SHEPHERD MAKING HIMSELF AGREEABLE.

15

have been excessive. This is a very hot afternoon, and I do trust that fat dusty woman, with a cage and a bandbox, is

not

Mrs Gentle. Fat dusty woman, Mary! Why, may not

Miss Gentle. My dear mother! I declare there come 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.

Shepherd. Ye say richt-ye say richt, Mem. There's nae need o' watering a flower that opens its bosom to the dews o' heaven. Now, leddies, there's no a man in a' this warld that's less inquisitive than mysel about ither folk's concerns; yet whenever I forgather unexpectedly wi' freens I love, my heart aye asks itsel silently, on what errand o' courtesy or kindness hae they been engaged? I think, Miss Mary, I could maist guess.

Miss Gentle. No, Mr Hogg.

Shepherd. There's nae smile on your face—at least, but sic a faint smile as generally-unless I'm sair mistaen in your character-dwalls there,-sae, my dear Miss Gentle, I ken that though your visit to this place has no been an unhappy, it may hae been something o' a sad ane; and therefore, God bless you, I'll change the subject, and try and be agreeable.

16

AN INVITATION TO MOUNT BENGER.

Mrs Gentle. Even so, sir. We have been visiting a friend -I may almost say a sister of Mary's, who, a few weeks ago, there was but too much reason to fear, was sinking into a consumption.

Shepherd. Dinna mind, my dearest Miss Gentle, though the tears do come to your een. Friendship is never sae pure, sae unselfish, sae affeckin, in this warld, as when it breathes frae bosom to bosom o' twa young innocent maidens, wha, ha’in nae sisters o' their ain, come to love ane anither even mair dearly than if their hearts beat with the same blood. Dinna fear but she'll get better. If she seemed sinkin into a consumption weeks sin' syne, and instead o' being waur is noo better, it's a proof that God intends not yet takin her to himself in heaven.

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, 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 physician has recommended

Shepherd. No anither word. She sall 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 Ellinor!

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 unpronounced name, or raither the shadow o' the soun', comes

A PASTORAL PRESCRIPTION.

17

across my mind, and I'm never wrang ony mair than if I had heard the wean baptised 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 sall hae asses' milk-and a stool to sit on in the byre every nicht when the "kye come hame" to be milked-for there's naethin 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 the gerse 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 sall 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 sall 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 sall be Yarrow truits, and Eltrive chickens, and licht barley-scones, wi' a glass o' the mistress's currant-wine—and the banished roses sall return frae exile to her cheek, and the lilies to her breast -and her voice sall no trummle in the chorus o' a sang-and you and her may gladden our een by dancin a waltz to my fiddle-for the waltz is a bonny dance for twa maiden sisters dressed in white, wi' roses on their hair, and pink sashes roun' their waists, and silk stockins sae smooth and white, ye micht maist think they werena stockins ava, but just the pure gleam o' the natural ankle glidin alang the floor.

Miss Gentle. You draw such a picture of our Arcadia ! feel assured that we shall visit the Forest.

I

Shepherd. I'm sure, Miss Mary, that you believe in the doctrine o' impulses?

Miss Gentle. I wish to believe in everything beautiful-ay, even in Kilmeny's sojourn in the land of Faery, and her return, when years had flown, late late in the gloamin, to her father's ingle.

Shepherd. Mony impulses, Mem, Mrs Gentle, have come to me, between the age o' saxteen and my present time o' life— what that is, I leave you baith to guess, but no to utter-for the maist part in the silence and darkness o' nicht—but no

VOL. II.

B

18

A LEAF FROM SOCRATES.

always sae,-sometimes in the brichtness o' sunshine, at morn or meridian-but never but when alane-a' ithers bein' either far away, or buried in sleep.

Miss Gentle. Will you have the kindness, my dear Mr Hogg, to explain yourself-for

Shepherd. A' at ance my soul kens that it must obey the Impulse-nor ever seeks to refuse. Aftenest it is towards something sad-but although sad, seldom miserable-a journey ower the hills to see some freen, whom I hae nae reason to fear is otherwise than well and happy-but on reaching his house, I see grieffu' faces, and perhaps hear the voice o' prayer by the bedside o' ane whom the bystanders fear is about to die. Ance the Impulse led me to go by a ford, instead o' the brig, although the ford was fardest, and the river red; and I was just in time to save a puir travellin mither, wi' twa wee weans on her breast: awa she went wi' a blessing on my head, and I never saw her mair. Anither time, the Impulse sent me to a lanesome spat amang the hills, as I thought, only because the starnies were mair than usual beautifully bricht, and that I might aiblins mak a bit poem or sang in the solitude, and I found my ain brither's wee dochter, o' twelve years auld, lyin delirious o' a sudden brain fever, and sae weak that I had to carry her hame in my plaid like a bit lamb.1 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-offish. 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.

1

[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

1 Hogg's "Impulse" may claim kindred with the Demon of Socrates; differing, however, from it in this respect, that the office of the latter was never to impel, but only to restrain.

TICKLER BEST COMPANY WHEN ASLEEP.

19

your ain-the back narrowish, but rather a wee plumpyfingers 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, unrubied ring on this finger-my dear Mary—this ane, the 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 frae 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 outrawgeous-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. Leddies dear, you're no Phrenologists?

Mrs Gentle. We are not-from no contempt of what we do not understand-but merely because Mary's education is still in many things incomplete-and

Shepherd. Incomplete! I dinna believe its incomplete in onything. Dinna they tell me that she can play the piawno, and the herp, and the guitawr, each sae weel, that it seems at the time to be her only instrument? Mr North, they say, 'ill sit for hours without ony cawnle in the room, only the moon lookin and listenin in at the window, while she keeps singin to the auld man tunes that somehow mak him greet-and greetin's no a mood he's in general gien to-And, then, dinna ye think Mr North has shown me some o' her verses, ay, as true poetry, Miss Mary, as Mrs Hemans's hersel ?-and what for wull ye no alloo him to prent some o' them in the Magazine ?

Mrs Gentle. Mary's attempts, Mr Hogg, are all unworthy that honour-and I assure you her modesty is so unaffected, that it would give her pain to see any of her trifles in print. She rarely can be brought even to sing them to Mr North, when we are alone.

Shepherd. I canna ca't a fause modesty-for there's naething fause about her-indeed I love, admire, and respeck