
You're no mad, Fang ?
Fang. Buy — wuy — wuy.
Shepherd. His speech's rather affeckit. He used to say —
bow — wow — wow.
Tickler (sidling away nearer the Shepherd). I don't much
like his looks.
Shepherd. But, dear me ! I've forgotten to help you — and
hae been eatin and talkin awa wi' a fu' mouth and trencher,
while baith o' yours is stannin wide open and empty — and I
fear, bein' out a' day, you maun be fent.
Tickler. Say grace, James.
Shepherd. I said it, Timothy, afore I sat doun ; and though
you two was na in, it included you, for I kent you wadna be
far aff ; sae it's a* richt baith in time and place. Fa' tae.
Tickler. If you have been addressing me, my dear sir, never
was there more needless advice. A more delicious duck
ling—
North. Than Fatima I never devoured.
Shepherd. O ye rubiawtors ! Twa wild dyucks dune to the
very doups ! I intented to hae tasted them mysel — but the
twa thegither wadna hae wechted wi' my whaup.
Tickler. Your Whaup?
490 Friendship among Dogs.
Shepherd. You a Scotchman and no ken a whaup ? 0 you
gowk ! The English ca't a curly.
Tickler. Oh ! a curlew. I have seen it in Bewick.
Shepherd. And never in the muirs ? Then ye needna read
Booick. For to be a naturalist you maun begin wi' natur,
and then study her wi' the help o' her chosen sons. But
what think ye, sirs, o' thae pecks o' green pease ?
North. By the flavor, I know them to be from Cacra Bank.
Shepherd. Never kent I a man o' sic great original genius,
wi' sic a fine delicate taste. They're really sae. John Grieve
kent ye was comin to Altrive, and sent me ower baith them
and thae young potawtoes. You'll be delichted to see him
the morn in Ettrick kirk — for I haena kent him lookin
sae strang and fresh for a dizzen years — oh ! there's nae-
thing for ane ony way invalidish like the air o' ane's native
hills!
Tickler. Come, Mr. Hogg, do tell us how you got the game ?
Shepherd. It wasna my blame. Last Saturday, that's this
day week, I gaed out to the fishin, and the dowgs gaed wi'
me, for when they're left at hame they keep up siccan a
yowlin that folk passin by micht think Altrive a kennel for
the Duke's jowlers. I paid nae attention to them, but left
them to amuse theirsels — Clavers and Giraffe, that's the twa
grews — Fang, the terrier — and Guile and Rover, collies — at
least they ca' Rover a collie, though he's gotten a cross o'
some outlandish bluid, and he belangs to the young gentle
man at Thirlstane, but he's a great freen o' our Guile's, and
often pays him a visit.
Tickler. I thought there had been no friendship among dogs.
Shepherd. Then you thocht wrang — for they aften loe ane
anither like bithers, especially when they're no like ane anith-
er, being indeed in that respect, just like us men ; for nae
twa human beings are mair unlike ither, physically, morally,
" Watty's deid" 491
and intellectually, than you and me, Mr. Tickler, and yet
dinna we loe ane anither like brithers ?
Tickler. We do, we do, my dearest Shepherd. Well ?
Shepherd. The trouts wadna tak ; whup the water as I wad,
I couldna get a loupl Flee, worm, mennow, a' useless, and
the water, though laigh, wasna laigh aneuch for guddlin.
Tickler. Guddlin?
Shepherd. Nae mair o' your affeckit ignorance, Mr. Tickler.
You think it fashionable to be ignorant o' everything vulgar
folk like me thinks worth knawin, but Mr. North's a genteeler
man nor you ony day o' the week, and he kens brawly what's
guddlin ; and what's mair, he was ance himsel the best
guddler in the south o' Scotland, if you exceppit Bandy Jock
Gray o' Pebbles. He couldna guddle wi' Bandy Jock ony
mair than loup wi' Watty o' the Pen, the Flyin Tailor o'
Ettrick.
North (laying down his knife and fork). I'll leap him to
morrow for love.
Shepherd. Wheesht — wheesht. The morn's the Sabbath.
North. On Monday then — running hop-step-and-leap, or
a running leap, on level ground — back and forward — with or
without the crutch — let him use sticks if he will —
Shepherd. Wheesht — wheesht. Watty's deid.
North. Dead!
Shepherd. And buried. I was at the funeral on Thursday.
The folk are talkin o' pittin up a bit monument to him — in
deed hae asked me to indite an inscription. I said it should
be as simple as possible — and merely record the chief act o'
his life — u Hie JACET WALTER LAIDLAW OF THE PEN, THE
CELEBRATED FLYING TAILOR OP ETTRICK, WHO BEAT
CHRISTOPHER NORTH AT HOP-STEP-AND-JUMP."
North (resuming his knife andforfy.Well — fix your day, and
though Tweed should be in flood, I will guddle Bandy Jock.
492 "Bandy Jock:1
Shepherd. Bandy Jock 'ill guddle nae mair in this warld.
He dee'd o' the rheumatiz on May-day — and the same inscrip
tion, wi' a little variation — leavin out " hop-step-and-jump,"
and inserting " guddlin " — will answer for him that will
answer for Watty o' the Pen.
Tickler. 'Pon honor, my dear sir, I know not guddlin.
Shepherd. In the wast they ca't ginnlin.
Tickler. Whew ! I'Jl ginnle Kit for a pair of ponies.
North (derisively). Ha, ha, ha.
Shepherd. I've seen Bandy Jock dook doun head and
shouthers, sae that you saw but the doup o' him facin the
sun, aneath a bank, and remain for the better pairt o' five
minutes wi' his mouth and nostrils in the water — hoo he
contrived to breathe I kenna — when he wad draw them out,
wi' his lang carroty hair a' poorin, wi' a trout a fit lang in ilka
haun, and ane aiblins auchteen inches atween his teeth.
Tickler. You belong, I believe, Mr. Hogg, to the Royal Com
pany of Archers ?
Shepherd. What connection has that ? I do ; and I'll shoot
you ony day. Captain Colley ance backed Bandy Jock again'
a famous tame otter o' Squire Lomax's frae Lancashire —
somewhat about Preston — that the Squire aye carried wi'
him in the carriage — a pool bein' made for its accommodation
in the floor wi' air-holes — and Jock bate the otter by fifteen
pound — though the otter gruppit a sawmon.
Tickler. But, mine host, the game ?
Shepherd. Do you no like it ? Is't no gude ? It surely
canna be stinkin ? And yet this het wather's sair compleened
o' by the cyuck, and flees will get intil the Safe. I gie you
my word for't, howsomever, that I saw her carefully wi' a
knife scrapin out the mauks.
Tickler. I see nothing in the shape of maggots in this one.
Shepherd. Nor shall ye in this ane — (forking it) — for I see
Sow the Old Cock was got. 493
that, though I'm in my ain house, I maun tak care o' mysel
wi' you Embro' chaps, or I'll be famished.
Tickler. But, mine host, the game ?
Shepherd. That cretur Fang there — him wi' the slicht touch
o' the hydrophoby — is the gleggest at a grup o' ggem sit-
tin, in a' the Forest. As for Rover, he has the nose o' a
Spanish pinter, and draws and backs as if he had been regu
larly brak in by a dowg-breaker, wi' a dowg-whup on the
muirs. On my way up the Yarrow — me wi' my fishin-rod in
my haun, no put up, and no unlike the Crutch, only with
out the cross — Rover begins snokin and twinin himsel in a
serpentine style, that aye denotes a strang scent — wi' his
fanlike tail whaffin — and Fang close at his heels — when Fang
pounces on what I thocht might pruve but a tuft o' heather,
or perhaps a mowdiewarp — but he kent better — for in troth
it was the Auld Cock — and then whurr — whurr — whurr — a
covey o' what seemed no far short o' half a bunder — for they
broon'd the lift ; and in the impetus o' the moment, wi' the
sudden inspiration o' an improveesistreecky, I let fly the rod
amang them as if it had been a rung.* It wounded many,
but knocked doun but three — and that's them, or at least was
them — for I noo see but ane — Tickler ha'in taen to his share
the Auld Cock.
North. And the ducklings ?
Shepherd. Ca' them flappers. A maist ridiculous Ack o'
Parliament has tried to mak them ggem — through it's weel
kent that tame dyucks and wild dyucks are a' ae breed —
but a thousand Acks o' Parliament 'ill never gar me consider
them ggem, or treat them as ggem, ony mair than if you were
to turn out a score o' how-towdies on the heather, and ca'
them ggem.
Tickler. Pheasants
* Eurtfj— walking staff .
494 The Flappers.
Shepherd. I ken naething about feesants, excepp that they
are no worth eatin.
North. You are wrong there, James. The duke sends me
annually half-a-dozen, and they eat like Birds of Paradise.
Shepherd. Even the hen's no half sae gude's a hen. But
for the flappers. A' the five dowgs fand theirsels a' at ance
in amang a brood on a green level marshy spat, where escape
was impossible for puir beasts that couldna yet flee — and
therefore are ca'd flappers. It wad hae been vain for me to
try to ca' the dowgs aff — sae I cried them on — and you never
saw sic murder. The auld drake and dyuck keepit circling
round — quack-quack-quackin out o' shot in the sky — and I
pitied the puir pawrents lookiu doun on the death o' their
promising progeny. By gude luck I had on the sawinon-
creel — and lookiu round about, I crammed in a' the ten —
doun wi' the lid — and awa alang the holms o' Yarrow as if
I was selecking a stream for beginnin to try the fishin—
when, wha sud I meet but ane o' his Grace's keepers ! Afore
I kent whare T was, he put his haun aneath the basket, and
tried to gie't a hoist — but providentially he never keekit intil
the hole — and tell in him I had had grand trootin — but maun
be aff, for that a lassie had been sent to tell me that twa
gentlemen frae Embro' had corne out to Altrive — I wished
him gude day, and took the fuird. But my heart was loupin,
and I felt as if I was gaun to fent. A sook o' Glenlivet,
however, set me a' richt — and we shall hae the lave to sooper
I howp poosie's tasty, sir ?
North. I have rarely ate a sweeter and richer leveret.
Shepherd. I'll thank ye, sir, to ca' the cretur by her richt
name — the name she gaed by, to my knowledge, for mony
years — a Hare. She hasna been a leveret sin' the King's
visit to Scotland. I howp you dinna find her teuch ? *
* Teuch— tough.
TJie Witch in a Hare-skin. 495
North. Not yet.
Shepherd. You maun lay your account wi' her legs bein*
harder wark than her main body and wings. I'm glad to see
Girrzzy hasna spared the stuffin — and you needna hain the
jeel,* for there's twa dizzen pats o' new, red, black, and white,
in that closet, wi' their mouths cosily covered wi' pages .o'
some auld lowse Nummers o' Blackwood 's Magazine — the
feck o' them belangin to twa articles, entitled " Streams "
and " Cottages."
North (wincing). But to the story of the game.
Shepherd. The witch was sitting in her ain kail-yard — the
preceese house I dinna choose to mention — when Giraffe, in
louping ower the dyke, louped ower her, and she gied a spang
intil the road, turning round her fud within a yard o' Clavers
— and then sic a brassel a' three thegither up the brae ! And
then back again— in a hairy whirlwind — twa miles in less
than ae minute. She made for the mouth o' the siver, f but
Rover, wha had happened to be examining it, in his inquisi
tive way, and kent naething o' the coorse, was comin out just
as she was gaun in, an' atween the twa there ensued, unseen
in the siver, a desperate battle. Weel dune, witch — weel
dune, warlock- — and at ae time I feared frae his yelpin and
yowlin that Rover was gettin the warst o't, and micht lose
his life. Auld poosies cuff sair wi' their forepaws — and
theirs is a wicked bite. But the outlandish wolfiness in
Rover brak forth in extremity, and he cam rushin out o' the
siver wi' her in his mouth, shaking her savagely, as if she had
been but a ratten, and I had to choke him aff. Forby thrap-
lin her, he had bit intil the jugular — and she lost sae meikle
bluid, that you hae eaten her the noo roasted, instead o' her
made intil soup. She wad hae been the tenderer o' anither
fortnicht o' this net wather — wi' the glass at 92 in the
• Hain thejeel — be sparing of the jelly. t Siver — a covered drain.
496 She recovers her Skin,
shade o' the Safe in the Larder — yet you seem to be gettin
on —
North. Pretty well — were it not that a sinew — like a length
of catgut — from the old dame's left hip has got so entangled
among my tusks, that —
Shepherd. You are speakin sae through your teeth as no to
be verra intelligible. Let me cut the sinny wi' my knife.
[The SHEPHERD operates with much surgical dexterity.
North. Thank you, James. I shall eat no more of the
leveret now — but take it minced at supper.
Shepherd. Minshed ! ma faith, you've minshed it wi' a
vengeance. She's a skeleton noo, and nae mair — and let's
send her in as a curiosity in a glass case to James Wilson —
to meet him on his return frae the Grand Scientific Expedi
tion o' thae fearless feelosopbers into the remotest regions o'
Sutherland, to ascertain whether par be par, or o' the seed o'
sawmon. We'll swear that we fand it imbedded in a solid
rock, and it '11 pass for the young o' some specie o' antedilu
vian yelephant.
Tickler. Clap the skin upon it — and tell James that we
all three saw it jump out of the heart of the trap.
Shepherd. A queer idea. Awmrose, bid Girrzzy gie ye the
hare-skin o' that auld hare that's noo eaten intil a skeleton
by Mr. North.
[Exit AMBROSE, and enters with the hare-skin.
North. Allow me to put it on.
[NORTH seems much at a loss.
Shepherd. Hoot, man ! The skin's inside out ! There —
the lugs fit nicely — (the SHEPHERD adroitly re-furs Puss) —
and the head — but there's a sair fa'in aff everywhere else —
and noo that it's on — this unreal mockery is mair shockin
than the skeleton. Tak it awa — tak it awa, Mr. Awmrose —
I canna thole to look at it.
And vanishes through the Window. 497
North. Stop, Ambrose. Give it me a moment.
[NORTH lends it a legerdemain touch after the style of the
late celebrated Othello Devaynes of Liverpool, and the
witch, in point of activity, apparently not one whit the
worse of having been eaten, jumps out of the window.
Omnes. Halloo ! halloo ! halloo !
[Clavers, Giraffe, Rover, Guile, and Fang, spring from
their seats, and evanish, — Fang clearing the sill as clean
as a frog.
Tickler. Now, Ambrose, down with the window — for,
though my nose is none of the most fastidious, we have really
had in every way quite enough of dogs.
32
XXVIII.
A DAY AT TIBBIE'S.
SCENE I. — Green in front of TIBBIE'S, head of St. Mary's Loch.*
Time — Four afternoon. SHEPHERD standing a/one, in a
full suit of the Susalpine Tartan. Arrive NORTH and
TICKLER on their Norwegians.
Shepherd. True to time as the cuckoo or the swallow.
Hail, Christopher ! Hail, Timothy ! Lords o' the ascend
ant, I bid ye hail !
Tickler. Hoo's a' wi' ye, Jeems ?
Shepherd. Brawlies — brawlies, sir ; but tak my advice, Mr.
Tickler, and never attempp what ma excellent f reen, Downie
o' Appin, ca's the Doric, you Dowg, for sic anither pronoun-
ciation was never heard on this side o' the North Pole.
North. My beloved Broonie ! lend a helping hand to your
old accomplice while he endeavors to dismount.
Shepherd* My heart hotches, like a bird's nest wi' young
anes, at the sound o' your vice. Ay — ay — I'll affectionately
lend a helpin haun to my auld accomplice while he endea
vors to dismunt — my auld accomplice in a' kinds o' innicent
wicketness — and Clootie shanna tak the ane o' us without
the ither — I'm determined on that, — yet Clootie's a great
coward, and wull never hae courage to face the Crutch !
* Tibbie Shields and her interesting pastoral hostelry still flourish for
the accommodation of travellers in the wild solitudes of St Mary's Loch,
Selkirkshire.
498
A Statue of Hippolytus. 499
Tickler. And how am I to get off ?
Shepherd. Your feet's within twa-three inches o' the grand
already — strauchtyour knees — plant your soles on the sward
— let gae the grup, and the beast '11 walk out frae aneath
you, as if he was passing through a triumphal airch.
Cream-colored pownies ! Are they a present frae the
royal stud ?
North. They are Norwegians, James, riot Hanoverians.
Lineally descended from the^only brace of cavalry King Haco
had on board at the battle of Largs.
Shepherd. His ain body-guard o' horse-marines. Does he
bite?
North. Sometimes. But please to observe that he is
muzzled.
Shepherd. I thocht 'twas but a nettin ower his nose. Does
he kick ?
North. I have known him kick.
Shepherd. I canna say I like that layin back p' his lugs —
nor yet that twust o' his tail — and, mercy on us, but he's
gotten the Evil Ee !
Tickler. Tibbie ! a stool.
[TIBBIE places a cutty stool below TICKLER'S left foot — and
describing half a circle with his right, TIMOTHY treads
the sod — then facing about, leans with his right elbow on
Harold's shoulder — while his left forms the apex :f an
isosceles triangle, as hand on hip he stands, like Hippo
lytus or Meleager.
Shepherd (admiring Tickler). There's an equestrian statue
worth a thousand o' that o' Lord Hopetoun and his horse in
front o' the Royal Bank —though judges tell me that Cawmel
the sculptor's a modern Midas. Hoo grandly the figures
combine wi* the backgrund ! See hoo that rock relieves
Tickler's heid, — and hoo that tree carries off Hawco's tail !
500 Tickler in his Shooting-coat.
The Director-general was wrang in swearing that sculptur
needs nae scenery to set it aff — for will onybody tell me that
that group would be as magnificent with in the four bare wa's
o' an exhibition-room, as where it noo stauns, in the heart o'
licht, encircled by hills, and overhung by heaven ? Gin a
magician could, by a touch o' his wand, convert it intil
marble, it would be worth a ransom. But, alas ! 'tis but
transitory flesh and bluid !
Tickler. Why don't you speak, James ?
Shepherd. Admiration has held me mute. I beseech ye,
sir, dinna stir — for sic anither attitude for elegance, grace,
and majesty, 's no within the possible combinations o' the
particles o' maitter. Tibbie ! tak aff your een, it's no safe
for a widow woman to glower lang on sic a spectacle ! Then
the garb ! what an advantage it has ower Lord Hopetoun's !
His lordship looks as if he had loupt out o' his bed on
sae sudden an alarm, that he had time but to fling the
blankets ower his shouthers, and the groom nae time to
saiddle the horse, which his maister had to ride a' nicht bare
backit — altogether beneath the dignity o' a British general.
