Shepherd. That's beautifu'. You maun gie us an article on Sculpture. North. I will-including a critical account of those extraordinary works of two original, self-taught geniuses, Thom and Greenshields-Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnny-and the Jolly Beggars. The kingdoms of all the Fine Arts have many provinces-why not Sculpture ? 1 Shepherd. Ay, why no? North. The Greek Tragedy, James, was austere, in its principles, as the Greek Sculpture. Its subjects were all of ancestral and religious consecration; its style, high, and heroic, and divine, admitted no intermixture even of mirth, or seldom and reluctantly,-much less of grotesque and fantastic extravagancies of humour,-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 to moralise on the field of battle over the carcass 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. Therefore, let the range o' sculpture be extended, so as to comprehend sic subjects as Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnny-The Jolly Beggars North. Well, James-Of this more hereafter. You see my drift. Shepherd. Isna Galt's Lowrie Todd indeed maist amusin? 1 The exhibition of these works, which were remarkable as the handiwork of self-taught genius, used to attract considerable crowds. Greenshields executed a statuette of Sir Walter Scott. North. It is indeed;-our friend's genius is as rare and original as ever-the field, too, he treads, is all his own-and it has yielded a rich harvest. By the by, the Editor of the Monthly Review is a singular person. He thinks Sir Walter Scott's History of Scotland meagre, feeble, and inaccurate; John Bowring no linguist, and a mere quack of no talents; Galt he declares he never, till very lately, heard of; and the Double Number of Blackwood's Magazine for February was, in his opinion, dull, stupid, and Shepherd. O the coof! Wha is he? North. For fourteen years, James, he was hermit to Lord Hill's Father. Shepherd. Eh? North. He sat in a cave in that worthy Baronet's grounds,1 with an hour-glass in his hand, and a beard once belonging to an old goat—from sunrise to sunset-with strict injunctions to accept no half-crowns from visitors-but to behave like Giordano Bruno. Shepherd. That's curious. Wha had the selection o' him, think ye?-But what's this I was gaun to say?—Ou ay— heard ye ever Knowles's Lectures on Dramatic Poetry? North. I have-They are admirable-full of matter-elegantly written, and eloquently delivered. Knowles is a delightful fellow-and a man of true genius." The [The Horns sound for the Fifth Course-" The Gloomy 1 "There really was," says the American editor, "such a case, and such a hermit (several of the latter indeed) at Hawkstone, the seat of the Hill family in Shropshire." The allusion to Giordano Bruno, who was burnt by the Inquisition for heresy about the year 1600, I do not understand. 2 James Sheridan Knowles, born at Cork, 1784, is the author of Virginius, The Hunchback, and other popular dramas. (MAY 1830.) Scene,-The Blue Parlour. Time,-Seven o'clock. Present— NORTH, ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, SHEPHERD, and TICKLER, each with a silver Coffee-Pot before him, and a plate of Muffins. Shepherd. I'm sorry to see you, sir, wi' crape on your hat, and weepers on your cuffs; but I hope it's nae dear freenonly some common acquaintance, or distant relation? North. A worthy man, James, for whom I had a sincere regard, though our separate pursuits in life kept us pretty much asunder for the last thirty years. Death renews the youth of friendship. Shepherd. Maist miraculously. North. You need not look so glum, James; for I being becomingly cheerful over my coffee. Tickler. Etat.? purpose North. The defunct was threescore-and-ten died of a short and unpainful disease-has left his widow comfortable and his sons rich-and to myself a hundred guineas for a mourning ring. Shepherd. That's useless extravagance. North. No, James, it is not. A man on his deathbed should not be shabby. My friend knew that I had a hereditary love of such baubles. Shepherd. 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 1 White muslin round the cuffs of the coat. A CEMETERY.- THE OCEAN. 383 anither-a' roun' the kirkyard wa's marble and freestane monuments without end, o' a' shapes, and sizes, and agessome 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 sky. A sublime cemetery-yet I sudna like to be interred in't-it looks sae dank, clammy, cauld 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. Shepherd. That everlastin thunner sae disturbs my imagination, 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 lifefor 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, O Shepherd! a tideless calm. Shepherd. The verra thocht, sir-the verra feelin—the verra word. That Moon ye see, sir-bonny as she is in heaven-and when a' the starry lift is blue, motionless ane believes as if nae planet were she, but the central soul o' the lovely lichts round which the silent nicht thocht-like revolves dreamily-dreamily, far far away-She will not even for ae single hour let the auld Ocean shut his weary een, that often in their sleeplessness seem longing, methinks, for the still silence o' the steadfast earth. English Opium-Eater. The majesty of power is in the gentleness of beauty. Cannot an eye-call it in its trembling light a blue-sphered tear-in one moment set countless human hearts a-beating, till love in ecstasy is sick as death, and life a spiritual swoon into Paradise? 384 RAPTURES. -TENDER MEMORIES. Shepherd. Ay, ay, sir. Ance or twice in my life hae I seen a smile, for sake o' which I would hae sacrificed my soul. But nae fiend- -nae demon was she who sent it through a' my being, like a glimpse o' holiest moonlight through a dark wood, bathin the ground-flowers in beauty as they look up to their sister stars,-an angel she-yet she died, and underwent burial in the dust-forgetfulness and oblivion! English Opium-Eater. Say not oblivion. A poet's heart is the sanctuary of dim and tender memories-holy ground haunted by the ghosts of the beautiful-some of whom will be for long long years, as if they were not-sojourning in some world beyond the reach of thought-when, lo! all in a moment, like white sea-birds, gleaming inland from the misty main, there they are glide-gliding through the illumined darkness, and the entire region of the spirit is beatified by the heavenly visitants. Shepherd. Nae delightfu' thocht ever utterly and eternally perishes. A' the air is filled wi' their perpetual presence, invisible, inaudible during life's common hours—but nae barrier is atween them and us-aften do we feel they're near when the hush o' moonlicht is on the hills-although a sweet vague consciousness is a' that stirs our souls;-and at times mair especially sacred-when virtue clears the inner eyesight, and fines the inner ear-touch, we know them as we knew them of yore, a divine restoration; mortality puts on immortality, and we feel there is no such thing as-death! North. The exterior surface of the earth is a shield spread by God between the eyes of the living and the faces of the dead. Shepherd. What if it were not so? Grief wad gang mad! North. What pleasanter spot, James, than a country kirkyard! 1 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 1 Wae-sorrowful. |