80 SHEPHERD ON HORSE-RACING. was just the vice versâ wi' yon prize pig. She was just a fat grunt, and had lost a' appearance o' a human cretur. Extremes should be avoided; for, as Horace says, "Sunt certi denique fines, Quos ultra citraque nequit consistere rectum." North. Very sensible, James. In like manner, with respect to horses. A colt, whose sire was a Regulus, and dam a Mandane, must almost necessarily be a fine colt; but shut him up in an empty stable till he is starved, and just able to hobble, and is there a man in all England who will take upon him to say that he can still fairly compare all his points with those of another colt at the moment of starting for the St Leger, and backed at even against the field? Shepherd. Let the judge ken that the colt belangs to Mr Petre or Lord Darlington, and name sire and dam, and let him also ken the inferior lineage of the ither competitor, and in spite o' himsel he will prefer the starvelin, and the mair because he is a starvelin; for, if filled up and fattened to the proper pitch, wadna he indeed be a pictur? But it's fause reasonin! North. James, you astonish me by your knowledge of the turf. You are a perfect Gully.' Shepherd. No me. I never saw a horse-race for higher stakes than five pounds and a saddle. But nae races for siller or leather like a-broose.2 I had ance a din3 powny, about fourteen hands but an inch, that I coft frae a set o' tinklers, that beat a' for gallopin sin' the days o' Childers or Eclipse. I wadna hae feared to hae run him against Fleur-de-lis, or Acteon, or Memnon, or Mameluke, or Camel, or Mullattoe, for a thousan' guineas. North. Weight for inches, James. Shepherd. Deevil mind the wecht. Pats-and-Pans never ran sae weel's whan he was ridden dooble-me and a weelgrown lass ahint me, for I never could thole thin anes a' my days. His fav'rite distance, carryin dooble, was twal miles; and he used generally to do't, up hill and doun brae, within the half-hour. Indeed, he never came to his speed till about 1 John Gully, originally distinguished in the prize-ring, amassed a large fortune by his subsequent speculations on the turf. 2 Broose-a race at country weddings. 3 Din-dun. the middle o' the fourth mile-and siccan a cretur for wund! I never saw him blawn but ance, and that was after bringin the howdie ahint me, a' the way frae Selkirk up to Douglas Burn-no short o' eighteen miles, and bein' just taen aff the gerse. North. Still, at Newmarket or Doncaster, James Shepherd. He wad hae left them a' as if they had been stannin-provided they had allooed me to carry as muckle wecht's I chose; for Pats-and-Pans never ran steddy under twal stane at the least, and wi' a feather he wad hae swerved ower the ropes, and played the mischief wi' the carriages.— 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. Is he aff to Ducraw's,' think ye?—Yet it's ower late, for isna that ten that thae bits o' Fairies are chappin? North. Have you seen Ducrow? He is indeed a prodigy. Shepherd. After a', sir, it canna be denied that the human race are maist extraordinary creturs. What canna they, by constant practice, be brought to perform? It's a perplexin place, yon Circus: ae man draps doun in the dust, and awa out o' the door on his doup; anither after him, wi' a' celerity, on his elbows; a third after him again, soomin on dry laun' at the rate o' four miles an hour; a fourth, perpendicular on the pawms o' his hauns, and a fifth on the croon o' his head, without ever touchin the grun' wi' his loofs ava. A' the while, the lang-luggit fule, wi' a maist divertin face, balancin himsel cross-leggit on a chair wi' ae fit, it spinnin roun' like a whirligig. Ordinary sittin or walkin seems perfectly stupid after that feet superfluous, and legs an encumbrance. North. But Ducrow, James, Ducrow? Shepherd. Then in comes a tall, pleasant-lookin fallow o' a German, ane Herr Benjamin, wha thinks nae mair o' balancin a beam o' wood, that micht be a roof-tree to a house, on his wee finger, than if it were a wundle-strae; then gars a 1 Exhibition of horsemanship. Certain pecuniary losses which this unrivalled equestrian sustained so preyed upon his mind as to induce insanity, and ultimately occasion his death. Yet he died (in 1842) worth, it is said, upwards of £60,000. VOL. II. F 82 AN INSPIRED EQUESTRIAN. sodger's musket, wi' the point o' the beggonet on his chin, spin roun' till it becomes nearly invisible; no content wi' that, up wi' a ladder aneath his lip, wi' a laddie on't, as easily as if it were a leddy's fan, and, feenally, concludes wi' twa mailcotch wheels on the mouth o' him North. But Ducrow, James, Ducrow? Shepherd. Yon's a beautifu' sicht, sir—at ance music, dancin, statuary, painting, and poetry! The creturs aneath him soon cease to seem horses, as they accelerate round the circus, wi' a motion a' their ain, unlike to that o' ony ither four-footed quadrupeds on the face o' this earth, mair gracefu' in their easy swiftness than the flight of Arabian coursers ower the desert, and to the eye o' imagination some rare and newcreated animals, fit for the wild and wondrous pastimes o' that greatest o' a' magicians-Man. North. But Ducrow, James, Ducrow? Shepherd. As if inspired, possessed by some spirit, over whom the laws o' attraction and gravity hae nae control, he dallies wi' danger, and bears a