But there the costume is a' in perfeck keepin — purple plush
jacket wi' great big white horn buttons single breisted —
cape hangiu easily ower the back o' the neck — haun-cuffs
fliped to gie the wrists room to play- — and the flaps o' the
mony-pouched reachin amaist doon to the knee, frae which
again the ee travels alang the tartan trews till it feenally
rests on a braw brass buckle — or is it gowd ? — bricht on his
instep as a cairngorm. But up wi' a swurl again flees im
agination, and settles amang the lights and shadows o' the
picturesque scenery o' that mony-shaped straw-hat — the rim
o' its circumference a Sabbath-day's journey round — umbra
geous umbrella, aneath which he stauns safe frae sun and
rain — and might entertain a seleck pairty in the cool of the
North's Face. 501
air ! which he could keep in circulation by a shake o' his
head!
Tickler. Now that I have stood for my statue, James, pray
give us a pen-and-ink sketch of Christopher.
Shepherd. There he sits, turned half round on the saiddle,
wi' ae haun restin on the mane, and the ither haudin by the
crupper, — no that he's feared to fa' aff — for I've seldom seen
him tummle at a staun-still — but that I may hae a front, a
back, and a side view o' him a' at ance — for his finest pint is
what I would venture, wi' a happy audacity, to ca' the circu
lar contour o' his full face and figure in profile — sae that the
spectawtor has a comprehensive visey o' a' the characteristic
attributes o' his outward man.
North. The circular contour of my full face and figure
in profile ? I should like to see it.
Shepherd. I fear I shanna be able to feenish the figure at
ae sittin, for it's no easy to get rid o' that face.
North. I am trying to look as mild as cheese.
Shepherd. Dinna fasten your twa grey green een on mine
like a wull-cat.
North. Verily they are more like a sucking dove's.
Shepherd. Surely there's nae need to look sae cruel about
the doun-drawn corners o' your mouth — for that neb's aneuch
o' itsel — every year liker and liker a ggem-hawk's.
North. I am a soft-billed bird.
Shepherd. A multitude o' lang, braid, white, sharp teeth's
fearsome in the mouth o' an auld man, and maks ane suspeck
dealins wi' the enemy, and an unhallowed lease o' a lang life.
North. Would that I had not forgotten to bargain for
exemption from the toothache !
Shepherd. I wuss there mayna be mair meant than meets
the ee in thae marks on the forehead. They tell na o' the
touch o' Time, but o' the Tempter.
502 "ffae ye selt your Sowl?"
North. I rub them off — so — and lo — the brow of a
boy!
Shepherd. Answer me ae question — I adjure you — hae ye
selt your sowl to Satan ?
North (smiling). James !
Shepherd. Heaven bless you, sir, for that smile — for it has
scattered the dismal darkness o' doubt in which ye were
beginning to wax intil a demon, and I behold Christopher
North in his ain native light — a man — a gentleman — and a
Christian. But whare's the crutch ?
North. Crutch ! The useless old sinecurist has been lying
in velvet all autumn. Henceforth I believe I shall dispense
with his services — for the air of the Forest has proved fatal
to gout, rheumatism, and lumbago — of which truth behold
the pleasant proof — James — here goes !
[NORTH springs up to his feet on the crupper, throws a
somerset over Haco's rump, and bounds from the green
sward as from a spring-board.
Tickler. Not amiss. Let's untackle our cattle — and make
our toilet.
[NORTH and TICKLER strip their steeds, and turn them
loose into the meadow, green as emerald with a flush of
aftergrass, in which they sink to the fetlocks, as at full
gallop they describe fairy-rings within fairy-rings, till in
the centre of the field they subside into a trot, and after
diversely careering a while with flowing mane and tail,
and neighings that thrill the hills, settle to serious eating,
and look as if they had been quietly pasturing there
since morn.
North. That's right, my good Tibbie. Put my pail of
water and my portmanteau into the arbor.
Tickler. That's right, my pretty Dolly, put my pail of
water and my portmanteau into the shed.
North's Raptures. 503
[NORTH retires into the arbor to make his toilet, and
TICKLER into the opposite shed. The SHEPHERD
remains midway between — held there by the counterac
tion of two equal powers of animal magnetism.
Shepherd. Are ye gaun into the dookin in thae twa pails ?
North. No — as rural lass adjusts her silken snood by re
flection in such pellucid mirror — so am I about to shave.
Shepherd. Remember the fable o' the goat and the well.
North (within the Arbor). How beautiful the fading
year! A month ago, this arbor was all one dusky green —
now it glows — it burns with gold, and orange, and purple,
and crimson ! How harmonious the many-colored glory !
How delightful are all the hues in tone !
Shepherd. Arena ye cauld staunin there in your linen ?
For I see you through the thin umbrage, like a ghost in a
dirty shirt.
North. Sweet are autumn's rustling bowers, but sweeter
far her still — when dying leaf after dying leaf drops unre-
luctantly from the spray — all noiseless as snow-flakes — and
like them ere long to melt away into the bosom of mother
earth. It seems but yesterday when they were buds !
Shepherd. Tak tent ye dinna cut yoursel — it's no safe to
moraleese when ane's shavin. Are ye speakin to me, or was
that meant for a soliloquy ?
North. In holt or shaw, in wood or grove, on bush or hedge
row, among broom or bracken, the merry minstrelsy is heard
no more ! Soon as they cease to sing they seem to disap
pear ; the mute mavis retires with her speckled throat and
breast so beautiful into the forest gloom ; the bold blackbird
hides himself for a season, till the berries redden the holly-
trees; and where have all the linties gone? Are they, too,
home-changing birds of passage ? and have they flown un
gratefully away with the swallows, to sunny southern isles ?
504 Leaving Altrive early.
Shepherd. He's mair poetical nor correck in his ornithology;
yet it's better to fa' into siclike harmless errors in the study o'
leevin birds — errors o' a lovin heart, and a mournfu' imagina
tion — than to keep scientifically richt amang stuffed speci
mens sittin for ever in ae attitude wi' bead-een in a glass-case.
Tickler (within the Sited). What have you been about
with yourself all day, my dear James ?
Shepherd. No muckle. I left Altrive after breakfast-
about nine — and the Douglas Burn lookin gey temptin, I
tried it wi' the black gnat, and sune creeled some fowre or
five dizzen — the maist o' them sina' — few exceedin a pund.
Tickler. Hem.*
Shepherd. I fear, sir, you've gotten a sair throat. Ane
sune tires o' trootin at ma time o' life, sae I then put on a
sawmon flee, and without ony howp daunered donn to a
favorite cast on the Yarrow. Sometimes a body may keep
threshin the water for a week without seein a snout — and
sometimes a body hyucks a fish at the very first thraw ; and
sae it happened wi' me — though I can gie mysel nae credit
for skill — for I was just wattin my flee near the edge, when
a new-run fish, strong as a white horse, rushed at it, and then
out o' the water wi' a spang higher than my head,
" My heart to my mouth gied a sten,"
and he had amaist rugged the rod out my nieve ; but I sune
recovered my presence o' mind, and after indulgin his royal
highness in a few plunges, I gied him the butt, ,and for a
quarter o' an hour keept his nose to the grunstane. It's a
sair pity to see a sawmon sulky, and I thocht — and nae doubt
sae did he — that he had taen up his lodgins at the bottom
o' a pool for the nicht — though the sun had just reached his
meridian. The plump o' a stane half a hunderwecht made
* Hem— implying a doubt.
Hogg lands his Salmon. 505
him shift his quarters — and a sudden thocht struck him that
he would mak the best o' his way to the Tweed, and then
doun to the sea at Berwick. But I bore sae hard on him wi'
an auchteen-feet rod, that by the time he had swam twa
miles — and a' that time, though I aften saw his shadow, I
seldom saw himsel — he was sae sair blawn that he cam to the
surface o' his ain accord, as if to tak breath — and after that
I had it a' my ain way — for he was powerless as a sheaf o'
corn carried doun in a spate — and I landed him at the fuird,
within a few hunder yards o' Altrive. Curious aneuch, wee
Jamie was sittin by himsel on the bank, switherin about
wadin across, and you may imagine the dear cretur's joy on
seein a twunty-pund fish — the heaviest ever killed wi' the rod
in Yarrow — floatin in amang his feet.
Tickler. You left him at home ?
Shepherd. Whare else should I hae left him ?
Tickler. Hem.
Shepherd. You really maun pit some flannen round that
throat — for at this time o' the year, when baith man and
horse is saft, inflammation rapidly arrives at its hicht —
mortification without loss o' time ensues — and within the
four-and-twunty hours I've kent a younger chiel than you,
sir, streekit out —
Tickler. What?
Shepherd. A corp.
Tickler. Any more sport?
Shepherd. Returnin to the Loch, I thocht I wad try the
otter.* Sae I launched him on a steady leaden keel — twa
yards lang — breadth o' beam three inches — and mountin a
hunder and fifty hyucks —
* This is an implement with a number of fly-hooks attached to it ; and it
is worked out into the water from the shore, somewhat after the fashion in
which a paper-kite is piqued against the wind.
f>0!) An Ahirmhitj Haul
Tickler, A first-rate man-of-war.
SheylienL I've seen MX- in the season at ween spring find
Niimmer, secure ten di//en wi' the otter at a Kindle launch.
Hut in October twa di//,en's no to bo despised --tho half o'
them bein' about, the si/.e o' herrins, and (be ball' o' them about
the si/.e o' haddocks, —and a no — but ho's a groy trout —
Tickler. Sabno 1'Yrox ?
Shepherd. As bi^'s :i cod.
Tickler. Well, .lames?
SfapKtflL I then thocht I \vonld take :i look o' some nicht
lines I had set twa-three days sin', and be^an pu'in awil at
tin* lanovst \vi' some five score o' hvncks, baited for piko
and «•<•!, \vi' trotit. ami partail, fro^s, chicken heads, hen-«juts,
some mice, some moles, and some water-rats for (here's n:u»
settin bonn's to tlu> voracity o' thae sharks and serpents —
and if. was like drawin :i net. At. length pike and (V(>1 bewail
makin lln«ir a|>|x-arance, tirst a pike -then an eel — wi' the
niaist nnerrin n»^ula.rity »>' snct-ession just, as if yon had
puffin them on sac for a ploy ! " Is there never to be an end
o'this?" I cried to inysel ; and by the time that, walkin
backwards, I had reached the road, that ^an^s romf the bay
wi' a b'Mi.l enclosin afwetMi it an the wafer-ed^o a bit
bonny ^rass-meadow and twa-thix'e- trees the same that
your accomplished freen, (leor^e Moir, * — made sac tastefu' a
sketch o' — thoro, wnll ye Ixdievo me — were Ivin tive-and-
twnnty <<cls and live and -twnnl v pikes — ^in all saxtv till I
could hae drt'a.mt that tin* meadow had been part, o' the bay
that moment drained by somo sort o' subterraneous suction — •
and that, a' the fishy life the water had contained was noo
wallopin and wrin^lin in the sudden sunshine o' unexpected
* A ili--i ln..Mii:ili«-,l nnMiilxT of (ho Scoltlsh Ixir, iind (lio wrllor of ninny
iwlmlniblo pa porn \\\ /i/dcA-j/'.NK/'s U,f</,r . in, •; C<«r somo timo l'r»>ft«sm»r of
KhcloiU- uii«l Mollt<H LoltivH In tho rnivornlt-y of Killnburjjh, ftt\tl nftorw:inlH
Sh.M-iir of K.^HN Khtre.
O/ AW* «*/;,/ /':' f>07
day. 1 brak :i branch :i(T an ash. and ran in atnouo- them wi'
my runo-. louudoriu awa rieht ami left. :uul loupin out o' the
way o' tho pikes, some of which showed fcoht, and otYercd to
attack mo on my am tilon\on(, ami 1 was oMim'il to wrostlo
wi' an orl that s{HH%l«Hl up tno till his t'auKls woro woinuloil
roniul my lo«;s. tluH^hs. ami lunlv. in ovor sa<* mony plios.
and his snako hoail— oi'h ! tlio n^lv auKl stM-jxMit thrust *>nt-
owor inv shouthor — ami Itissiu in my face till 1 tlan^ him a
fair bark fa', ami (hou ru^^in him frao mo fauUl hy fault!
strooluomul liim out a' his lon^tli -and trotUin (>n liis tail,
siMit his wiokot ^jn^M'it to >oom ahout IMI tlu-tiorv lako wi' his
faithor, tho ^roat olrauon.
.\\>rth (in the .(r,;vr\ lla! ha! ha! our inimitabh> pastor
has roaohoil his i;raml oliinaotorio !
Tickler ^ in the /SheJ ). And wlioro, my dt\'ir«latnos, aro tlioy
all? Hid you hrini;- tlu^m alon«;- with you?
>V;c;>//cT</. I loft tho pikos to l>o t'otohoil forrit hy tho MotYat,
carrier.
Tickler. And thoools?
Shepherd. Tho sorpont 1 overthrow had swallowed up all
the rest.
Tickler. AVe must send a cart for him dead stomachs do
not digest ; and by making a slit in his belly wo shall recover
the rest little tho worst1 for wear and letting them loose in
the loni; ij'ass, have an eel hunt.
.\\irth (in the Arlnn-}. U ho can i;ivo me a bit of sticking-
pUater?
iS/ic[>hcnt. 1 prophesied von would i*ut yoursel. Tliere's nae
Btickin-plaistor about tlio touu; but IKM'O'S an auld baiu'hlo,*
iind if onybodv will lend mo a knife, I 'so cut alY a bit o' tho
sole, and when wool soaked wi' bluid. it 'II stick like a sooker
— -Oi 1 can cut a IT a bit waddin t'rao this auld hat some
508 Lord North and the Forest King.
tramper's left ahint her baith hat and bauchle — and it may
happen to stainch the bludin — or best of a'> let me rug aff a
bit o' this remnant o' an auld sheep-skin that maun hae
belanged to the foot-board o' some gig — and wi' the woo
neist your skin, your chin will be comfortable a' the nicht —
though it should set in a hard frost.
[SHEPHERD advances to the Arbor — but after a single glance
into the interior, comes flying back to his stance on the wings
of fear.
North (in the Arbor). James ? James ? James ?
Shepherd. A warlock ! A warlock ! A warlock ! The king
o' the warlocks ! The king o' the warlocks ! The king o' the
warlocks !
[From the Arbor issues CHRISTOPHER in the character of
LORD NORTH — in a rich court dress — bag and wig —
chapeau-bras — and sword.
North (kneeling on one knee). Have I the honor to be
in presence of Prince Charles Edward Stuart Hogg ? My
sovereign liege and no Pretender — accept the homage of
your humble servant — too proud of his noble king to be a
slave.
Shepherd (graciously giving his hand to kiss). Rise !
[From the Shed issues TIMOTHY in the regimentals of the Old
Edinburgh Volunteers.
Tickler (kneeling on one knee). Hail ! King of the Forest !
Shepherd (graciously giving his hand to kiss). Rise ! — Let
Us — supported on the arms of Our two most illustrious sub
jects — enter Our Palace.
[Enter the Forest King and the two Lords in Waiting into
TIBBIE'S.
A Wren's Nest or an Ant-hill? 509
SCENE II. — Interior of TIBBIE'S — Grand Hall, or Kitchen
Parlor.
NORTH, TICKLER, and SHEPHERD.
Shepherd. A cosy bield, sirs, this o' Tibbie's — just like a
bit wren's nest.
North. Methinks 'tis liker an ant-hill.
TicJder. Beehive.
Shepherd. A wren's nest's round and theekit wi' moss — sae
is Tibbie's ; a wren's nest has a wee bit canny hole in the
side o't for the birdies to hap in and out o', aiblins wi' a
hangin leaf to hide and fend by way o' door — and sae has
Tibbie's ; a wren's nest's aye dry on the inside, though
drappin on the out wi' dew or rain — and sae is Tibbie's ; a
wren's nest's for ordinar biggit in a retired spat, yet within
hearin o' the hum o' men, as weel's o' water, be it linn or
lake — and sae is Tibbie's ; a wren's nest's no easy fund, yet
when you happen to keek on't, ye wunner hoo ye never saw
the happy housie afore — and sae is't wi' Tibbie's ; therefore,
sirs, for sic reasons, and a thousand mair, I observed, "a
cosy bield this o' Tibbie's — just like a bit wren's nest." Sir ?
North. An ant-hill's like some small natural eminence
growing out of the green ground — and so is Tibbie's ; an
ant-hill is prettily thatched with tiny straw and grass-blades,
and leaves and lichens — and so is Tibbie's ; an ant-hill, in
worst weather, is impervious to the elements, trembles not
in its calm interior, nor — howl till ye split, ye tempests —
at any blast doth Tibbie's ; an ant-hill, spontaneous birth
of the soil though it seems to be, hath its own order of
architecture, and was elaborated by its own dwellers — and
how wonderfully full of accommodation, when all the rooms
at night become the rooms of sleep — just like Tibbie's ; an
510 Or a Beehive ?
ant-hill, though apparently far from market, never runs out
of provisions — nor, when " winter lingering chills the lap of
May," ever once doth Tibbie's ; Solomon, speaking of an ant
hill, said, " Look at the ant, thou sluggard — consider her
ways and be wise,"— and so now saith North, sitting in
Tibbie's ; so for these, and a thousand other reasons, of
which I mention but one — namely, that here, too, as there,
is felt the balmy influence of the mountain-dew — I said,
" methinks 'tis like an ant-hill." Sir ?
Tickler. A beehive is a straw-built shed, loving the lown-
ness, without fearing the wind, and standing in a sheltered
place, where yet the breezes have leave to come and go at
will, wafting away the creatures with whom work all day
long is cheerful as play, outward or homeward bound, to or
fro among the heathery hills where the wild honey grows
— and these are pretty points of resemblance to Tibbie's ; a
beehive is never mute — for all that restless noise of industry
sinks away with the setting sun into a steady murmur, fit
music for the moonlight — and so is it, when all the house
hold are at rest, in Tibbie's ; a beehive wakens at peep of
day — its inmates losing not a glint of the morning, early
as the laverocks waukening by the daisy's side — and so, well
knows Aurora, does Tibbie's ; a beehive is the perfection
of busy order, where, without knowing it, every worker
by instinct obeys the Queen — and even so seemeth it to be
in Tibbie's ; so for these, and a thousand other reasons, of
which I mention but two, that it standeth in a land over
flowing with milk and honey, and wanteth but an eke, I said
— Beehive. Sir ?
Shepherd. Noo, that's what I ca' poetical eemagery applied
to real life.
North. There cannot be a doubt that we three are three
men of genius.
The G-ame-lags are emptied. 511
Shepherd. Equal to ony ither sax.
Tickler. Hem ! How rarely is that endowment united
with talent like ours !
North. Stuff. A set of nameless ninnies, at every stum
bling step they take, painfully feeling their intellectual
impotence, modestly abjure all claim to talent, of which no
line is visible on their mild unmeaning mugs, and are satis
fied in their humility that nature to them, her favored
blockheads — her own darling dunces — and more especial
chosen sumphs — in compensation gave the gift of genius —
the fire which old Prometheus had to steal from heaven. .
