LONGEVITY OF GREAT POETS.

207

a sma' fountain or well in the wilderness.—and on a restlese wave, and on a steadfast cloud, and on the face o' a lisping child that means amaist naething, and on the face o' a mute maiden that means amaist everything,-that I love to gaze on a' these, and a thousan' things beside in heaven and on earth that are dreamt of in my philosophy, my beatin heart tells me every day I live; but the why and the wherefore are generally hidden frae me, and whenever I strive for the reason, my soul sinks away down and down into a depth that seems half air and half water, and I am like a man drownin in a calm, and as he drowns, feelin as if he were descendin to the coral palaces o' the mermaids, where a' things are beautifu' but unintelligible, and after wanderin about awhile under the saftly-looming climat, up again a' at ance into the everyday world, in itself, o' a gude truth, as beautifu' and unintelligible too as any warld in the heavens above or in the waters underneath the earth.

North. Posthumous fame!

Shepherd. What's mair nor ordinar extraordinar1 in that? We love our kind, and we love our life-and we love our earth and we love oursels. Therefore, being immortal creatures, we love the thocht of never being forgotten by that kind, and in that life, and on that earth. We all desire, we all hope, to be held in remembrance for a shorter or a langer time-but only them that has done, or said, or sung something imperishable, extend that desire into a limitless future

-coexisting with our warks,-when they perish, we perish too, and are willing to perish. But be so gude as tell me, sir, what's the preceese meanin o' the word posthumous, or rather how it comes to mean "after you are dead"?

Tickler. All poets should die young.

Shepherd. No great poet ever died young that I heard tell o'. All the great ancient poets o' Greece, I am tauld, leeved till they were auld chiels

North. Homer and Pindar (eh ?) and Eschylus, and Sophocles, and Euripides.

Shepherd. And a' the great English poets either lived to be auld men, or reached a decent time o' life-say fifty and six, and threescore and ten; as to Richard West and Chatterton, young Beattie, and Michael Bruce, and Kirke White, and John

1 Mair nor ordinar extraordinar-more than usually extraordinary.

204

1

TICAL TEMPERAMENT INEXPLICABLE.

s, they were a' fine lads, but nane o' them a' fever becomin great poets, and better far for hey died in youth. Ony new poets sprutin s, like fresh daisies amang them that's hat the auld cocks are cowed, are the to flap their wings and craw?

U 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 imaginationthe 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. Tickler. Generally cracked

Shepherd. But transpawrent-
Tickler. Yea, an urn of light.

Shepherd. I'm beginnin to get verra hungry just for ae particular thing that I think you'll baith join me in-pickled sawmont. Ay, yonder it's on the sideboards; Mr Tickler, rise and bring't, and I'll do as muckle for you anither time.

[TICKLER puts the Circular Slab to rights, by means of preexisting materials for a night only. They all fall to.

THE SHEPHERD ON FASHIONABLE NOVELS.

207

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. Characters in books should either be kings, and princes, and nobles, and on a level with them, like heroes; or peasants, shepherds, farmers, and the like, includin a' orders amaist o' our ain working population. The intermediate class-that is, leddies and gentlemen in general-are no worth the Muse's while; for their life is made up chiefly o' mainners - - mainners-mainners;-you canna see the human creturs for their claes; and should ane o' them commit suicide in despair, in lookin on the dead body, you are mair taen up wi' its dress than its decease.

Tickler. Is this Tay or Tweed salmon, James?

Shepherd. Tay, to be sure-it has the Perthshire accent, verra pallateable. These leddies and gentlemen in fashionable novels, as in fashionable life, are aye intrig-trigtriguin― this leddy with that ane's gentleman, and this gentleman with that ane's leddy, then it's a' fund out through letters or key - holes, and there's a duel, and a divorce, and a death, the perpetual repetition o' which, I confess, gets unco wearisome. Or the chief chiel in the wark is devoted to cairts and dice-and out o' ae hell-as they rightly ca' gamblin-houses-intil anither- till feenally, as was lang ago foreseen, he blaws out his brains wi' a horsepistol, a bit o' the skull stickin in the ceilin. This too gets tiresome, sirs-oh! unco tiresome - for I hae nae desire to hear onything mair about gamblers, than what ane sees noo and then in the police reports in the newspapers. There is something sae essentially mean and contemptible in gamblin, that no deep interest can ever be created for ony young man under such a passion. It's a' on account o' the siller; and I canna bring mysel to think that the love o' money should ever be the foundation-stane, or rather key-stane o' the arch o' a story intended for the perusal o' men o' moral and intellectual worth. Out he flees like a madman frae ane o' the hells, because he's ruined, and we are asked to pity him—or tak warnin by him—or something o' that sort, by way o' moral;

208

NORTH SNORING

"AULD LANG SYNE."

but had he won, why another would have lost; and it is just as well that he should loup into the Thames wi' stanes in his pouches, as him that held the wonnin haun;-but, to speak plain, they may baith gang to the deevil for me, without excitin ony mair emotion in my mind than you are doin the noo, Tickler, by puttin a bit o' cheese on your forefinger, and then by a sharp smack on the palm, makin the mites spang mouth.

into your

Tickler. I was doing no such thing, Hogg.

Shepherd. North, wasna he?-Puir auld useless body! he's asleep. Age will tell. He canna staun1 a heavy sooper noo as he used to do the toddy tells noo a hantle faster2 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, especially if your talk like mine demands thocht-and there indeed, you 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—only listen to that! Did ye ever hear the like o' that? What is't? Is't a musical snuff-box? or what is't? Has he gotten a wee fairy musical snuff-box, I ask you, Mr Tickler, within the nose o' him; or what or wha is't that's playin that tune?

Tickler. It is indeed equally beautiful and mysterious. Shepherd. I never heard " Auld Langsyne" played mair exactly in a' my life.

Tickler. "List-O list! if ever thou didst thy dear father love!"

Shepherd (going up on tiptoes to Mr North, and putting his ear close to the old gentleman's nose). By all that's miraculous, he is snoring "Auld Langsyne!" The Eolian harp's naething to that it canna play a regular tune-but there's no a sweeter, safter, mair pathetic wund-instrument in being than his nose.

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 "Maggy Lauder." He's snorin a medley in his sleep!

[TICKLER and the SHEPHERD listen entranced. Tickler. What a spirit-stirring snore is his "Erin-go-bragh!” 2 A hantle faster-a good deal faster.

1 Staun-stand.

THE HEALTH OF OLD ELDON.

66

209

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 believe'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 out o' tune there-and I suspeck 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.

Shepherd. On the table!

[The SHEPHERD and TICKLER offer to help NORTH to mount

the table.

North. Hands off, gentlemen. I scorn assistance. here!

Look

[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 (flinging his crutch to the roof).—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.

VOL. II.