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 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 velvetsoon 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 meaning-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 the number o' your weans?1

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

VOL. II.

1 Weans-children.

2 B

OPIUM-EATER ON HIS CHILDREN.

1ose Seven Spirits were not in the body-and the air I breathed partook not of that blessedness which now to me is my life. Another sun-another moon-other starssince the face 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, and 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, 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

TICKLER ON TREES.-NORTH ON FIRE.

387

peacock's neck, a beautifu' confusion o' colours, 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 and 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 steadfast 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.

Shepherd. Is that feelin no a wee owre imaginative ?

Tickler. Perhaps it is—and none the worse of that eitherfor 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 convincedbut 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 transplant a tree. It was a birk—a weepin birk—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. 1 Grains-branches. The Douglas Water is a tributary of the Yarrow.

388

A TRANSPLANTED TREE.

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 sworn 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 some had a' the appearance o' bein' baggy menons. You're a gran' par-fisher, sir; but you're nae Thorburn' either at troots, morts, or fish.2

North (starting up in a fury). I'll fish you for

Shepherd. Mr North! I'm ashamed to see you exposin yoursel afore Mr De Quinshy-besides, thae ragin fits are dangerousand, 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 Thorburn at the fishin! Sit doun-sit doun, sir.

[MR NORTH sits down, and cools and calms himself. English Opium-Eater. Mr Hogg, you were speaking a few minutes ago of transplanting

Shepherd. Ou ay. There it stood, or rather hung, or rather floated, ower it's ain pool, that on still days showed anither birk as bonny's itsel, inverted in a liquid warld. A bed o' fine broon mould had sunk doun frae the brae aboon, a' covered wi' richest moss-embroidery, and there a' by itsel, never wearying in the solitary place, grew up that bonniest o' a' bonny birks frae a seedlin—when first I saw't—like a bit wee myrtle plant-ilka year gracefu'er and mair gracefu', till a full-grown tree-sic brae-born birks are never verra tall—it waved its light masses o' delicate leaves, tress-like, in the wind, or let them hang doun, dependin in the lown air as motionless as in a pictur. The earliest primroses aye peeped out a' round its silver stem,-and whether 'twas their scent, or that o' the leaves of my sweet tree, I never could tell—but oh! as I used to lie in my plaid aneath its shade-scarcely a shade, only a sort of cool dimness-beside the dancing linnas Thamson says, the "air was balm," indeed—and sae thocht the wee muirland birds that twittered-unalarmed at me

1 A noted angler on Tweedside.

2 In the language of anglers, salmon alone are called fish.

amang the foliage. Like a fond but foolish lover, I said intil mysel, ae day o' especial beautifu'ness, as I was touchin its silken bark-"I'll tak it doun to Mount Benger, and plant it on the knowe afore the door, early some morning, to delight wee Jamie wi' astonishment." Wae's me! for that infatuation! I did sae, and wi' as much tenderness as ever I took a bonny lassie in my arms-but never mair did the darling lift up its head; lifeless-looking frae the first were a' its locks o' green licht-the pale silk bark soon was sairly ruffled—and ere Midsummer came- -it was stane-dead! Aften, aften-in the drought-did wee Jamie gang wi' his watering-pan, and pour the freshness amang its roots-but a' in vain; and wud ye believe't, the lovin cretur grat when he saw that a' the leaves were red, and that it had dee'd just as his pet-lamb had dune -for his affection had imbued it with a breathin and a sentient life.

Tickler. Why, James, you are " poachin for the pathetic." Sir Henry Steuart's1 groves are a living proof of his skill and science-but they are not the haunts dear to my imagination. I love the ancient gloom of self-sown, unviolated woods. But these trees were not born here—they are strangers-aliensor, worse-upstarts. I should wish to feel round my the beauty of that deep line of Cowley's (I think)—

"And loves his old contemporary trees!"

mansion

But these whatever their age-were carted hither-all their roots have been handled

Shepherd. Nae mair about it. It's still usefu'-sic transplantation—and I esteem every man who, by ony sort o' genius, skill, or study, contributes to the adornment o' naked places, and, generally speakin, to the beautifyin o' the earth. Sir Henry has dune that-in his degree-and may, therefore, in ae sense or licht, be ranked among the Poets. Nae man loves trees as he does, without poetry in his soul-his skill in transplantin is equal to his skill in translation; and I'm tauld he's a capital Latin scholar-wutness his English Sawlust; and I wush he had been at Mount Benger when I carried aff that bonny virgin birk frae her birthplace,—in that case, she had been alive at this day, wi' bees and burdies amang her branches.

1 See ante, p. 212.