Shepherd. Bits o' Cockney creturs wi' mealy mouths, lookin
unco weak and wae-begane, on their recovery frae a painful
confinement consequent on the birth o' a pair o' twuns o*
rickety sonnets.
Tickler. A pair o' twins. Four ?
Shepherd. Na — twa sonnets that 'ill never in this warld be
able to gang their lanes, but hae to be held up by leading-
strings o' red ribbons round their waists, or itherwise hae to
be contented to creep or crawl like clocks.
(Enter BILLY and PALMER with their game-bags, which they
empty on their division of the floor.)
North. Not a bad day's sport, James ?
Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Sooth-
side, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ?
North. We did — and more.
(Enter CAMPBELL and FITZ-TIBBIE with their game-bags, which
they empty on their division of the floor.)
Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Sooth-
side, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ?
North. We did — and more.
(Enter MON. CADET and KING PEPIN with their game-bags,
which they empty on their division of the floor.)
512 The Game-bags are emptied.
Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Sooth-
side, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ?
North. We did — and more.
(Enter SIR DAVID GAM and TAPPYTOORIE with their game-
lags, which they empty on their division of the floor.)
Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Sooth-
side, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ?
North. We do — and more.
(Enter AMBROSE and PETER with their game-hags, which
they empty on their division of the floor.)
Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Sooth-
side, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ? ! ! Soothside ?
Tickler. I do — and more.
Shepherd. Then are ye twa o' the greatest leears that ever
let aff a gun.
North. Or drew a long bow. Where the deuce are the hares ?
Tickler. Where the devil are the rabbits ?
(Enter ROUGH ROBIN and SLEEK SAM with their game-
bags, which they empty on their division of the floor — that
is, on the table.)
Shepherd. Fourteen fuds ! Aucht maukins, and sax-bor-
oughmongers, as I howp to be saved !
North. I read, with indignation and disgust, of the slaughter
by one gun of fivescore brace of birds between eight o'clock
and two.
Shepherd. A chiel micht as weel pride himsel on baggin in
a poutry-yard as mony chickens, wi' here and there an auld
clockin hen and an occasional how-towdie — and to croon a',
the bubbly-jock himsel, pretendin to pass him aff for a caper
cailzie. But I ca' this sport.
North. Which corner, James, dost thou most admire ?
Shepherd. Let's no be rash. That nyuck o' paitricks kythes *
* Kythes— shows itself.
The Gar-Cock ! 513
unco bonny,' wi' its mild mottled licht — the burnished broon
harmoniously mixin wi' the siller grey in a style o' colorin
understood but by that sweet penter o' still life, Natur ; and
a body canna weel look, without a sort o' sadness, on the
closed een o' the puir silly creturs, as their heads — crimsoned
some o' them wi' their ain bluid, and ithers wi' feathers,
bricht in the pride o' sex, auld cocks and young cocks — lie
twusted and wrenched by the disorderin haun o' death—
outower their wings that shall whirr nae mair — rich in their
radiance as flowers lyin broken by the wund on a bed o'
moss !
Tickler. James, you please me much.
Shepherd. That glow o' grouse is mair gorgeous, yet bonnier
it mayna be — though heaped up higher again' the wa' —
and gloomin as weel as gleamin wi' a shadowier depth and a
prouder pomp o' color lavished on the dead. There's some
thing heathery in the hues there that breathes o' the wilder
ness ; and ane canna look on their legs — mony o' them lyin
broken — sae thick cled wi' close, white, saft feathers — with
out thinkin o' the wunter-snaw ! The Gor-Cock ! His name
bespeaks his natur — and o' a' the wild birds o' Scotland, uane
mair impressive to my imagination and my heart. Oh ! how
mony thousan' dawns have evanished into the forgotten warld
o' dreams, at which I hae heard him crawin in the silence o'
natur, as I lay in my plaid by mysel on the hill-side, and
kent by that bold trumpetin that mornin was at hand,
without needin to notice the sweet token o' her approach in
the clearer licht o' the wee spring-well in the greensward at
my feet !
North. James, you please me much.
Shepherd. Yet that angle o' black-cocks has its charms, too,
to ma een, for though there's less vareeity in the colorin,
and a fastidious critic micht ca' the spotty heap monotonous,
514 The G-rey-Hens.
yet, sullen as it seems, it glistens wi' a kind o' purple, sic as
I hae seen on a lowerin clud on a mirk day, when the sun
was shinin on the thunder, or on the loch below, that lay,
though it was meridian, in its ain nicht.
Tickler. James, you please me much.
Shepherd. O ! thae saft, silken, but sair ruffled backs and
breists o' that cruelly killed crood o' bonny grey-hens and
pullets — cut aff in their sober matronship and gleesome
maidenhood — whilk the mair beautiful, 'twould tak a mair
skeely * sportsman than the Shepherd to decide — I could
kneel doun on the floor and kiss ye, and gather ye up in my
airms, and press you to my heart, till the feel o' your feathers
filled my veins wi' love and pity, and I grat to think that
never mair would the hill-fairies welcome the gleam o' your
plumage risin up in the morning licht amang the green plats
on the slopin sward that, dippin doun in the valley, retains
here and there amang the decayed birkwood, as loth to lose
them, a few small stray sprinklens o' the heather-bells.
Tickler. James, you please me much.
North. I killed two-thirds of them with Old Trusty — slap
— bang right and left, without missing a shot —
Tickler. Singing out, *' that's my bird," on a dozen occa
sions when it dropped at least a hundred and fifty yards-
right in an opposite direction — from the old sinner's nose.
Shepherd. What was the greatest nummer ye brocht doun
at a single discharge ?
North. One.
Shepherd. That's contemptible. Ye o' the auld Lake-school
are never contented excepp ye kiver your bird, sae that if ye
dinna tak them at the crossin, ye shoot a haill day without
killin a brace at a blow ; but in shootin I belang to the new
Mountain-school, and fire wi' a general aim in til the heart o'
• Skeely— skilful.
The Shepherd as a Shot. 515
the kivey, and trusting to luck to gar three or four play
thud ; and it's no an uncommon case to pick up half-a-dizzen,
after the first flaught o' fire and feathers has ceased to dazzle
ma een, and I hae had time to rin in amang the dowgs, and
pu' the ggem out o' the mouths o' the rabiawtors. It was
nae farder back nor the day afore yesterday, that I killed and
wounded nine — but to be sure that was wi' baith barrels —
though I thocht at the time — for my een was shut — that I
had only let aff ane — and wondered that the left had been
sae bluidy, — but baith are gran' scatterers, and disperse the
hail like chaff frae the fanners on a wundy day. Even them
on the edge o' the outside are no safe when I fire intil the
middle, and I've knawn me knock heels-ower-head mair nor
ane belangin to anither set, that had taken wing as I was
ettlin at their neighbors.
Tickler. I killed two-thirds of them, James.
Shepherd. That's four-thirds atween you twa — and at whase
door maun be laid the death o' the ither half?
Tickler. Kit with Crambo killed a few partridges in a turnip
field, where they lay like stones — an old black-cock that had
been severely if not dangerously wounded by a weasel, and
fell out of bounds, I suspect from weakness — an ancient grey
hen that flew at the rate of some five miles an hour — a hare
sitting, which he had previously missed — and neither flying
nor sitting, but on the hover, that owl. How the snipe came
into his possession I have not learned, but I .have reason to
believe that he found it in a state of stupor, and I should not
be surprised were you, James, to blow into his bill, to see
Jack resuscitated —
Shepherd (putting the snipe's bill into his mouth, and puffing
into him the breath of life). Is his een beginnin to open ?
North. Twinkling like a duck's in thunder.
Shepherd. He's dabbin.
516 The Shepherd's Dexterity.
North. Hold him fast, James, or he'll be off.
Shepherd. Let doun the wundow, Tickler, let doun the
wundow. Oh ! ye clumsy coof ! there he has struggled himsel
out o' my hauns, and's aff to the mairsh to leeve on suction !
[Enter TIBBIE and DOLLY to lay the cloth, fyc.)
Tickler. Symptoms of dinner.
Shepherd. Wi' your leave, sirs, I'll gie Mr. Awmrose the
hares to pit intil the gig.
[ Gives Mr. AMBROSE the hares ^who disappears four-in-hand.
North. Whose gig, James ?
Shepherd. Mine. I'm expeckin company to be wi' me a'
neist week — and a tureen o' hare-soup's no worth eaten wi'
fewer than three hares in't ; sae sax hares will just mak twa
tureens o' hare-soup, and no ower rich either — and the third
and fourth days we can devoor the ither twa roasted ; but for
fear my visitors should get stawed o' hare — and auld Burton,
in his anatomy, ca's hare a melancholy meat — and I should be
averse to onybody committin suicide in my house — Tappy,
my man, let me see whether you or me can gather up on our
aucht fingers and twa thooms the inaist multitude o' the legs
o' black-cocks, grey-hens, red grouse, and paitricks ; and gin
ye beat me, you shall get a bottle o' whisky ; and gin I beat
you, I shall not put you to the expense o' a gill. (Aside) —
The pech has twa cases o' fingers, wi' airn-sinnies, and I never
kent the cretur's equal at a clutch.
The SHEPHERD and TAPPYTOORIE emulously clutch the
game, and carry off some twenty brace of sundries.
Tickler. James, you please me much.
North. You astonish me, James.
Shepherd. Some folk are easily pleased, and some as easily
astonished — but what's keepin the denner ?
(Enter TIBBIE, and DOLLY, and SHUSHEY, AMBROSE,
MON. CADET, PETER, CAMPBELL, BILLY, PALMER,
A Highland Repast. 517
ROUGH ROBIN, SLEEK SAM, KING PEPIN, SIR DA vie
GAM and TAPPYTOORIE, with black- grouse-soup, red-
grouse-soup, partridge-soup, hare-soup, rabbit-soup, potato-
soup, pease-soup, brown-soup, white-soup, hotch-potch,cocky~
leeky, sheep's-head-broth, kail, and rumbledethumps.}
Shepherd. Oh, sir! but you've a profound knowledge o'
human natur ! Eatin at ane's ease, ane's imagination can flee
up into the empyrean — like an eagle soarin up the lift wi' a
lamb in his talons, and then fauldin up his wings, far aboon
shot o' the fowler, on the tapmost o' a range o' cliffs, leisurely
devourin't, while ever and anon, atween the rugs, he glances
his yellow black-circled een far and wide ower the mountain
ous region, and afore and after every mouthfu', whattin his
beak wi' his claws, yells to the echoes that afar aff return a
faint but a fierce reply.
Tickler. Does he spit out feathers and fur ?
Shepherd. He spits out naething — devourin bird and beast,
stoop and roup, bones, entrails, and a', and leavin after his
repast but a wheen wee pickles o' bluidy down, soon dried by
the sun, or washed away by the rain, the only evidence there
had been a murder.
North. The eagle is not a glutton.
Shepherd. Wha said he was a glutton ?
North. Living constantly in the open air —
Shepherd. And in a high latitude.
North. Yes, James — for hours every day in his life sailing
in circles some thousand feet above the sea.
Shepherd. In circles, noo narrowin, and noo widenin, wi'
sweepy waftage, that seems to carry its ain wund amang its
wings — noo speerally wundin up the air stair-case that has
nae need o' steps, till you could swear he was soarin awa to
the sun — and noo divin doun earthwards, as if the sun had
shot him, and he was to be dashed on the stanes intil a blash
518 The Shepherd's Peril
o' blind ; but in the pride o' his pastime, and the fierceness
o' his glee, had been that self-willed headlong descent frae
the bosom o' the blue lift, to within fifty fathom o' the croon
of the greenwood — -for suddenly si an tin awa across the chasm
through the mist o' the great cataract, he has already voyaged
a league o' black heather, and, eein * anither arc o' the merid
ian, taks majestic possession of a new domain in the sky.
Tickler. No wonder he is sharp set.
Shepherd. I was ance in an eagle's nest.
Tickler. When a child?
Shepherd. A man — and no sae very a young ane. I was let
doun the face o' the red rocks of Loch Aven, that affront
Cairngorm, about a quarter of a mile perpendicular, by a hair
rape, and after swingin like a pendulum for some minutes
back and forrit afore the edge o' the platform, I succeeded in
establishin mysel in the eyrie.
Tickler. What a fright the poor eaglets must have got !
Shepherd. You ken naething about eaglets. Wi' them fear
and anger's a' ane — and the first thing they do when taken
by surprise amang their native sticks by man or beast, is to
fa' back on their backs, and strike up wi' their talons, and
glare wi' their een, and snap wi' their beaks, and yell like a
couple o' hell-cats. Providentially their feathers werena fu'
grown, or they would hae flown in my face and driven me
ower the cliff.
Tickler. Were you not armed ?
Shepherd. What a slaughter-house ! — What a cemetery !
Haill hares, and halves o' hares, and lugs o' hares, and fuds o'
hares, and tatters o' skins o' hares, a' confused wi' the flesh
and feathers o' muirfowl and wild dyucks, and ither kinds o'
ggem, fresh and rotten, undevoored and digested animal
maitter mixed in blue-mooldy or bloody-red masses — emittin
* Eein— eyeing.
In an Eagle's Nest. 519
a strange oharnel-house, and yet lardner-smell — thickenin the
air o' the eyrie — for though a blast cam sughin by at times,
it never was able to carry awa ony o' the stench, which I was
obliged to breathe, till I grew sick, and feared I was gaun to
swarf, and fa' into the loch that I saw, but couldria hear, far
doun below in anither warld.
Tickler. No pocket-pistol ?
Shepherd. The Glenlivet was ma salvation. I took a richt
gude wullie-waucht * — the mistiness afore ma een cleared awa
— the waterfa' in my lugs dried up — the soomin in my head
subsided — my stamack gied ower bockin — and takin my seat
on a settee, I began to inspect the premises wi' mair precee-
sion, to mak a verbal inventory o' the furnitur, and to study
the appearance or character o' the twa guests that still con
tinued lyin back on their backs, and regardin me wi' a malig
nity that was fearsome, but noo baith mute as death.
North. They had made up their minds to be murdered.
Shepherd. I suspect it was the ither way. A' on a sudden
doun comes a sugh frae the sky — and as if borne each on a
whurlwund — the yell and the glare o' the twa-auld birds ! A
mortal man daurin to invade their nest ! And they dashed
at me as if they wad hae dung me intil the rock — for my
back was at the wa' — and I was haudin on wi' my hauns —
and aff wi' my feet frae the edge o' the hedge — and at every
buffet I, like an inseck, clang closer to the cliff. Dazed wi'
that incessant passin to and fro o' plumes, and pennons, and
beaks, and talons, rushin and rustlin and yellin, I shut my
een, and gied mysel up for lost ; when a' at ance a thocht
struck me that I would coup the twa imps ower the brink,
and that the parent birds would dive doun after them to the
bottom o' the abyss.
Tickler. What presence of mind !
* Wullie-waucht— large draught.
520 The Shepherd's Peril
North. Genius !
Shepherd. I flang myself on them — and I hear them yet in
the gullerals. They were eatin intil my inside ; and startin
up wi' a' their beaks and a' their talons inserted, I flang aff
my coat and waistcoat, and them stickin till't, ower the pre
cipice !
Tickler. Whew!
Shepherd. Ay — ye may weel cry whew ! Dreadf u' was the
yellin, for ae glaff and ae glint ; * far doun it deadened ; and
then I heard nocht. After a while I had courage to lay
mysel doun on my belly, and look ower the brink — and I saw
the twa auld eagles wheelin and skimmin, and dashin amang
the white breakers o' the black, loch, madly seekin to save the
drownin demons, but their talons were sae entangled in the
tartan, and after floating awhile wi' flappin wings in vain, they
gied ower strugglin, and the wreck drifted towards the shore
wi' their dead bodies.
Tickler. Pray, may I ask, my dear Shepherd, how you
returned to the top ?
Shepherd. There cam the rub, sirs. My freens aboon,
seeing my claes, wi' the eaglets flaffin, awa doun the abyss,
never doubted that I was in them — and they set up sic a
shriek ! Awa roun' they set to turn the richt flank o' the
precipice by the level of the Aven that rins out sae yellow
frae the dark-green loch, because o' the color o' the blue
slates that lie shivered in heaps o' strata in that lovely soli
tude — hardly howpin to be able to yield me ony assistance,
in case they should observe me attemptin to soom ashore —
nor yet to recover the body gin I was drooned. Silly creturs !
there was I for hours on the platform, while they were waitin
for my corp to come ashore. At last, ashore cam what they
supposed to be my corp, and stickin till't the twa dead
* Ae glaff and ae glint— one glimpse and one flash.
In an Eagle's Nest. 521
eaglets, and dashing doun upon't even when it had reached
the shingle, the twa savage screamers wi' een o' lichtning !
luckier. We can conjecture their disappointment, James, on
finding there was no corpse.
Shepherd. I shouted — but natur's self seemed deaf ; I
waved my bannet — but natur's self seemed blind. There
stood the great deaf, blind, stupid mountains — and a' that I
could bear was ance a laigh echo-like laughter frae the aim
heart o' Cairngorm.
Tickler. At last they recognized the Mountain-Bard ?
Shepherd. And awa they set again to the tap to pu' me up ;
but the fules in their fricht had let the rape drap, and never
thocht o' lookin for't when they were below. By this time
it was wearin late, and the huge shadows were stalkin in for
the nicht. The twa auld eagles cam back, but sae changed,
I couldna help pityin them, for they had seen the feathers o'
them they looed sae weel wrapt up, a' drookit wi' death, in
men's plaids — and as they keepit sailin slowly and discon
solately before the eyrie in which there was naebody sittin
but me, they werena like the same birds !
North. No bird has stronger feelings than the eagle.
Shepherd. That's a truth. They lay but twa eggs.
North. You are wrong, there, James.
Shepherd. Twa young ones, then, is the average ; for gin
they lay mair eggs, ane's aften rotten, and I'm mistaen if
ae eagle's no nearer the usual number than fowre for an eyrie
to send forth to the sky. Then they marry for life — and their
annual families being sina', they concentrate on a single
sinner or twa, or three at the maist, a' the passion o' their
instinck, and savage though they be, they fauld their wide
wings ower the down in their " procreant cradle " on the
cliff, as tenderly as turtle-doves on theirs, within the shadow
o' the tree. For beautiful is the gracious order o' natur,
522 The Shepherd's remorse.
sirs, and we maunna think that the mystery o' life hasna its
ain virtues in the den o' the wild beast and the nest o' the
bird o' prey.
Tickler. And did not remorse smite you, James, for the
murder of those eaglets ?