charmed life, safe as the pigeon that you will afttimes see gang tapsy-turvy amang the clouds, and tumblin doun to within a yard o' the earth, then reascend, like an arrow, into the sunshine, and, wheelin roun' and roun' in aft-repeated circles, extend proudly a' its burnished plumage to the licht, till the een are pained, and the brain dizzy to behold the aerial brichtness beautifyin the sky. North. Bravo, James-excellent―go on. Shepherd. Wha the deevil was Castor, that the ancients made a god o' for his horsemanship-a god o' and a star—in comparison wi' yon Ducraw? A silly thocht is a Centaur-a man and a horse in ane-in which the dominion o' the man is lost, and the superior incorpsed wi' the inferior natur! Ducraw "rides on the whirlwind, and directs the storm." And oh, sir! how saftly, gently, tenderly, and like the deein awa o' fast fairy music in a dream, is the subsidin o' the motion o' a' the creturs aneath his feet, his ain gestures, and his ain attitudes, and his ain actions, a' correspondin and congenial wi' the ebbin flicht; even like some great master o' music wha disna leave aff when the soun' is at its heicht, but gradually leads on the sowls o' the listeners to a far profounder hush o' silence than reigned even before he woke to ecstasy his livin lyre. North. Go it again, my dear James. THE THEATRE. -COUNTRY VERSUS TOWN. 83 Shepherd. Yon's neither walkin, dancin, nor loupin, nor rinnin, nor soomin, nor hingin, nor floatin, nor fleein, but an inconceivable conglomeration o' them a'-sic as I used sometimes to experience whan lyin in a dream on a sunny knowe by St Mary's Loch-believin mysel a disembodied spirit-and withouten wings, geein the eagle and the hawk the go-by, richt afore the wind,-and skimmin the real stars, just as skaters skim their images aneath the ice, and fearing not the mountain-taps, from which, every time I touched them wi' my foot, upsprung I again into the blue lift, and felt roun' my brows the cool caller halo o' the harvest-moon. North. Empty your tumbler, James,-to Ducrow's health. Shepherd. That I will. But I howp the Circus 'ill no injure the Theatre? North. Not at all. Admirable Murray-incomparable Mackay-perfect Mrs Siddons, and elegant Miss Graycleverest Jones-accomplished Pritchard-manly Denhamgenteel Stanley1 - Shepherd. Gie ower your epithets-for neither you nor ony man can describe an actress or an actor in ae word; but I agree wi' you, the mair general the speerit o' pastime, the better will the Theatre fill in the lang-run; and the manager and his sister will aye be supported by their freen, the people o' Embro', wha admires in them the union o' professional genius and private virtue. North. Their health and happiness-in the jug, James-in the jug. Shepherd. A stranger that chanced to be present at a Noctes without kennin wha we twa was, wad never jalouse us to be Leeterautee, Mr North. We seldom hae ony brainless bother about books. Sic talk maistly marks the blockhead. North. You know, James, that I would not give an intelligent and independent Tweedside sheep-farmer for a score of ordinary town essay-mongers, poetasters, and getters-up-ofarticles. The thoughts and feelings of the Pastoral run in a channel scooped out by themselves—they murmur with a music of their own, and ever and anon overflow their banks 1 Members of the Edinburgh theatrical company. The "elegant Miss Gray" afterwards became the wife of Mr Murray the manager. Mr Murray's sister, Mrs Henry Siddons, was the widow of a son of the great actress, Sarah Siddons. 81 BLUE BONNETS" PARODIED.—LITERARY MEN. in a style that is floodlike and impressive. He of the common stair' is like a canal-cut, navigable only to flat-bottoms, muddy in the clearest weather, and its characterless banks wearisome with their gritty gravel-walks, on which you meet nothing more lively than an occasional old blind horse or two towing coals, or a passage-boat crowded with the paltriest people, all sorely sick of one another, themselves, the locks, and that part of Scotland in general, the women staring at you from below ill-shaped bonnets of coarse dirty chip, and the men crowned with third-head waterproof hats-napless and greasy -strolling candle-snuffers, petitioners, editors, contributors, and a sickly man of tailors perhaps, trying change of place and posture. Whereas Shepherd. Stop a wee, and I'll sing you "Blue Bonnets "by a fine fallow a freen o' mine in Leith. I promised him that I wad sing't at a Noctes. Write, write, tourist and traveller Fill up your pages, and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller Why leave such margins? Come nearer the border. Many a laurel dead, flutters around your head; Many a tome is your memento mori : Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen- Come from your rooms, where the farthing wick's burning— Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning- Fame's trump is sounding,-topics abounding, Leave then, each scribbler, your high attic storey ; Fill up your pages, and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller— Why leave such margins? Come nearer the border. North. Very well, indeed. A mere literary man, James, is a contemptible creature. Indeed I often wish that I had 1 Many of the Edinburgh houses consist of separate flats, which are entered by means of a "common stair." |