Shepherd. Aften, and sair. What business had I to be let
doun by a hair-rape intil their birthplace ? And, alas ! how
was I to be gotten up again — for nae hair-rape cam danglin
atween me and the darkenin weather-gleam. I began to
dout the efficacy of a deathbed repentance, as I tried to tak
account o' my sins a' risin up in sair confusion — some that I
had clean forgotten, they had been committed sae far back in
youth, and never suspected at the time to be sins ava, but
noo seemin black, and no easy to be forgiven — though bound
less be the mercy that sits in the skies. But, thank Heaven,
there was an end — for a while at least — o' remorse and re
pentance — and room in my heart only for gratitude — for, as
if let doun by hauns o' angels, there again dangled the hair-
rape wi' a noose-seat at the end o't, safer than a wicker-chair.
I stept in as fearless as Lunardi, and wi' my hauns aboon my
head glued to the tether — and my hurdies, and a' aneath my
hurdies, interlaced wi' a network o' loops and knots, I felt
mysel ascendin and ascendin the wa's, till I heard the voices
o' them hoistin. Landed at the tap, you may be sure I fell
doun on my knees — and while my heart was beginning to beat
and loup again, quaked a prayer.
North. Thank ye, James. I have heard you tell the tale
better and not so well, but never before at a Noctes.
North (looking up at the Cuckoo). Eight o'clock ! It is
Saturday night — and Tickler and I have good fourteen miles
to drive to the Castle of Indolence.
" O blest retirement ! friend to Life's decline ! "
Our nags must be all bedded before twelve — for there must
" The Days are shortening. 523
be 11 o intrusion on the still hours of Sabbath. James, we
must go.
Shepherd. I declare I never observed Tibbie takin awa the
dishes ! Sae charmed, sir, hae I been wi' your conversation,
that I canna tell whether this be my first, second, or third
j«g?
North. Your second.
Shepherd. Gude nicht.
[They finish the second jug, but seem unwilling to rise.
North. James, the days are fast shortening — alas — alas !
Shepherd. Let them shorten. The iiichts 'ill be sae muckle
the langer — and " mortal man, who liveth here by toil," hae
mair time for waukin as weel as for sleepiu rest. Wunter,
wild as he sometimes is, is a gracious Season — and in the
Forest I hae kent him amaist as gentle as the Spring.
Indeed, he seems to me to be gettin safter and safter in his
temper ilka year. Frost is his favorite son — and I devoutly
howp there 'ill never be ony serious quarrel atween them
twa ; for Wunter never looks sae cheery as when you see
him gaun linkin haun in haun wi' fine black Frost. Snaw is
Frost's sister, and she's a boniiie white-skinned lassie, wi'
character without speck or stain. She cam to see us last
Christmas, but stayed only about a week, and we thocht her
lookin rather thin ; but the morning afore she left us, I
happened to see her on the hill at sunrise — and oh ! what a
breist !
North. Like that of the sea-mew or the swan.
Shepherd. Richt. For o' a' the birds that sail the air, thae
twa are surely the maist purely beautifu'. Then they come
and they gae just like the snaw. You see the mew fauldin
her wings on the meadow as if she were gaun to be for lang
our inland guest — you see the swan floating on the loch as if
624 North cannot write a Sony.
she had cast anchor for the Wunter there — you see the snaw
settled on the hill as if she never would forsake the sun who
looks on her with saftened licht — but neist mornin you
daunner out to the brae — and mew, swan, and snaw are a'
gane — melted into air — or flown awa to the sea.
North. These images touch my heart. Yet how happens
it that my own imagination does not supply them, and
that you, my dear Shepherd, have to bring them before
the old man's eyes ?
Shepherd. Because I hae genie.
North. And I, alas ! have none.
Shepherd. Dinna look sae like as if you was gaun to fa'
a greetin — for I only answered simply a simple question,
and was far frae meaning to deny that you had the gift.
North. But I canna write a sang, Jamie — I canna write a
sang !
Shepherd. Nor sing ane verra weel either, sir ; for, be the
tune what it may, ye chant them a' to " Stroudwater," and I
never hear you without thinkin that you would hae made —
a monotonous ane to be sure, but a pathetic precentor. O
but hoo touchingly would ye hae gien out the line ! *
North. Allan Cunningham, and William Motherwell, and
you, my dear James, have caught the true spirit of the old
traditionary strain — and, seek the wide world, where will
there be found such a lyrical lark as he whom, not in vain,
you three have aspired to emulate — sweet Robbie Burns ?
Shepherd. That's richt, sir. I was wrang in ever hinting ae
word in disparagement o' Burns's Cottar's Saturday Night.
But the truth is, you see, that the subjeck's sae heaped up
wi' happiness, and sae charged wi' a' sorts o' sanctity — sae
national and sae Scottish — that beautifu' as the poem is —
* To give out the line- -the preposterous practice of reading out each line
of the psalm or hymn before singing it once prevailed in Scotland.
" How beautiful is Night:' 525
and really, after a', naething can be mair beautifu' — there's
nae satisfyin either peasant or shepherd by ony delineation
o't, though drawn in lines o' licht, and shinin equally wi'
genius and wi' piety. That's it. Noo, this is Saturday
nicht at Tibbie's — and, though we've been gey funny, there
has been naething desecratin in our fun, and we'll be a*
attendin divine service the morn — me in Yarrow, and you,
Mr. North, and Mr. Tickler, and the lave o? you, in Ettrick
kirk.
North. And, James, we can nowhere else hear Christianity
preached in a more fervent and truthful spirit.
Shepherd. Naewhere.
(Enter CAMPBELL to tell the Gigs are at the door.)
North, (sub dio). " How beautiful is night ! "
Shepherd. That's Southey. In fowre words, the spirit o*
the skies.
North. Not one star.
Shepherd. Put on your specks, and you'll see hunders.
But they are saft and dim — though there is nae mist — only
a kind o' holy haze — and their lustre is abated by the dews.
I thocht it had been frost ; but there's nae frost — or they
would be shinin clearly in thousans —
North. Like angel eyes.
Shepherd. A common comparison — yet no the waur for that
— for a' humanity feels, that on a bricht starry nicht, heaven
keeps watch and ward over earth, and that the blue lift is
instinct wi' love.
North. Where's the moon ?
Shepherd. Looking at her a' the time wi' a gratefu' face,
that smiles in her licht ! as if you were gaun to sing a sang
in her praise, or to say a prayer.
North. No halo.
Shepherd. The white Lily o' the sky.
526 Farewell to Tibbie.
North. No rain to-morrow, Shepherd.
Shepherd. No a drap. 'Twull be a real Sabbath day. Ye
see the starnies noo — dinna ye, sir ? Some seemin no fairer
awa nor the moon — and some far ahint and ayont her, but
still in the same region wi' the planet — ithers retiring and
retired in infinitude — and sma' as they seem, a' suns. Awfu'
but sweet to think on the great works o' God ! — But the
horses 'ill be catchin cauld — and a' that they ken is, that it's
a clear nicht. Lads, tak care o' the dowgs, that they dinna
break the couples, and worry sheep. You'll be at the Castle
afore Mr. North— for it's no aboon five mile by the cut across
the hills — and no a furlong short o' fourteen by the wheel
road. — (They ascend their Gigs.') — For Heaven's sake ! sir, tak
tent o' the Norways ! Ilaco's rearin, and Harold's funkin —
sic deevils !
Tickler. Whew ! Whew ! Whew ! D. I. 0. North ! Do
— Da — Do — Tibi Gratias ! Farewell — thou Bower of Peace !
XXIX.
IN WHICH THE SHEPHERD APPEARS FOR THE LAST
TIME AS THE TERRIBLE TAWNEY OF TIMBUCTOO.
Scene — Penetralia of the Lodge. Time — Ae wee short hour
ayont the Twal.
NORTH and SHEPHERD.
Shepherd. It wasna safe in you, sir, to gie a' your domestics
the play for a liaill month in hairs t, and to leeve incog a'
alane by your single sel, in this Sanctum, like the last
remaining wasp in its nest, at the close o' the hummin
season ; — for what if you had been taken ill wi' some sort o'
paralysis in your limbs, and been unable to ring the alarm-
bell for succor ? Dinna ye see that you micht hae expired
for want o' nourishment, without the neiborhood ha'in had
ony suspicion that a great licht was extinguished, and that
you micht hae been fund sittin in your chair, no a corp in
claes, but a skeleton ? You should really, sir, hae mair
consideration, and no expose your freens to the risk o' sic a
shock. Wull you promise ?
North. You forget, James, that the milk-lassie called every
morning, and eke the baker's boy — except, indeed, during
the week I subsisted on ship-biscuit and fruitage.
Shepherd. You auld anchorite !
North. Such occasional abstraction, my dear James, I feel
528 A Nocturnal Invasion.
so be essential to my moral and intellectual well-being. 1
cannot do now without some utter solitude.
Shepherd. But folk 'ill begin to think you crazy — and I'm
no sure if they wad be far wrang.
North. At my time of life, James, it matters not much
whether I be crazy or not. Indeed, one so seldom sees a
man of my age who is not a little so. that I should not
wish to be singular — though, I confess that I have a strong
repugnance to the idea of dotage. Come now, be frank with
your old friend, and tell me, if the oil in the lamp be low,
or if the lamp itself but want trimming ?
Shepherd. Neither. But the lamp's o' a curious construc
tion — a self-feedin, self-trimmin lamp — and, sure eneuch,
at times in the gloom it gies but a glimmer — sae that a
stranger micht imagine that the licht was on its last legs —
but would sune start to see the room on a sudden bricht as
day, as if the window-shutters had been opened by an
invisible hand, and let in a' the heavens.
North. I never desire to be brilliant.
Shepherd. Nor does the Day.
North. Nor the Night.
Shepherd. There lies the charm o' their beauty, sir, just as
yours. There's no ostentation either in the sun or in the
moon, or in the stars, or in Christopher North.
North. Ah ! you quiz !
[Knocking at the front door and ringing at the front door
bell, as if a section of guardians of the night were warn
ing the family of f.re, or a dozen devils, on their way
back to Pandemonium, were wreaking their spite on
Christopher's supposed slumbers.
Shepherd. Whattt ca' ye thattt ?
North (musing). I should not wonder were that Tickler.
Shepherd. Then he maun be in full tail as weel's figg, or
Tickler is punished. 529
else a Breearious. ( Uproar rather increases). They're surely
usin sledge-hammers ! or are they but ca'in awa wi' their
cuddie-heels ? * Wt, ocht to be gratefu', howsomever, that
they've settled the bell. The wire-rope's brak.
North (gravely). I shall sue Southside for damages.
Shepherd. Think ye, sir, they'll burst the door?
North (smiling contemptuously). Not unless they have
brought with them Mons Meg.f But there is no occasion for
the plural number — 'tis that singular sinner Southside.
Shepherd. Your servants maun be the Seven Sleepers.
North. They have orders never to be disturbed after mid
night. (Enter PETER, in his shirt.) PETER, let him in — show
him ben — and (whispers PETER, who makes his exit and his
entrance, ushering in TICKLER in a Dreadnought, covered with
cranreuch.\ NORTH and the SHEPHERD are seen lying on
their faces on the hearth rug).
Peter. Oh ! dear ! oh ! dear ! oh ! dear ! what is this ! what
is this ! what is this ! Hae I leeved to see my maister and
Mr. Hogg lyin baith dead.
Tickler (in great agitation). Heavens ! what has happened !
This is indeed dreadful.
Peter. Oh ! sir ! oh ! sir ! it's that cursed charcoal that he
would use for a' I could do — the effluvia has smothered him
at last. There's the pan — there's the pan ! But let's raise
them up, and bear them into the back-green.
(PETER raises the body of NORTH in his arms — TICKLER that
of the SHEPHERD.)
Stiff ! stiff ! stiff ! cauld ! cauld ! cauld ! deid ! deid ! deid !
Tickler (wildly). When saw you them last ?
* The iron arming on the heels of boots.
t A piece of ordnance famous in Scottish history, and now placed on tne
ramparts of Edinburgh Castle.
$ Cranreuch— hoar-frost.
530 Tickler punishes the Shepherd.
Peter. Oh, sir, no for several hours ! my beloved master
sent me to bed at twelve — and now 'tis two half-past.
Tickler (dreadfully agitated]. This is death.
Shepherd (seizing him suddenly round the waist). Then try
Doath a wrastle.
North (recuperated by the faith ;/?«/ PETER) . Fair play, Hogg !
You've hold of the waistband of his breeches. 'Tis a dog-fall.
[The SHEPHERD and TICKLER contend fiercely on the rug.
Tickler (uppermost). You deserve to be throttled, you
swineherd, for having well-nigh broke my heart.
Shepherd. Pu' him aff, North — pu' him aff — or he'll thrap-
ple me ! Whr — whr — rrrr — whrrrr —
[SOUTHSIDE is chokod off the SHEPHERD, and takes his
seat on the sofa with tolerable composure. Exit PETER.
Tickler. Bad taste — bad taste. Of all subjects for a prac
tical joke, the worst is death.
Shepherd. A gran' judge o' taste ! Ca' you't glide taste to
break folk's bell-ropes, and kick at folk's front doors, when
a' the city's in sleep ?
Tickler. I confess the propriety of my behavior was prob
lematical.
Shepherd. Problematical. You wad hae been cheap o't,
if Mr. North out o' the wundow had shot you deid on the spat.
North (leaning kindly over TICKLER, as SOUTHSIDE is sitting
on the sofa, and insinuating his dexter hand into the left coat-
pocket of TIMOTHY'S Dreadnought). Ha! ha! Look here, Mr.
Hogg ! (Exhibits a bell-handle and brass knocker.) Street
robbery ?
Shepherd. iTamesucken ! *
North. An accomplished Cracksman I
Tickler. I plead guilty.
* A Scottish law term, expressing assault and battery «ommitted on a
person in his own house.
Tlie Transmigration of Souls. 581
Shepherd. Plead guilty ! What brazen assurance ! Caught
wi' the corpus delicti in the pouch o' your wrap-rascal. Bad
taste — bad taste. But sin' you repent, you're forgien. Whare
hae you been, and whence at this untimeous hour hae you
come? Tak a sup o' that. (Handing him the jug.)
Tickler. From Duddingston Loch. I detest skating in a
crowd — so have been figuring away by moonlight to the
Crags.
Shepherd. Are you sure you are quite sober ?
Tickler. Quite at present. That's jewel of a jug, James.
But what were you talking about ?
Shepherd. Never fash your thoom — but sit douii at the
side-table yonner.
Tickler. Ha ! The ROUND ! (Sits retired.)
Shepherd. I was sayin, Mr. Tickler, that I canna get rid o'
a belief in the mettaseekozies or transmigration of sowls. It
aften comes upon me as I'm sittin by mysel on a knowe in
the Forest ; and a' the scenery, stedfast as it seems to be
before my senses as the place o' my birth, and accordin to
the popular faith where I hae passed a' my days, is then
strangely felt to loss its intimate or veetal connection wi'
my speerituality, and to be but ae dream-spat amang mony
dream-spats which maun be a' taken thegither in a bewilder-
in series, to mak up the yet uncompleted mystery o' my bein'
or life.
North. Pythagoras !
Shepherd. Mind that I'm no wullin to tak my Bible-oath
for the truth o' what I'm 1100 gaun to tell you — for what's
real and what's visionary — and whether there be indeed three
warlds — ane o' the ee, ane o' the memory, and ane o' the
imagination^ — it's no for me dogmatically to decide ; but this
I wull say, that if there are three, at sic times they're sae
circumvolved and confused wi' ane anither, as to hae the
532 The Shepherd's Experiences
appearance and inspire the feelin o' their bein' but ae warld
—or I should rather say, but ae life. The same sort o'
consciousness, sirs, o' my ha'in experimentally belanged alike
to them a' comes ower me like a threefauld shadow, and in
that shadow my sowl sits wi' its heart beatin, frichtened to
think o' a' it has come through, sin' the first far-awa glimmer
o' nascent thocht connectin my particular individuality wi'
the universal creation. Am I makin mysel understood ?
Tickler. Pellucid as an icicle that seems warm in the sun
shine.
Shepherd. Yet you dinna see my drift — and I'm at a loss
for words.
Tickler. You might as well say you are at a loss for
oysters, with five hundred on that board.
Shepherd. I think on a cave — far ben, mirk always as a
midnicht wood — except that twa lichts are burnin there
brichter than ony stars — fierce leevin lichts — yet in their
fierceness fu' o' love, and therefore fu' o' beauty — the een o'
my mother, as she gently growls ower me wi' a' pur that
inspires me wi' a passion for milk and bluid.
Tickler. Your mother ! The man's mad.
Shepherd. A lioness, and I her cub.
North. Hush, hush, Tickler.
Shepherd. I sook her dugs, and sookin I grow sae cruel
that I could bite. Between pain and pleasure she gies me a
cuff wi' her paw, and I gang heid-ower-heels like a bit play-
fu' kitten. And what else am I but a bit playfu' kitten ?
For we're o' the Cat kind — we Lions — and bein' o' the royal
race o' Africa, but ae whalp at a birth. She taks me me win
up in her mouth, and lets me drap amang leaves in the outer
air — lyin doun aside me and enticin me to play wi' the tuft o'
her tail, that I suppose, in my simplicity, to be itsel a separate
hairy cretur alive as well as me, and gettin iun, as wi' loups
As a Lions Cub 533
and springs we pursue ane anither, and then for a minute pre
tend to be sleepin. And wha's he yon ? Wha but my Fai ther ?
I ken him instinctively by the mane on his shouthers, and his
bare tawny hurdies ; but my mither wull no let him come ony
nearer, for he yawns as if he were hungry, and she kens he
would think naething o' devoorin his ain offspring. Oh ! the
first time I heard him crunch ! It was an antelope — in his
fangs like a mouse ; but that is an after similitude — for then
I had never seen a mouse — nor do I think I ever did a' the
time I was in the great desert.
North (removing to some distance) . Tickler, he looks alarm
ingly leonine.
Shepherd. I had then nae ee for the picturesque ; but out
o' thae materials then sae familiar to my senses, I hae
moiiy a time since constructed the landscape in which my
youth sported — and oh ! that I could but dash it aff on
canvas
North. Salvator Rosa, the greater Poussin, and he of Dud-
dingston,* would then have to " hide their diminished
heads."
Shepherd. A cave-mouth, half-high as that o' Staffa ; but
no fantastic in its structure like thae hexagonals — a' ae sullen
rock ! Yet was the savage den maist sweet — for frae the
arch hung doun midway a mony-colored drapery, leaf-and-
flower-woven by nature, who delights to beautify the wilder
ness, renewed as soon as faded, or else perennial, in spite o'
a' thae suns, and a' thae storms ! Frae our roof strecht up
rose the trees, wi' crowns that touched the skies. There hung
the umbrage like clouds — and to us below how pleasant was
the shade ! From the cave-mouth a green lawn descended to
a pool, where the pelican used to come to drink — and mony
a time hae I watched crouchin ahint the water-lilies, that I
* The Rev. Mr. Thomson.
534 Among the Palm-trees.
micht spring upon her when she had filled her bag ; but if I was
cunnin she was wary, and aye fand her way back unscathed
by me to her nest. A' roun' was sand ; for you see, sirs, it was
an oasis — and I suspeck they were palm-trees. I can liken a
leaf, as it cam wavering doun, to naething I hae seen sin' syne
but a parachute. I used to play with them till they withered,
and then to row mysel in them, like a wean hidin itsel for
fun in the claes, to mak its mother true * it wasna there — till
a' at ance I loupt out on my mither the Lioness, and in a
mock-fecht we twa gaed gurlin doun the brae — me generally
uppermost — for ye can hae nae idea hoo tender are the mais t
terrible o' animals to their young — and what delicht the auld
she ane has in pretendin to be vanquished in evendoun
worryin by a bit cub that would be nae rnair than a match for
Rover there, or even Fang. Na — ye neediia lift your heids
and cock your lugs, my glide dowgies, for I'm speakin o' yon
and no to you, and likenin your force to mine when I was a
Lion's whalp.
Rover and Fang (leaping up and barking at the Shepherd}.
Wow — bow, wow — bow, wow, wow.
North. They certainly think, Tickler, that he must l:e
either Wallace or Nero.
Shepherd. Sae passed my days — and a happier young hob
bledehoy of a Lion never footed it on velvet pads alang the
Libyan sands. Only sometimes for days — na, weeks — I was
maist desperate hungry — for the antelopes and siclike creturs
began to get unco scarce — pairtly frae being killed out, and
pairtly frae being feared awa — and I've kent us obleeged to
dine, and be thankful, on jackal.
Tickler. Hung up in hams from the roof of the cave.
Shepherd. But that wasna the warst o't — for spring cam
—as I felt rather than saw ; and day or nicht — sleepi'i or
* True— trow, believe.
Spring in the Desert. 535
waukin — I could get nae rest : I was verra feverish and
verra fierce, and keepit provvlin and growlin about —
Tickler. Like a lion in love — •
Shepherd. I couldna distinctly tell why — and sae did my
mither, vvha lookit as if in glide earnest she wad tear me in
pieces.
Tickler. Whattt ?
Shepherd. She would glare on me wi' her green een, as if she
wanted to set fire to my hide, as you may hae seen a laddie
in a wundow wi' a glass settin fire to a man's hat on the
street, by the power o' the focns ; and then she would wallow
on the sand, as if to rub aff ticks that tormented her ; and
then wi' a shak, garriri the piles shower frae her, would
gallop doun to the pool as if about to droon hersel — and
though no in general fond o' the water, plowter in't like the
verra pelican.
Tickler. —
" Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
Shepherd. The great desert grew a' ae roar ! and thirty
feet every span^ cam loupin wi' his enormous mane, the
Lion my father, wi' his tail, tuft and a', no perpendicular like
a bull's, but extended horizontally ahiut him, as stiff's iron,
and a' bristlin — and fastened in his fangs in the back o' the
Lioness my mother's neck, wha forthwith began cater waul in
waur than a hunder roof-fu's o' cats, till I had amaist swarfed
through fear, and forgotten that I was ane o' their am whalps.
Tickler.—
" To slipw how much thou wast degenerate."
Shepherd. Sae I thocht it high time to leave them to devoor
ane anither, and I slunk aff, wi' my tail atween my legs, intil
the wilderness, resolved to return to my native oasis never
536 The Virgin of the Wild.
mair. I iv^ckit back frae the tap o' the sand-hill, and saw
what micht hae been, or not been, the croons o' the palm-
trees — and then glided on till I cam to anither " palm-grove
islanded amid the waste " — as Soothey finely says — where
instinct urged me to seek a lair ; and I found ane — no sae
superb, indeed, as my native den — no sae magnificent — but
in itsel bonnier and brichter and mair blissfu' far : safter, far
and wide a' round it, was the sand to the soles and paums o'
my paws — for an event befell me there that in a day elevated
me into Lionhood, an crooned me' wi' the imperial diadem of
the Desert.
Tickler. As how ?
North. James !
Shepherd. In the centre o' the grove was a well, not dug
by hands — though caravans had passed that way — but formed
naturally in the thin-grassed sand by a spring that in summei
drought cared not for the sun — and round about that well
were some beautifu' bushes, that bore flowers amaist as big's
roses, but liker lilies.
Tickler. Most flowery of the feline !
Shepherd. But, O heavens ! ten thousand million times mair
beautifu' than the gorgeous bushes 'neath which she lay asleep !
A cretur o' my ain kind ! couchant ! wi' her sweet nose atween
her forepaws ! The elegant line o' her yellow back, frae
shouther to rump, broken here and there by a blossom-laden
spray that depended lovingly to touch her slender side ! Her
tail gracefully gathered up amang the delicate down on which
she reposed ! Little of it visible but the tender tuft ! Eyes
and lips shut ! There slept the Virgin of the Wild ! still as
the well, and as pure, in which her eemage was enshrined !
I trummled like a kid — I heard a knockin, but it didna wauken
her — and creepin stealthily on my gruff,* I laid mysel, without
* Gruff— belly.
She is taken Captive. 537
growlin, side by side, a' ray length alang hers — and as our fur
touched, the touch garred me at first a' grue, and then glow-
as if prickly thorns had pleasurably pierced my verra heart.
Saftly, saftly pat I ae paw on the back o' her head, and anither
aneath her chin — and then laid my cheek to hers, and gied the
ear neist me a wee bit bite ! — when up she sprang higher in
the air, Mr. Tickler, than the feather on your cap when you
was in the Volunteers ; and on recoverin her feet after the fa',
without stayin to look around her, spang by spang tapped the
shrubs, and afore I had presence o' mind to pursue her, round
a sand-hill was out o' sicht !
North. Ay, James — joy often drops out between the cup
and the lip — or, like riches, takes wings to itself and flies
away. And was she lost to thee for ever?
Shepherd. I lashed mysel wi' my tail — I trode and tore up
the shrubs wi' my hind paws — I turned up my jaws to
heaven, and yowled in wrathfu' despair — and then pat my
mouth to the dust, and roared till the well began to bubble :
then I lapped water, and grew thirstier the langer I lapped — •
and then searched wi' a' my seven senses the bed whare her
beautifu' bulk had lain — warmer and safter and sweeter than
the ither herbage — and in rage tried to bite a bit out o' my
ain shouther, when the pain sent me bounding aff in pursuit
o' my lovely lioness ; and lo ! there she was stealin alang by
the brink o' anither nest o' bushes, far aff on the plain, pausin
to look back — sae I thocht — ere she disappeared in her
hiding-place. Round and round the brake I careered, in
narrowing circles, that my Delicht should not escape my
desire, and at last burst crashin in upon her wi' ae spang,
and seized her by the nape o' the neck, as my father had
seized my mother, had pinned her doun to the dust. But I
was mercifu' as I was strang ; and being assured by her, that
if I would but be less rampawgeous, that she would at least gie
538 The Lions Honeymoon.
me a hearin, I released her neck frae my fangs, but keepit a
firm paw on her, till I had her promise that she would agree
to ony proposal in reason, provided my designs were honor
able — and honorable they were as ever were breathed by
bosom leonine in the solitary wilderness.
North.—
" I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And thus I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride."
Shepherd. We were perfectly happy, sir. Afore the hinny-
moon had filled her horns, mony an antelope, and not a few
monkeys, had we twa thegither devoored ! Oh, sirs ! but she
was fleet ! and sly as swift ! She would lie couchin in a bush
till she was surrounded wi' grazing edibles suspeckin nae
harm, and ever and anon ceasing to crap the twigs, and
playin wi' ane anither, like lambs in the forest, where it is
now my lot as a human cretur to leeve ! Then up in the air
and amang them wi' a roar, smitin them deid in dizzens wi'
ae touch o' her paw, though it was safter than velvet — and
singlin out the leader by his horns, that purrin she micht
leisurely sook his bluid ; nor at sic times would it hae been
safe even for me, her lion and her lord, to hae interfered wi'
her repast : for in the desert hunger and thirst are as fierce
as love. As for me, in this respect, I was mair generous ;
and mony is the time and aft that I hae gien her the cid-bits
o' fat frae^the flank o' a deer o' my ain killin when she had
missed her ain by ower-springin't — for I never kent her
spang fa' short — without her so much as thankin me, — for
she was ower prood ever to seem gratefu' for ony favor —
and carried hersel, like a Beauty as she was, and a spoiled
Bride. I was sometimes sair tempted to throttle her ; but
then, to be sure, a playfu' pat frae her paw could smooth my
Which Variety of Lion ? 539
bristles at ony time, or mak me lift up my mane for her de-
liclit, that she micht lie doun bashfully aneath its shadow, or
as if shelteriu there frae some object o' her fear, crouch pantiii
amaiig that envelopment o' hairy clouds.
Tickler. Whew!
North. In that excellent work. The Naturalist's Library, edit
ed by my learned friend Sir William Jardine, it is observed,
if I recollect rightly, that Temminck, in his Monograph,
places the African lion in two varieties — that of Barbary and
that of Senegal — without referring to those of the southern
parts of the continent. In the southern parts there are two
kinds analogous, it would seem, to the northern varieties —
the yellow and the brown, or according to the Dutch colon
ists, the blue and the black. Of the Barbary lion, the hair
is of a deep yellowish brown, the mane arid hair upon the
breast and insides of the fore-legs being ample, thick, and
shaggy ; of the Senegal lion, the color of the body is of a
much paler tint, the mane is much less, does not extend so
far upon the shoulders, and is almost entirely wanting upon
the breast and insides of the legs. Mr. Burchel encountered
a third variety of the African lion, whose marie is nearly
quite black, and him the Hottentots declare to be the most
fierce and daring of all. Now, my dear James, pardon me
for asking whether you were the Senegal or Barbary Lion,
or one of the southern varieties analogous to them, or the
third variety, with the mane nearly black, that encountered
Mr. Burchel ?
Tickler. He must have been a fourth variety, and probably
the sole specimen thereof ; for all naturalists agree that the
young males have neither mane nor tail-tuft, and exhibit no
incipient symptoms of such appendages till about their third
year.
Shepherd. Throughout the hale series o' my transmigration
540 " The Terrible Tawney of TMuetoo."
o' sowl I hae aye been equally in growth and genius extra-
ordinal precocious, Timothy ; and besides, I dinna clearly see
hoo either Buffoon, or Civviar, or Tinnock, or Sir William
Jarrdinri, or James Wulson, or even Wommle himsel, familiar
as they may be wi' Lions in plates or cages, should ken better
about their manes and the tuft o' their tails, than me wha
was ance a Lion in propria persona, and hae thochts o' writing
my ain Leonine Owtobiography wi' Cuts. But as for my
color, I was neither a blue, nor a black, nor a white, nor a
red Lion — though you, Tickler, may hae seen siclike on the
. signs o' inns — but I was the TERRIBLE TAWNEY o' TIM-
BUCTOO ! ! !
Tickler. What ! did you live in the capital ?
Shepherd. Na — in my kintra seat a' the year roun'. But
there was mair than a sugh o' me in the metropolis — mony
a story was tauld o' me by Moor and Mandingo — and by
whisper o' my name they stilled their cryin weans, and
frichtened them to sleep. What kent I, when a lion, o' geo
graphy ? Nae map o' Africa had I ever seen but what I
scrawled wi' my ain claws on the desert dust. As for the
Niger, I cared na whether it flawed to meet the risin or the
settin sun — but when the sun entered Leo, I used instinc
tively to soom in its waters ; and I remember, as if it had
been yesterday, loupin in amang a bevy o' black girlies
bathin in a shallow, and breakfastin on ane o' them, wha ate
as tender as a pullet, and was as plump as a paitrick. It was
lang afore the time o' Mungo Park ; but had I met Mungo I
wouldna hae hurt a hair o' his head — for my prophetic sowl
would hae been conscious o' the Forest, and however hungry,
never would 1 hae harmed him wha had leeved on the Tweed.
North. Beautiful. Pray, James, is it true that your lion
prefers human flesh to any other — nay, after once tasting it,
that he uniformly becomes an anthropophagus ?
TJie Tawney's Favorite Dish. 541
Shepherd. He may or he may not uniformly become an
anthropophagus, for I kenna what an anthropophagus is ; but
as to preferring human flesh to ony ither, that depends on
the particular kind o' human flesh. I presume, when I was
a lion, that I had the ordinar appetencies o' a lion — that is,
that I was rather aboon than below average or par — and at
a' events, that there was naething about me unleonine. Noo,
I could never bring my stamack, without difficulty, to eat
an auld woman : as for an auld man, that was out o' the
question, even in starvation. On the whole, I preferred, in
the long run, antelope even to girl. Girl doubtless was a
delicacy ance a fortnight or thereabouts — but girl every day
would hae been —
Tickler. Toujours perdrix.
Shepherd. Just sae. Anither Lion, a freen o' mine, though,
thocht otherwise, and used to lie in ambuscade for girl, on
which he fed a' through the year. But mark the consequence
— why, he lost his senses, and died ragin mad !
Tickler. You don't say so ?
Shepherd. Instinctively I kent better, and diversified my
denners with zebras and quaggas, and such small deer, sae
that I was always in high condition, my skin was aye sleek,
my mane meteorous ; and as for my tail, wherever I went, the
tuft bore aff the belle.
North. Leo — are you, or are you not a cowardly animal ?
Shepherd. After I had reached the age o' puberty my cour
age never happened to be put to ony verra severe trial, for I
was aye faithfu' to my mate — and she to me — and jealousy
never disturbed our den.
Tickler. Any cubs ?
Shepherd. But I could n a hae wanted courage, since I never
felt fear. I aye took the sun o' the teegger ; and though the
rhinoceros is an ugly customer, he used to gie me the wa' ;
542 His Fight ivitli the Unicorn.
at sicht o' me the elephant became his ain trumpeter, and
sounded a retreat in amang the trees. Ance, and ance only,
I had a desperate fecht wi' a unicorn.
North. So he is not fabulous ?
Shepherd. No him, indeed — he's ane o' the realest o' a»
beasts.
Tickler. What may be the length of his horn, James ?
Shepherd. O' a dagger.
North. Shape ?
Shepherd. No speerally wreathed like a ram's horn — but
strecht, smooth, and polished, o' the yellow ivory — sharper
than a swurd.
Tickler. Hoofs?
Shepherd. His hoofs are no cloven, and he's no unlike a
horse. But in place o' nicherin like a horse, he roars like a
bull ; and then he leeves on flesh.
Tickler. I thought he had been omnivorous.
Shepherd. Nae cretur's omnivorous but man.
North. Rare?
Shepherd. He maun be very rare, for I never saw anither
but him I focht. The battle was in a wudd. We're natural
enemies, and set to wark the moment we met without ony
quarrel. Wi' the first pat o' my paw I scored him frae
shouther to flank, till the bluid spouted in jettees. As he ran
at me wi' his horn I joukit ahint a tree, and he transfixed it
in the pith — sheathin't to the verra hilt. There was nae use
in flingin up his heels, for wi' the side-spang I was on his
back, and fas ten in my hind claws in his flank, and my fore-
claws in his shouthers, I began at my leisure devoorin him In
the neck. She sune joined me, and ate a hole into his inside
till she got at the kidneys ; but judgin by him, nae animal's
mair tenawcious o' life than the unicorn — for when we left
him the remains were groanin. Neist mornin we went to
Carried into the Capital. 543
breakfast on him. but thae gluttonous creturs, the vulturs
had been afore us, and he was but banes.
North. Are you not embellishing, James ?
Shepherd. Sic a fack needs riae embellishment. But I
confess, sirs, I was, on the first hearin o't, incredulous o'
Major Laing's ha'in fand the skeleton stickin to the tree !
North. Why incredulous ?
Shepherd. For wha can tell at what era I was a lion ? But
it pruves that the banes o' a unicorn are durable as airn.
North. And ebony an immortal wood.
Tickler. Did you finish your career in a trap ?
Shepherd. Na. I died in open day in the centre o' the
great square o' Timbuctoo.
Tickler. Ha, ha ! baited ?
Shepherd. Na. I was lyin ae day by mysel — for she had
disappeared to whalp amang the shrubs— waitin for some
wanderin waif comin to the well — for thirst is stronger than
fear in them that dwall in the desert, and they will seek for
water even in the lion's lair — when I saw the head o' an un
known animal high up amang the trees, browzin on the
sprays — and then its lang neck — and then its shouthers — and
then its forelegs ; and then its body droopin doun into a tail
like a buffalo's — an animal unlike ony ither I had ever seen
afore — for though spotted like a leopard, it was in shape
liker a unicorn — but then its een were black and saft, like
the een o' an antelope, and as it lickit the leaves, I kent that
tongue had never lapped bluid. I stretched mysel up wi' my
usual roar, and in less time than it taks to tell't was on the
back o' the Giraffe.
Ambo. Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !
Shepherd. I happened no to be verra hungry ; and my
fangs — without munchin — pierced but an inch or twa deep.
Brayin across the sand-hills at a lang trot flew the camelo-
544 He dies in the Great Square.
pard — nor for hours slackened she her pace, till she plunged
into the Black river —
Tickler. The Niger.
Shepherd. swam across, and bore me through many
groves into a wide plain, all unlike the wilderness round the
Oasis we had left at morn.
North. What to that was Mazeppa's ride on the desert-born !
Shepherd. The het bluid grew sweeter and sweeter as I
drank — and I saw naething but her neck, till a' at ance
staggerin she fell doun — and what a sicht! Rocks, as I
thocht them — but they were houses — encirclin me a' round ;
thousan's o' blackamoors, wi' shirts and spears and swurds
and fires, and drums, hemmiu the Lion — and arrows — like
the flyin dragons I had seen in the desert, but no, like them,
harmless — stingin me through the sides intil the entrails,
that when I bat them brak ! You asked me if I was a
cooard ? Was't like a cooard to drive, in that condition, the
haill city like sheep ? But a' at ance, without my ain wull,
my spangin was changed into sprawlin wi' my fore-feet. I
still made them spin ; but my hind-legs were useless — my
back was broken — and what I was lappin, sirs, was a pool o'
my ain bluid. I had spewed it as my heart burst ; first fire
grew my een, and then mist — and the last thing I remember
was a shout and a roar. And thus, in the centre o' the great
square o' Timbuctoo, the Lion died !
North. And the hide of him, who is now the Ettrick Shep
herd, has for generations been an heirloom in the palace of
the Emperor of all the Saharas !
Shepherd, Nae less strange than true. Noo, North, let's
hear o' ane o' your transmigrations.
North. Another night ; for really, after such painting and
such poetry . . . Shall we have some beef a-la-mode,
James ?
The Old Man Eloquent. 545
Shepherd. Eh ?
(Beef a-la-mode.)
Shepherd (in continuation). What is Love o' Kintra but an
amalgamated multitude o' sympathies in brethren's hearts !
North. Yes, James, that is our country — not where we
have breathed alone ; not that land which we have loved,
because it has shown to our opening eyes the brightness of
heaven, and the gladness of earth ; but the land for which we
have hoped and feared, — that is to say, for which our bosom
has beat with the consenting hopes and fears of many million
hearts; that land, of which we have loved the mighty living
and the mighty dead ; that land, the Roman and the Greek
would have said, where the boy had sung in the pomp that
led the sacrifice to the altars of the ancient deities of the
soil.
Shepherd. And therefore, when a man he would guard
them frae piofanation, and had he a thousan' lives, would
pour them a' out for sake o' what some micht ca' superstition,
but which you and me, and Southside, sittin there wi' his
great grey een, would fearna, in the face o' heaven, to ca'
religion.
Tickler. Hurra!
Shepherd. I but clench my nieves.
North. James, the Campus Martius and the Palaestra —
Shepherd. Sir?
North. where the youth exercised Heroic Games, were
the Schools of their Virtue ; for there they were taking part
in the passions, the power, the life, the glory that flowed
through all the spirit of the nation.
Shepherd. O' them, sir, the ggenas at St. Ronan's are, but
on a sma' scale, and imperfect eemage.
North. Old warriors and gowned statesmen, that frowned
in marble or in brass, in public places, and in the porches of
546 On the Fire of Patriotism.
noble houses, tropbied monuments, and towers riven with
the scars of ancient battles — the Temple raised where Jove
had stayed the Flight — or the Victory whose expanded wings
still seemed to hover over the conquering bands — what were
all these to the eyes and the fancy of the young citizen, but
characters speaking to him of the great secret of his Hopes
and Desires — in which he read the union of his own heart to
the heart of the Heroic Nation of which he was One ?
Shepherd. My blind's tinglin and my skin creeps. Dinna
stap.
North. And what, James, I ask you, what if less noble
passions must hereafter take their place in his mind ? — what
if he must learn to share in the feuds and hates of his house
or of his order ? Those far deeper and greater reelings had
been sunk into his spirit in the years when it is most suscep
tible, unsullied, and pure, and afterwards in great contests,
in peril of life and death, in those moments of agitation or
profound emotion in which the higher soul again rises up, all
those high and solemn affections of boyhood and youth would
return upon him, and coiisecrate his warlike deeds with the
noblest name of virtue thas was known to those ancient states.
Shepherd. What was't ? Eh ?
North. Patriotism.
Shepherd. Ou ay. Say on, sir.
North. Therefore how was the Oaken Crown prized which
was given to him who had saved the life of a citizen !
Shepherd. And amang a people too, sir, whare every
man was will in at a word to die.
North. Perhaps, James, he loved not the man whom he
had preserved ; but he had remembered in the battle that it
was a son of his country that had fallen, and over whom he
liad spread his shield. He knew that the breath he guarded
was part of his country's being.
" The Citizen of the World" 547
Shepherd. Mr. Tickler, saw ye ever sic een ?
North. Look at the simple incitements to valor m the
songs of that poet who is said to have roused the Lacede
monians, disheartened in unsuccessful war, and to have
animated them to victory. " He who fights well among the
foremost, if he fall shall be sung among his people ; or if he
live, shall be in reverence in their council ; and old men shall
give place to him ; his tomb shall be in honor, and the children
of his children."
Shepherd. Simple incitement, indeed, sir, but as you said
richtly, shooblime.
North. Why, James, the love of its own military glory in
a warlike people is, indeed, of itself an imperfect patriotism.
Shepherd. Sir ? Wull ye say that again, for I dinna just
tak it up ?
North. Believe me, my dear Shepherd, that in every
country there is cause for patriotism, or the want of such a
cause argues defects in the character and condition of the
country of the grossest kind. It shows that the people are
vicious, or servile, or effeminate —
Shepherd. Which only a confounded leear will ever say o'
Scotsmen.
North. The want of this feeling is always a great vice in
the individual character ; for it will hardly ever be found to
arise from the only justifiable or half-justifiable cause, namely,
when a very high mind, in impatient disdain of the baseness
of all around it, seems to shake off its communion with them.
1 call that but half -justifiable.
Shepherd. And I, sir, with your leave, ca't a'thegither
unjustifiable, as you can better explain than the simple
Shepherd.
North. You are right, James. For the noblest minds do
not thus break themselves loose from their country ; but
548 Is an Ignoble Animal.
they mourn over it, and commiserate its sad estate, and
would die to recover it. They acknowledge the great tie
of nature — of that house they are — and its shame is their
own.
Shepherd. Oh, sir ! but you're a generous, noble-hearted
cretur !
North. In all cases, then, the want of patriotism is sheer
want of feeling ; such a man labors under an incapacity of
sympathizing with his kind in their noblest interests. Try
him, and you shall find that on many lower and unworthier
occasions he feels with others — that his heart is not simply
too noble for this passion — but that it is capable of being
animated and warmed with many much inferior desires.
Shepherd. A greedy dowg and a lewd ane, — in the ae case,
snarlin for a bane — and in the.ither, growlin for the flesh. I
scunner at sic a sinner.
North. Woe to the citizen of the world !
Shepherd. Shame — shame — shame !
North. The man who feels himself not bound to his coun
try can have no gratitude.
Shepherd. Hoo selfish and cauld-hearted maun hae been
his very childhood !
North. I confess that, except in cases of extreme distress,
I have never been able to sympathize with — emigrants.
Shepherd. I dinna weel ken, sir, what to say to that — but
mayna a man love, and yet leave his country ?
North. My dear James, I see many mournful meanings
in the dimness of your eyes — so shall not pursue that sub
ject — but you will at least allow me to say, that there is
something shocking in the mind of the man who can bear,
without reluctance or regret, to be severed from the whole
world of his early years — who can transfer himself from the
place which ?s his own to any region of the globe where he
The Shepherd's Last Speech, 549
can advance his fortune — who, in this sense of the word, can
say, in carrying himself, " omnia mea mecum porto."
Shepherd. That's no in my book o' Latin or Greek quo
tations.
North. Exiles carry with them from their mother country
all its dearest names.
Shepherd. And a wee bit name — canna it carry in it a
wecht o' love ?
North. Ay, James, the fugitives from Troy had formed a
little Ilium, and they had, too, their little Xantlms.
Tickler. " Et avertem Xanthi cognomine rivum."
Shepherd. You're twa classical scholars, and wull aye be
quotin Greek. But for my part, — after a' those eloquent
diatribes o' yours on the pawtriotism o' the auncients, I
wudna desire to stray for illustrations ae step out o' the
Forest.
Tickler. Aren't ye all Whigs ?
Shepherd. Some o' a' sorts. But it's an epitome o' the
pastoral warld at large — and the great majority o' shepherds
are Conservatives. They're a thinkin people, sir, as ye ken ,
and though far frae bein' unspeculative, or unwillin to adopt
new contrivances as sune's they hae got an insight intil the
principle on which they work, yet a new-fangle in their
een's but a new-fangle ; and as in the case o' its bein'
applied to a draw-well, they wait no only to see how it
pumps up, but hae patience to put its durability to the
proof o' a pretty lang experience, sae in the political affairs
o' the State — they're no to be taen in by the nostrums o'
every reformer that has a plan o' a new, cheap constitution
to shaw, but they fasten their een on't as dourly as on a
dambrodd;* and then began cross-questionin the chuil —
quack or else no — on the vawrious bearings o' the muin-
* Dambrodd— draft-board.
550 On " the Salvation of the Kintra"
springs, wheels, and drags ; and as sune's they perceive a
hitch, they cry, Ha ! ha ! ma lad ! I'm thinkin she'll no rin up
hill — and if ye let her lowse at the tap o' ane, she'll rattle to
the deevil.
North. And such too, my dear sir, don't you think, is the
way of thinking among the great body of the agriculturists ?
Shepherd. I could illustrate it, sir, by the smearin o' sheep.
Tickler. And eke the shearing.
Shepherd. Say clippin. The Whigs and Radicals assert
toon folks are superior in mind to kintra folks. They'll be
sayin neist that they're superior to them likewise in body —
and speak o' the rabble o' the Forest as ither people speak o'
the rabble o' the Grassmarket. But the rural riff-raff are in
sprinkling, in sma' families, and only seen lousin ane anither
on spats forming an angle on the road-sides. Findlay o'
Selkirk has weel-nigh cleaned the coonty o' a' sic — but in
great toons, and especially manufacturin anes, there are haill
divisions hotchin wi' urban riff-raff, and it's them ye hear at
hustins routin in a way that the stots and stirks o' the Forest
would be ashamed o' theirsels for doin in a bare field on a
wunterday, when something had hindered the hind fra carryin
them some fodder to warm their wames in the snaw. The
salvation o' the kintra, sir, depends on the —
Tickler. This will never do, North — this is too bad. See,
'tis six !
North (rising, and giving his guests each his candle). We
shall hear you another time, my dear Shepherd — but
now —
Shepherd. The salvation o' the kintra, sir, depends on.
the —
North (touching first one spring and then another, while fly
open two panels in the oak wainscoting). You know your rooms.
The alarm-bell will ring at twelve — and at one lunch will be
Is left unfinished. 551
on the table in the Topaz. I wish you both the nightmare.
( Touches a spring, and vanishes.)
Shepherd. Mr. Tickler ! I say the salvation o' the country —
baith gane ! — I'm no sleepy — but I'll rather sleep than solilo-
queese. ( Vanishes.)
Sic TRANSEUNT NOCTES AMBROSIAN^:.
THE APPENDIX.
7. NOTICES BY PROFESSOR FERRIER
II. GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS.
APPENDIX,
L— NOTICES OF TIMOTHY TICKLER AND
THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD,
B lr PROFESSOR FERRIER.
AMBROSE'S was situated in the vicinity of West Register Street,
at the back of the east end of Princes Street, and close to the
Register Office. Here stood the tavern from which the Nodes
Ccenceque, commemorated in these volumes, derived their name.
A cursed spot, 'tis sad, 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 hab
itation and a name," and many were the meetings which Pro
fessor Wilson and his friends had within its walls. But the
true Ambrose's must be looked for only in the realms of the im
agination — the veritable scene of the " Ambrosian nights " ex
isted nowhere but in their Author's brain, and their flashing
fire was struck out in solitude by genius, wholly independent
of the stimulus of companionship.
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 idealized. Christo
pher North was Professor Wilson himself, and here, therefore,
the real and the ideal may be viewed as coincident. But Tim
othy Tickler is a personage whose lineaments bear a resemblance
to those of their original only in a few fine although unmistak
556 Appendix.
able outlines, while James Hogg in the flesh was but a faint ad
umbration 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 re
tained to the last the full possession of his faculties, and en
joyed uninterrupted good health to within a very few years of
his decease. He followed the profession of Writer to the Sig
net from 1775 until the close of that century, when he retired
from business on a competent fortune. He was uncle to Pro
fessor 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 establish
ment of "Blackwood's Magazine," with which he had no con
nection whatever beyond taking an interest in its success. And
although 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
prevented the Author of the " Noctes " from trenching too closely
on reality in his effigation of Timothy Tickler.
Mr Sym's portrait in the character of Timothy Tickler is
sketched more than once in the course of the " Noctes Ambrosi-
anse." 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
imagined 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 f in St. 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 yout' i,
his looks and address full of kindness and benevolence ; but
whenever he stood straight up (for he always had to stoop about
* Prefixed to ' Altrive Tales,' by the Ettrick Shepherd. London, 1832.
t This is a slight exaggeration. Mr Sym's house, though sufficiently com-
modious, was a bachelor domicile of very moderate dimensions.
Notices by Professor Ferrier. 557
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 forwaid, 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 Lockhart and Samuel Andersonf 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 his 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 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-humor 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 com
parative merits of some strathspey reels.
* Professor Wilson, Mr. Robert Sym Wilson, Manager of the Royal Bank
of Scotland, and Mr. James Wilson, the eminent naturalist.
\ Samuel Anderson makes his appearance at page 440.
$ This observation is very wide of the mark, Assuredly Mr. f~'ym was no
consenting party to the slight liberties which were taken with him in the
"Noctes," and it is not to be supposed that he had more than a faint suspicion
of his resemblance to the redoubted Timothy. What Hogg says in regard to
the vigor of Mr. Sym's talents, and the originality and pointeduess of hia
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 priv
ilege" wouid have been highly resented by the latter. Butthe Professor had
too much tact for that. He took good care not to sail too near tlie 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 his special favorites were Hume and Swift.
558 Appendix.
" 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 produced 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 up
ward beam of the eye that were truly sublime. Then down we
sat side by side, and began — at first gently, and with easy mo
tion, like skilful grooms keeping ourselves up for the final heat,
which was slowly but surely approaching. At the end of every
tune we took a glass, and still our enthusiastic admiration of
the Scottish tunes increased — our energies of execution redoub
led, 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 laugh 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 indignation.
To his honor 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. Sym's character and career were
exemplary. To the highest sense of honor, and the most scru
pulous integrity in his professional dealings, he united the man
ners of a courtier of the ancient regime, and a kindliness of na
ture which endeared him to the old and to the young, with the
latter of whom, in particular, he was always an especial favorite.
* Hogg did not outlive him.
Notices by Professor Ferrier. 559
But the animating spirit of the " Noctes Ambrosianae " is the
Ettrick Shepherd 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 re
pressed his noble rage ; " but the poetical 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 u Queen's Wake," which was published in 1813.
This work stamped Hogg as, after Burns (proximus sed longo in-
tervallo), the greatest poet that had ever sprung from the bosom
of the common people. It became at once, and deservedly, pop
ular; and by this poem, together with some admirable songs,
imbued with genuine feeling and the national spirit of his coun
try, he has a good chance of being known favorably to posterity.
But his surest passport to immortality is his embalmment in the
" Noctes Ambrosianse. "
In connection with this brief notice of James Hogg, 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 ChaldeeMS. This
trenchant satire on men and things in the metropolis of Scot
land 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 per
mitted to make any noise whatever, this promising babe having
been pitilessly 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 compo
sition 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
560 Appendix.
also that he was the author of the first thirty-seven verses of
Chap. I., and of one or two sentences beside. So that, out of
the one hundred and eighty verses of which the whole piece
consists, 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 produc
tion being the workmanship of Wilson and Lockhart. Such is
a true and authentic account of the origin and authorship of the
Chaldee MS. ... To return to the Shepherd.
There was a homely heartiness of manner about Hogg, and a
Doric simplicity in his address, which were exceedingly prepos
sessing. 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 otherwise. When we con
sider 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 natuetJ, and a vanity which dis
armed displeasure by the openness and good-humor with which
it was avowed, played over the surface of a nature which at
bottom was sufficiently shrewd and sagacious ; but his conver
sational powers were by no means pre-eminent. He never, in
deed, attempted any colloquial display, although there was
sometimes a quaintness in his remarks, a glimmering0 of droll
ery, a rural freshness, and a tinge of poetical coloring, which re
deemed his discourse from common place, 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 under the hands
of its artificer, acquired a breadth, a firmness, and a power to
which the bard of Mount Benger had certainly no preten
sion. . . .
In another respect the dialect of the Shepherd is peculiar : it
is thoroughly Scottish, and eould not be Anglicized without
losing its raciness and spoiling entirely the dramatic propriety
Notices by Professor Ferrier. 561
of his character. Let it not be supposed, however, that it is
in any degree provincial, or that it is a departure from English
speech in the sense in which the dialects of Cockneydom and of
certain English counties are violations of the language of Eng
land. 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 classi
cal by its last, and in some respects its greatest, master. This
dialect was Burns's natural tongue ; it was one of Sir Walter's
most effective instruments ; but the author of the " Noctes Am-
brosianse, wields it with a copiousness, flexibility, and splendor
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 la
bor under the disadvantage of having been born on the south
side of the Tweed.
II— GL OSSARY.
A'— all
A bee — alone
Abeigh — aloof
Aboon — above
Ackit — acted
Acks — acts
Acquent — acquainted
Ae — one
Afterhend — afterwards
Ahint — behind
Aiblins — perhaps
Aik — oak
Airn — iron
Airt — direction, point of the
compass
Aits — oats
Alane — alone
Amna — am not
Ance — once
Aneath — beneath
Anent — concerning, about
Aneuch — enough
Ankil — ankle
Argling — wrangling
Ashet — an oblong dish
Asks — lizards
Ass-hole — ash-pit, or dust-hole
A'thegither — altogether
Athort — athwart
Atower — away from
Atween — between
Auchteen — eighteen
Aughts — owns
Auld— old
Auld-woman — a revolving iron
chimney-top
Aumry — cupboard in a corner
Ava — at all
Awee — a little while
Awin — owing
Awmous — alms
Ax — ask
Ayont — beyond
B
Back-o'-beyont (back-of-be-
yond) — a Scotch slang phrase
signifying any place indefi
nitely remote
Backend — close of the year
Baggy-mennon — a minnow,
thick in the belly
Baikie — a bucket for ashes
Baird— beard
Bairnly — childish
Baith— both
B ak i ef u's — bucketf uls
Ballant— ballad
Bane — bone
Glossary of Scotch Words.
563
Banieness — largeness and
strength of bone
Bap—a small flat loaf with
pointed ends
Bardy — positive
Barkened — hardened
Bashed — somewhat flattened
with heavy strokes or blows
Bat — bit
Bate — beat
Bauchle — an old shoe crushed
down into a sort of slipper
Bauk — one of a set of planks
or spars across the joists in
rude old Scotch cottages
Bauld— bold
Bawdrons — a cat
Bawm — balm
Bawn — band
Bawns — banns
Beek — to grow warm and
ruddy before the fire; (beek
in the hearth heat)
Beetin — fanning and feeding a
fire with fuel
Beggonets — bayonets
Belyve — soon
Ben — into the room
Beuk — book
Bick— bitch
Bield— shelter
Big — to build
Bike — swarm
Bikes — nests of bees
Biled— boiled
Bill— bull
Binna — be not
Birk (tree) — birch
Birks — birches
Birks — beggar-my-neighbor, a
game at cards
Birr — force
Birses — bristles ; metaphori
cally used in Scotland for
angry pride
Birzed — bruised
Blab — a big drop
Black-a-viced — of dark com
plexion
Blash, (a) — a drench
Blashin — driven by the wind
and drenching
Blate— bashful
Blaw — blow
Blethers — rapid nonsensical
talk
Blin'— blind
Blouterin — gabbling noisily
and foolishly
Blouts — large deep blots or
stains scarcely dried
Elude— blood
Bocht — bought
Bock — vomit
Bodle — a small Scottish coin,
not now used
Bogle — a goblin
Bole — the cup or bowl of a pipe
Bonny — handsome, beautiful
Bonny fide — bona fide
Bonspeil — a match at curling
Boo — bow
Bools — marbles
Boord — board
Boud — were bound
Bouet — a hand-lanthom
Bo uk— bulk
Bourtree — elder-tree
Bo wster — bolster
Boyne — a washing-tub
Brace-piece — mantel-piece
Brackens — ) (
Brakens-l fern
Braes — slopes somewhat steep
Braid — broad
Brak — broke
Branglin — a sort of superlative
of wrangling
Brassle — panting haste up a
hiil
504
Appendix.
Brastlin — hasting up a hill
toilsomely, and with heavy
panting
Braw — fine
Breckans — see Brackens
Breeks — trousers
Breid — bread
Breist — breast
Brent — rising broad, smooth,
and open
Brewst — a brewing ; used in
the text as the making of a
jug or bowl of toddy
Bricht — bright
Brock — badger
Brodd — board
Broo — brow
Broo'd — brewed
Broon — brown
Broose — a race at a country
wedding
Browst — see Brewst
Brughs — burghs
Bubbly-jock — turkey-cock
Buckies — a kind of sea-shell
B ught — sheepfold
Buird — a board ; used in the
text as the low table 011 which
a tailor sits
Buirdly — tall, large, and stout
Buirds — boards
Bum — buzz
Bumbee — the bumble-bee
Bummer — blue-bottle fly
Bunker — window-seat
Burd- board
Burnie — rivulet
Busked — dressed showily
But — into an outer or inferior
apartment
By-gaun (in the by-gaun) — in
going past
Byre — cowhouse
Byuckie — small book
Ca'-call
Caff— chaff
Gallant — young lad
Caller — fresh
Came — comb
Camstrary — unmanageable
Canny (no canny). — Canny
means gentle, but "no canny"
is a phrase in Scotland for
one with a spice of the power
of a wizard or devil in him
Cantrip — magical spell
Canty — lively
Carvey — the smallest kind of
sweetmeats, generally put on
bread-and-butter for chil
dren
Caucht — caught
Caudie — see Cadie
Cauff — chaff
Cauked — tipped with rough
points, as horse-shoes are
prepared for slippery roads
in frost
Cauldit — troubled with a cold
Cauldrife — easily affected by
cold ; in the text it is used
as selfishly cold
Cauler — fresh
Caulker — a glass of pure spirits,
a dram
Causey — causeway
Caves — tosses
Cavie — a hencoop
Gavin — tossing
Cawrn — calm
Glossary of Scotch Words.
565
Cawnle — candle
Chack — a squeeze with the
teeth
Chaclat — chocolate
Chafts — jaws
Chap — knock
Chapped — struck, as a clock
strikes
Chapping — knocking
Chap o' the knock — striking of
the clock
Chaumer — chamber
Cheep— to complain in a small
peevish voice
Cheyre — chair
Chiel — a fellow, a person
Chirt — to press hard with occa
sional jerks, as in the act of
turning a key in a stiff lock
Chitterin — shivering, with the
teeth chattering at the same
time
Chop — shop
Chevies — an cho vies
Chovvin — chewing
Chowks — jaws
Chow't — chew it
Chrissen'd — christened, bap
tized
Chuckies — hens
Chucky-stane — a small smooth
round stone, a pebble
Chum ley — ch i mney
Clachan — a small village
Clackins — broods of young
birds
Claes — clothes
Clapped (clapped een) — set
eyes
Clarts — mud
Clash — a noisy collision
Claught — to clutch
Clautin — groping
Cleckin — brood
Cleedin — clothi ng
Cleek — a hold of anything,
caught with a hooked instru
ment
Cleemat — climate
Cleugh — a very narrow glen
Clink — cash
Clishmaclaver — idle talk
Clockin — bent on hatching
Cloits — falls heavily
Clootie — the devil
Cloots — feet [towns
Glosses — narrow lanes in
Clour — a lump raised by a blow
Clout — a bit of linen or other
cloth
Clud— cloud
Cockettin — coquetting
Cockit — cocked
Cock-laird — yeoman
Cocko-nit — cocoa-nut
Codlin — a small cod
Coft — bought
Coggly — shaky from not stand
ing fair
Collie — shepherd's dog
Collyshangie — squabble
Connate — conceit
Conceit — ingenious device
Coo — cow
Cooart — coward
Coof — a stupid silly fellow
Cookies — soft round cakes of
fancy bread for tea
Coom — to blacken with soot
Coorse — coarse
Coots — ankles
Copiawtor — plagiarist
Corbies — carrion crows
Corn-stooks — shocks of corn
Cosh — neat
Cosy snug
Cotch — coach
Cottie — small cottage
Coup — upset
Coupin-stane — cope-stone
Couthie — frank.and kind
Covin — cutting
566
Appendix.
Cozy — snug
Crabbit — crabbed
Crack — a quiet conversation
between two
Craig — neck
Cranreuch — hoar-frost
Crap-sick — sick at the stomach
Crappit — cropped, made to
bear crops
Craw — a crow of triumph
Creddle — cradle
Creel — a fish basket
Creenklin — chuckling, with a
small tinkling tone of tri
umph in it
Creepie — a small low stool
Creesh — grease
Cretur — creature
Crinkly — hoarsely crepitating
Croodin doos — cooing doves
Croon — crown
Crouse — brisk and confident
Crowdy — a gruel of oatmeal
and cold water
Cruckit — crooked
Cruds — curds, thickened milk
Crunkled — a wrinkled rough-
ness
Crummle — crumble
Cuddie — donkey, an ass
Cuduie-heels — iron boot or shoe
heels
Cuff (cuff o' the neck) — nape
of the neck
Cummers — female gossips. In
the text the word simply
means elderly wives
C untra — country
C urtshy — curtsy
Custock — stalk of colewort or
cabbage
Cute — ankle
Cutty — a frolicsome little lass
Cutty-mun — a slang phrase for
a poor fellow's dance in air
when he is hanged
Cyuck — cook
Dab — peck, like a bird
Dadds — thumps
Dae — do
Daifin — frolicking
Daft — crazy
Daidlin — trifling
Daigh — dough
Darnbrod — Draught-board
Dang — beat
Daud — lump
Daudin — thumping
Daunderin — sauntering
Dauner — saunter
Daur — dare
Da win — the breaking of the
dawn
Day-lily — asphodel
Day's-darg — day's labor
Dazed — bewildered from in
toxication or derangement
Dead-thraws — agonies of death
Deavin — deafening
Dee — die
Deealec — dialect
Deid — dead
Delvin — digging
Dew-blobs — big drops of dew
Dew-flaughts — vapors of dew
Dight — wipe
Din — dun
Dinna- — do not
Dirl — a tremulous shock
Disna — does not
Div — do
Dixies — a hearty scolding by
way of reproof
Glossary of Scotch Words.
567
Dizzen — dozen
Docken — dock
Doit — a small copper coin
Doited — stupid
Dolp — bottom or breech
Donsy — a stupid lubberly fel
low
Doo — pigeon
Dook — bathe
Door-cheek — side of the door
Douce — grave and quiet
Douk — bathe
Doundraucht — down-drag
Doup — bottom or breech
Dour — slow and stiff
Douss — a blow, a stroke
Dowy — doleful
Dracht — draught
Drappie — little drop
Draucht — draught
Dree — to suffer
Dreein — suffering
BE-}**
Dreigh — tedious
Droich — dwarf
Drookin — drenching
Drookit — drenched
Droosy — drowsy
Drucken — drunken
Drumly — turbid, muddy
Drummock — meal mixed with
cold water
Dub — puddle
Dung — knocked
Dunge — see Dunsh
Dumbie — a dumb person
Dunsh — a knock, a jog or quick
shove with the elbow
Dun shin — bumping
Durstna — durst not
Dwam o' drink — a drunken
stupor
Dwinin — pining
Dyuck — duck
E
Ear — early
Earock — a chicken
Eatems — items
Ee — eye
Ee -brees — ey ebro ws
Eein — eyeing
Een — eyes
Eerie — inspiring or inspired
with nameless fear in a soli
tary place
Eerisome — fear-inspiring in a
lonely place
Eerocks — see Earock
Eident — diligent
Eiry — full of wonder and fear
Eisters — oysters
Ettle — intend and aim at
Evendown — undisguised and
clear
Exhowsted — exhausted
Fack — fact
Failosophers — philosophers
Fan'— felt
Fankled — entangled
Farder — farther
Far-keekers — far-lookers
Farrer — farther
Fash — trouble
Fashou s — troublesome
Fates — feats
568
Appendix.
Fause-face — mask
Faut — fault
Fawsettoes — falsettoes
Faynomenon — phenomenon
Fearsome — terri ble
Fechtin — fighting
Feck — number or quantity.
" The grand feck," means
the greater proportion, or
most
Feckless — feeble
Feenal— final
Feesants — pheasants
Fend — shift
Fennin — faring
Fent — faint
Fer]y (to) — to look amazed and
half unconscious
Fernytickled — freckled
Feturs — features
Fictions — fictitious
Fidginfain — restless from ex
cess of eagerness and delight
Fin's — feels
Finzeans — smoked haddocks
Firm — form, bench
Fisslin — rustling almost inau-
dibly
Fit— foot
Fit-ba — football
Fivver — fever
Fizz — make an effervescing-
sound
Fizzionamy — physiognomy
Flaff— instant
Flaffs — strong windy puffs
Flaffered — blown about with
strong puffs of wind
Flaffin — fluttering in the air
Flaucht — a momentary out
burst of flame and smoke
Fleech — beseech with fair
words
Flees — flies
Flesher — butcher
Flett--ilat (in music)
Flichter— flutter
Flinders — shivers
Fliped — turned back or up, or
inside out
Flipes — conies peeling off in
shreds
Floory — flowery
Fluff — a quick short flutter
Flyte — rail
Flyped — see Fliped
Foggies — garrison soldiers ; old
fellows past their best, or
worn out
Fool — fowl
Forbye — besides
Forfeuchen — fatigued
Forgather wi' — fall in with
Forrit — forward
Foulzie — see Fuilzie
Foumart — polecat
Fowre — four
Fowre- hours — tea, taken by
Scotch rustics about four
o'clock in the afternoon
Fozie — soft as a frost-bitten
turnip
Frae — from
Fraucht — freight
Freen — friend
Frush— brittle
Frutus — fruits
Fu' — tipsy
Fud — breech ; seldom used ex
cept in reference to a hare
or rabbit
Fugy — flee off in a cowardly
manner
Fuilzie— filth ; filth of streets
and sewers
Fuirds — fords
Fules — fools, fowls
Fulzie — see Fuilzie
Fulzie-man — a night-man
Fummlin — fumbling
Funk — a kick
Furm — form
Fushionless — without sap
Fut — foot
Glossary of Scotch Words.
569
Gab — mouth
Gaberlunzies — mendicants
Gad — the gadfly
Gaily — rather
Gain' — against
Gallemaufry — idle hubbub
Gang— go
Gar — make
Garse — grass
Gash — solemnly and ;ilmost
supernaturally sagacious
Gate — manner
Gaunt — yawn
Gaucy — portly
Gawmut — gamut
Gawpus — fool
Gear — goods, riches
Geeing — giving
Gegg — to impose upon one's
credulity with some piece
of humbug
Geggery— humbug to impose
upon the credulous
Gerse — grass
Gey- }
Gey an — >• rather
Geyly— )
Ggeg — a piece of humbug to
impose upon the credulous
Ggem — game
Ghaistly — ghostly
Gie — give
Gied — given
Gif— if
Gillies — serving-lads in the
train of a Highland chief
tain
Gimmer — a two-year-old ewe
Gin— if
Ginnlin — catching trouts with
the hand
Girn — grin
Girnel — a large meal-chest
Girrzies — coarse servant-girls
Gizzy — a sort of compound of
giddy and dizzy
Glaft' — momentary wide flutter
and flash
Glaur — mud
Gled — the glead or kite
Glee'd — squinting
Gleg — quick and sharp
Gleg-eed — sharp-eyed
Glint — a quick gleam
Gloamin — twilight of evening
Glower — stare with wide won
dering eyes
Glumrnier — gloomier
Glutter — a gurgling pressure of
•words and saliva when the
mouth cannot utter fast
enough
Cellaring — uttering with loud
confused vehemence
Goo — provocative to food
Gouk — fool
Gowan — daisy
Gowden — golden
Gowk — fool
Gowmeril — fool
Gowpen, — what the two hands
put together can hold
Grain — to groan
Grains — branches
Graned — groaned
Grape — a dung-fork
Grat — wept
Gratins — gratings
Grawds — grades
Gree — prize
Greening — longing for a thing,
as a pregnant woman is said
to long
Greet — weep
Grew — greyhound
Grewin — coursing the hare, &^.
570
Appendix.
Grieves- farm stewards or over
seers
Groof — belly
Grousy — inclined to shiver with
cold
Gruin — disposed to shiver
Gruesome — causing shudder
ing with loathing
Grufe — > , n
Gruff- |belly
Grumph — to grunt like a sow
Grumphie — pig
Grun' — ground
Grunstane — grindstone
Grup — gripe, hold
Guddlin — catching trouts with
the hand
Gude — good
Guffaw — a broad laugh
Guller— a gurgling sound in
the throat when it is com
pressed or half -choked with
water
Gullerals — angry gurgling
noises from the mouth
Gull-grupper — one catching
gulls
Gully — large pocket-knife
Gurlin — rolling roughly, hud
dled together
Gushets — fancy pieces worked
with wide open stitches in
the ankles of stockings
Gutsy — gluttonous
Guttlin — guzzling, eating glut
tonously
H
Ha'— hall
Hadden — holding
Haddies — haddocks
Hafflins— half
Hags — breaks in mossy ground,
remnants of breastworks of
peat left among the dug pits
Hagglin — cutting coarsely
Hail, (a) — abundance
Haill — whole
Hailsome — wholesome
Hain — husband
Hainches — haunches
Hairst — harvest
Hairt — heart
Hale — whole
Haliest — holiest
Hantle — number, handful
Hap — hop
Hap-step-and-loup — hop - step-
and-leap
Haps — wraps
Harl — drag
Hargarbargilng — wrangling,
bandying words backward
and forward
Harn-pan — brain-pan, skull
Harns — brains
Hash — a noisy blockhead
Haud — ) , I-.
Hauld-[-nold
Haun — hand
Haur — a thick cold fog
Havers — jargon
Haverer — proser
Haveril — a chattering half-wit
ted person
Hawn — hand
Hawnle — handle
Hawrem — harem
Hawse — throat
Heads arid thraws — heads and
feet lying together at both
ends of a bed
Heech — high
Hee-fleers — h igh-flyers
Heelan — Highland
Heich— high
Glossary of Scotch Words.
571
Held— head
Heidlands — headlands
Heigh — high
Herried — robbed or rifled,
generally in reference to
birds' nests
Herrier — a robber of birds'
nests
Het— hot ^
Hicht — height
Hing't — hang it
Hinny — honey
Hirple — to walk very lamely
Hirsel — flock
Hizzie — hussy, a young woman,
married or unmarried, gen
erally applied to one of a
free open carriage
Hoast — to cough
Hogg — a year-old sheep
Hoggit — hogshead
Hoise — raise
Hoodie-craws — hooded crows
Hoolet — owlet
Hooly — leisurely
Horrals— small wheels on which
tables or chairs move
Horrel'd — wheeled, having
wheels
Hotch — to heave up and down
Hot-chin — heaving up and down
Hottle— hotel
Houghs — the hollows of the
legs behind, between the
calves and the thighs
Houghmagandy — fornication
Houkit — dug
Houlats — owls
Houp — hope
Howdie — midwife
Howe — hollow
Howes — holes
Howf — haunt
Howk — to dig
Howp — hope
How-towdies — barn-door fowls
Huggers — stockings without
feet
Hunder — hundred
Hurcheon — urchin, hedgehog
Hurdles — hips
Hurl (a) — a ride in any vehicle,
but with usual reference to a
cart
Huts, tuts ! — an exclamation
of contemptuous doubt or
unbelief
Hyuckit — hooked
Idiwit — idiot
lies — oils
Iley — oily
Ill-faured — ill-favoured
Ingan — onion
Ingine — genius, ingenuity
Ingle — fireside, hearth
Interteenin — entertaining
Intil — into
Isna — is not
Jalouse — suspect
Jawp — splash
Jee (a) — a turn
Jeely — Jelly
Jeest — > . 4
Jeisfc_pest
Jigot— gigot
Jimp-waisted — slender- waisted
572 Appendix.
Jinkin — turning suddenly when Jookery-pawkery — \ juggling
pursued Joukery-pawkery — ) trickery
Jirt — to send out with quick Jookin — coming suddenly forth
short emphasis in a sly and somewhat stoop-
Jockteleg — a folding-knife ing manner
Jougs — an iron collar fastened Jouked — dodged
to the wall of a church, and Joukit — dodged, to avoid a
put round a culprit's neck, in thrust or blow
the old ecclesiastical disci- Jugging — jogging
pline of Scotland
K
Kame — comb Kirns — feasts of harvest home,
Keckle — cackle with a dance
Kecklin — cackling Kitchen — relish
Keek — peep Kittle — difficult
Keekit — peeped Kittly — easily tickled, sensitive
Keeklivine pen — chalk pencil Kittled — literally littered, as of
Kembe — comb kittens
Ken — know Kitty-wren — wren
Kennin't — knowing it Kiver — cover
Kemia — do not know Kivey — covey
Kenspeckle — noticeable Knappin — breaking with quick
Kent — known short blows
Ker-hauned — left-handed Knowe — knoll
Kerse — carse, alluvial lands ly- Kye — cows
ing along a river Kyeanne — cayenne
Kibbock — a cheese Kyloe — an ox, generally used in
Kimmers — gossips reference to the Highland
Kipper — fish dried in the sun, breed
usually applied to salmon Kythes — shows itself
Kyuck — cook
L.
Lab — strike erally applied to words long
Laigh — low and learned (verba sesquipe-
Lair — learning dolia) with contempt for him
Laith — loth that uses them
Laithsome. loathsome Lap — leaped
Lameter — cripple Lauchin — laughing
Lane — lone, alone Launin— landing
Lanes (twa) — two selves Law (as applied to a height) —
Lang — long an isolated hill, generally
Lang-nebbed — long-nosed ; gen- more or less conical in form
Glossary of Scotch Words.
573
Lave — remainder
Laverock — lark
Leddies — ladies
Leear — liar
Leeoures — liqueurs
Leeds — leads
Lee-larig — live-long
Leemits — limits
Leeves — lives
Len — loan
Leuch — laughed
Licht — light
Licks — chastisement
Lift — firmament
Lilt — to sing merrily
Limmers — worthless characters,
usually applied to women
Links — downs
Linns — small cascades, together
with the rocks over which
they fall
Lintie — linnet
Lint wh ite — lin net
Lister — a pronged spear for
striking fish
Lith — joint
Loan — a green open place near
a farm or village, where the
cows are often milked
Lo'esome — lovable
Loo — to love
Loof — palm of the hand
Loot — stoop
Losh — a Scotch exclamation of
wonder
Lounderin — striking heavily in
a fight
Loup — leap
Lout — lower the head, stoop
Low — flame
Lowin — flaming
Lown — calm
Lowse — loose
Lozen — window pane
Luck — \ , ,
Luk- flook
Lug — ear
Lu m — chimney
Lyart — grey, hoary
M
Mailin — a small property
Make — match, or mate
Mankey — a kind of coarse cloth
for female wear
Manteens — maintains
Mantel — chimney-piece
Marrow — match, equal
Mart — an ox killed at Martin
mas and salted for winter pro
vision
Mauks — maggots
Maukin — hare
Maun — must
Mawt — malt
Measter — master
Meer — mare
Meerage — mirage
Meikle — much
Meltith — a meal of meat
Mennon — minnow
Mense — to grace, to enable to
make a good show
Mere — mare
Messan — a mongrel cur
Mettaseekozies-metempsychosis
Michtna — might not
Midden — dunghill
Mint (to)— to hint or aim at
Mirk — dark
Mizzles — measles
Monyplies — part of the intes
tines with many convolutions
Mool — mule
Mortcloth — the black cloth
thrown over the coffin at &
funeral
574
Appendix.
Moold — mould
Mootin — moulting
Mooldy — mouldy.
Mou — mouth
Moul — mould, earth, soil
Mouls — small crumbling clods
Moudiwarp, — Moudiewart
mole
Muck the byre — clean out the
cow-house
Muckle — much
Mudged — made the slightest
movement
Munted — mounted
Mummle — mumble
Muruins — mourning-dress
Mutch — a woman's cap
Mutchkin — a Scotch liquid
measure nearly equivalent to
the imperial pint
N
Nae — no
Naig— nag
Nain — own
Nate — neat
Nawsal — nasal
Neb — nose
Neep — turnip
Neerdoweel — one who never
does well, incorrigibly foolish
or wicked.
Neist — next
Neuk — nook
New harled — new plastered
Nicher — neigh
Niddlety-noddlety — nodding
the head pleasantly
Nieve— fist
Nocht — nought, nothing
Noo — now
Koos and thans — now and then
Noony — luncheon
Notts — notes
Nowte — neat cattle
Nowtical — nautical
Numm — benumbed
Nummers — numbers
Nuzzlin — Nuzzlin, pressing
with the nose, as a child
against its mother's breast
Nyaffing — small yelping
Nyuck — nook
o
Obs — observation
Ocht — ought
Ochi>— aught, anything
Odd— ode
Oe — grandson
Ony ae — any one
Ool — owl
Out-by — without, in the open
air
Outower — out over
Ower — over
Ower-by — over the way
O wertap — overtop
Owther — author
Oxter — arm-pit
Pabble— to boil, to make the
sound and motion of boiling
Paddocks — frog»
Paiks — a drubbing
Glossary of Scotch Words.
PaidJlin — wading sauntering-
ly for amusement in the wa
ter
Pai rein— piercing
Pai ro do wgs — paradox
Paitrick — partridge
Parritch — oatmeal porridge
Parshel — parcel
Partens — crabs
Pastigeos — pasticcios
Pat — put
Patr i ck — partri dge
Patron — pattern
Pawkie — shrewd
Paum — palm
Pease-weep — lapwing
Pech — pant
Pechs — pigmies
Peel— pill
Peepin — peeping
Peerie — peg- top
Peerie-weerie — insignificant
Peeryette — pirouette
Peeryin — purling
Pellock — a porpoise
Pensie — pensive
Penter — painter
Pemicketty — precise in trifles,
finical
Pickle — small quantity
Pingle — difficulty, trouble
Pint — point
Pirn — reel for a fishing-line
Pirrat — pirate
Pit— to put
Pitten — put
Pleuch — plough
Plookin — plucking
Ploom— plumb, £100,000
Ploomd amass — prune
Plouter — to work or play idly
and leisurely in water or any
other soft matter
Plowp — the sound of anything
small but heavy dropping in
to water or other soft matter
Ploy — a social meeting for
amusement
Pluff — a small puff as of ig
nited powder
Plum — a perpendicular fall
Pockey-ort — marked with the
small-pox
Poleish — police
Pomes — poems
Pooked — plucked
Poor — power
Poorfu' — powerful
Poorti th — poverty
Poossie — pussy ; applied to a
Pootry — poultry [hare
Pose — hoard of money
Potty — putty
Poupit — pulpit
Pouther — powder
Poutry — poultry
Pow — poll or head
Po wh eads — tadpoles
Powldowdies — oysters
Powper — pauper
Poy — pie
Pree — try, taste
Pree'd— -tried, tasted
Preein — tasting
Preevat — private
Prent — print
Prick-ma-denty — finical, ridic
ulously exact
Priggin — entreating, haggling
with a view to cheapen
Prin — pin
Propine — gift ; properly gift in
promise or reserve
Pruve— prove
Pu'— pull
Puckit — meagre and mean
looking; better spelt "pook-
it."
Puir — poor
Pushion — poison
Puddock-stools — fungi
Pyet — magpie
576
Appendix.
Q
Quaich — a drinking-cup with Quate — quiet
two handles, generally of Quey (a) — a young cow
wood O.uulli<
Quat — did quit
K
v^tAV>jr l«*/ cw j V^LA**^ w T
Quullies — small quills
Raggoo — ragout
Rampawgeous — outrageously
violent
Rampauging — raging and
storming
Ram-stain — headlong, onward
without calculation
Randie — scolding woman
Rang — reigned
Rape — rope
Rashes — rushes
Rasps — raspberries
Rattan — rat
Rax—reach
Ream — cream
Rebate — receipt, recipe
Red-kuted — red-ankled
Hed-wud mad — raging mad
Reek — smoke
Reest — to be restive
Reesty — restive
Reseedin — residing
Rickle — a loose heap
Rickley — loosely built up and
easily knocked down
Riff-raff ery — of the rabble
and disreputable
Rig — ridge of land
Riggin — roof and ridge
Ripe — poke
Ripin — poking
Rippet — disturbance
Riving — tearing
-D. ) haddocks
Rizzers — i j • j •
RiZZer'd baddies- J^n"
Roan — spout
Rockins — evening neighborly
meetings for a general spin
ning with the distaff
Rooket, rooked — " cleaned out"
at play
Roop — rump
Roosed — extolled
Roots — routs
Rose-kamed — rose-combed
Rotten — rat
Ro uch — r o ugh
Roun' — round
Roup — rump
Rouse — extol
Routin — roaring
Rows — rolls
Rowled — rolled
Row ted — roared
Rubber — robber
Rubbit — robbed
Rubiawtors — devouring mon
sters
Rucks — ricks
Ruff — applause by beating
with the feet
Rug — tear
Rung — a cudgel
Runkled — crumpled
Rype — see Ripe
Sabbin — sobbing
Saft— soft
Saip — soap
Sair — serve
Glossary of Scotch Words.
577
Sair — sore
Sants — saints
Sark — shirt
Sass — sauce
Sassenach — a Lowlander or
Englishman
Saugh wand — willow wand
Saun — sand
Saunt — saint
Saut — salt
Sawmont — salmon
Scald — scold
Scale — spill
Scart — scratch
Sceeance — science
Schule — school
Sclate— slate
Sclutter — a bubbling outburst
or rush of liquid
Scones — soft cakes of bread,
generally unleavened
Scoonrel — scoundrel
Scoor — scour
Scraugh — a screech or shriek
Screed — tear, a revel
Scribe — scrab or wild apples
Scroof — nape
Scrow — crew
Scunner — to shudder with
loathing
Scutter — a thin scattered dis
charge
Seek — sect
Seelent — silent
Seenonims — synonyms
Seepit — soaked
Seggs— sedges
Seik — sick
Sel— self
Selt— sold
Sereawtim — seriatim
Sey — assay, prove
Shachlin — shuffling
Shank's naigie — on foot
Sh ankers — ale-glasses with
1 long stalks
Shaw — show
Shauchly — ill made about the
limbs and feet, and walking
with a sort of shuffle
Shave — slice
Shawps — husks
Shells— cells
Shielin — a shepherd's slender,
temporary cot
Shilfa — chaffinch
Shinna — shall not
Shissors — scissors
Shogglv — shaky
Shoobhmest — sublimes!
Shool — shovel, spade
Shoon — shoes
Shoor — shower
Shouther — shoulder [withered
Shranky — slender, lean, and
Shucken — shaken
Shue — sew
Shusey — Susan
Sib — akin
Siccan — such kind of
Sich — a sigh
Si dike — such as, similar
Sile — soil
Siller — silver, money
Similes — sinews
Sin 'syne— ago
Siver — a covered drain
Skaith — harm
Skarted — scratched
Skeel— skill
Skeely— skilful
Skein-dhu — a Highland dagger
Skelp — a slap, a sharp blow
(properly with the palm of
the hand)
Skently — scantily, barely
Skep — hive
Skeugh — a slight shelter ; more
correctly spelt Scug
Skirl — a shrill cry
Skirrin — flying
Skites — skates
578 Appendix.
Skreigh — (skreigh-o-day) — Soup — sup
break of day Sourocks — sorrel
Skreeds — long pieces Sowens — see Sooens
Skrow — number, swarm Spale-box — a small box made oi
Skuddy — naked chips of wood, mainly for
Skunner— shudder with disgust holding pills or salves
Slaters — small insects of the Spang — leap
beetle species Sparables — small iron nails in
Sleuth hound — blood-hound soles and heels of shoes, &c.
Sickener — allayer of thirst Spat — spot
Sluddery — slippery Spate — stream in flood
Sma — small Spawl — shoulder
Smeddum — spirit Speaned — weaned
Smeeks — stifles with smoke Speat — stream in flood
Smiddy — smithy Speel — climb
Smoored — smothered Speer — ask
Siiaffin — the shortest, smallest Speerally — spirally
petulant bark of the smallest Speldrins — haddocks salted and
dog dried
Sneevlin — speaking with a Spinnle-shankit — thin-limbed
strong nasal twang through Spleet — split
the mucus of the nose Spootin — spouting
Snokin — smelling like a dog Spring-bred — spring-board
Snood — head-band worn by Spunk — a wooden match tipped
maidens only with brimstone
Snooking — sucking down by Spunked out — came to light
the nostrils Spunkie — spirited
S nooled — cowed Squozen — squeezed
Snoot — snout Stab — stake
Snooved — went smoothly and Stacherin — staggering
constantly Staigs — stags
Snoving — going smoothly and Stake — steak
constantly Stamack — stomach
Soddy — soda water Stane — stone
Sonsy — well-conditioned Stap — stop
Soo — sow Starnies — stars
Soocker — sucker Staun — stand
Sooens — a sort of flummery Stawed — satiated
made of the dust of oatmeal Steaks — stakes
Sook — suck Steek — shut
Soom — swim Steepin — stipend
Soop — SUp Stell — a still, a shelter for sheep
Sooper — supper or cattle
Sooterkin — abortion Sternies — stars
Glossary of Scotch Words.
579
Stey — steep
Sticket minister — one who gives
up the clerical profession in
Scotland from not being able
to get ordination and a living
Stirks — young cattle in the first
year of their age
Stock — fore part of a bed
Stoiter — stagger
Stocks — shocks of corn
Stool — the bottom of any crop ;
generally thick and close crops
are said to " stool out " when
they thicken at bottom
Stooned — pained
Stoop and roop — completely
Stoopit — stupid
Stot — to rebound
Stotted — rebounded
Stoun — a thrilling beat, a quick
painful ache
IStouning — aching
Stour — fiying dust, or dust in
motion
Stown — stolen
Stownways — stealthily •
Stracht — straight
Strack — struck
Strae — straw
Stramash — uproar, tumult
Strang — strong
Strauchened — straightened
Stravaig — idle, aimless wander
ing
Strecht — straight
Streck — strike
Streckin — stretching
Streekit — stretched
S troop — spout
Strussle— fight
Stullion — stallion
Sturt — trouble
Sud — should
Sugh (keep a calm sugh) — be
quiet. Sugh itself means the
solemn murmur of wind in the
trees or through a narrow
passage
Suit — suite
Sumph — a blockhead
Sune — soon
Swallin — swelling
S wap — exchange
Swarf — a swoon
Swattle — fill gluttonously or
drunkenly
Sweein — swinging
Sweered — unwilling
Sweeties — small sweetmeats
Swither — hesitate
Swoopit — swept
Swurl — whirl
Swutches — switches
Sybo — a young onion with ita
green tail
Symar — cymar, scarf
Syne (sin'synej — ago
Tae— one of two
Taes — toes
Taeds— ) . A
Taids-[toad3
Taigle — linger
Tain (the — the one
Tangle — a kind of sea- weed
Tantrums — a fit of sulky whim,
whimsical sullens
Tap — top
Tapsalteerie — heels-over-head
Tapsetowry — in excited and
raised confusion
Taukin — talking
Tawpy — thoughtless and coarse
Tawry — tarry
580
Appendix.
Tawse — the implements of flag-
. ellation in Scottish schools
Tawty — matted
Teegar — tiger
Teep — type
Tent — care
Thairm — fiddle-strings
Thees— thighs
Theekin — tliatching
Theekit — thatched
Theirsel — theirselves
Thir— these
Thocht — thought
Thole — endure
Thoom — thumb
Thrang — busy
Thrapple — windpipe
Thrapplin — choking by com
pressing the throat
Thrawart and uiicanuie — [»er-
verse and dangerous
Thrawin — throwin
Threed— thread
Threecolore — tricolor
Threeped — asserted
Threeple — triple
Threteen — thirteen
Thretty— thirty
Thrissle— thistle
Throughither — mixed all to
gether
Thursty — thirsty
Thud — a thump, and the noise
it makes
Thu m m 1 ef u ' s — thi mblef uls
Ticht— tight
Tiler— tailor
Till— to
TilPt— to it
Timmer — timber
Timmer-tuned — altogether un
musical in the voice
Tining — losing
Tinsy — tinsel
Tint— lost
Tirlin — unroofing
T'ither— the other
Tocher — dowry
Toddle— to totter like a child in
walking
Toddler — a tottering child
Toman — a knoll, a thicket
Tooels — towels
Toom — empty
Toon — town
Toosy — )
Toosey — >- shaggy, rough, dis-
Toozy— ) he veiled
Toozlin — handling the lasses in
rough sport
Tooth* — blowing a horn
Tosh up — display to best advan
tage
Toshly — neatly
Tot — the whole number
Touts — sounds
Touzle — deal roughly with
Towdie — a barn-door fowl
Towmont — twelvemonth
Towsy — flaggy, dishevelled,
rough
Tramper — wandering beggar
Trance — passage
T rai i s mogr if y — to metamorphose
strangely
Trate — treat
Tredd — trade
Trig — neat
Trochs — troughs
Trotters — legs and feet
True— trow, believe
Trummel — ) , i *
rr , y tremble
1 rummle — \
Trumlin — trembling
Twa-haun — two-handed
Twa-three — two or three
Twal — twelve
Twalt— twelfth
Tyke — dog, cur
Tyuk— took
Glossary of Scotch Words.
U
581
Unce — ounce
Unco — uncommon
Unwiselike — unlike the truth,
ridiculous
Upcast — taunt, reproach
Uptak — apprehension, compre
hension
Urchin — the shell so called
Vacance — vacation
Vice — voice
Vicey — small thin voice
Vivers — victuals
Vizy — a deliberate
particular object
look at a
W
Wa'— wall
Wab— web
Wabsters — weavers
Wad — would
Waefu' — sorrowful
Waff — wave
Waght — weight
Wale — best
Walin — choosing
Wallise — valise
W ame — stomach
Wamefu— bellyful
Wamle — a sudden tumbling
roll, generally on the belly
Wan — one
Warna — were not
Warsle — wrestle
Was na't — was it not
Water-pyat — the water-ouzel
Wather — weather
Wattin — wetting
Waught (a) — a large draught
Waukrife — watchful, sleepless
Waur — worse
Weans— children
Weather-gleam — a gleam of
light in the track of the sun
on the edge of the horizon,
in cloudy weather
Wecht — weigh t
Wede — weeded
Wee— little
Wees— (by littles and wees),
by insensible degrees
Weel-f aured — weel- favored
WTeel-kend — well-known
Weezen'd— dried, hide-bound,
withered, shrunk, and yellow
Werena — were not
Wersh — insipid
Wershness — insipidity
Whafflin — raising a wind with
violent waving
Whalps — whelps
Whammle — upset
Whang — a large slice or cut
Whap — a heavy slap
Whase — whose
What— whet
Whattin— whetting
Whaups — curlews
Wheen — a number
Wheesht— )
Wheish— \- hush
Whisht— )
WThilk— which
Whilly-wha — a shuffler
Whins — furze
Whumle — to turn up or round
Whup — whip
Whupt — whipt
Whurlint — whirling
582
Appendix.
Whuskin — whisking
Wh usky — whisky
Wh usper — whisper
Whussle — ) , . .,
Whustle-j whlsfcle
Whut— whit
Whyleock— little while
Wi' hit— with it
Wice — wise
Wimplin — curling and pur
ling
Win — get
Windle-strae — a tall, dun, sap
less grass that grows on
Scottish hills
Windle - strae - legged — with
small, puny legs
Wise— entice
Wiselike — judicious
Wizen — throat
Wizened — see Weezened
Wons — dwells
Wonner — wonder
Wonnin — d welling
Woo — wool
Wordier — worthier
Wrastle — wrestla
Wud — angry
W udcock — woodcocfc
W udc ut — woo dc ut
Wudds — woods
Wudna — would not
Wudn ess — distraction
Wull-cat— wild cat
Wullie-waucht — large draught
Wull't— will it
Wummle — wimble
- } ^
Wundin — winding
Wunk— wink
Wunna — will not
Wunnel-strae — see Windle-
strae
Wunnock — window
Wurset — worsted
Wus — swish
Wut— Wit
Wutty— witty
Wuzzard — wizard
Wysslike — judiciously
Wyte — blame, fault
Yammer — murmur or whimper
peevishly
Yatt— yacht
Yaud — a sorry old horse
Yawp — sharp set
Yearock — chicken
Yellow yoldrin — yellow ham
mer
Yepoch — epoch
Yerk-yerking — carp-carping
¥erth— eartf
Yestreen — yester even
Yett— gate
Yill— ale
Yirth— earth
Yoke till him — set upon him
Yonner — yonder
Yott — yacht
Youf-youfin — yelp-yelping
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