THE PRAISED IN BLACKWOOD,

65

were mockin, a insult for which a chiel that's a Christian ought to be hanged,-drawn and quartered,-disseckit,—and hung in chains. Commend me to freens that flatter you, as it is ca'd, afore your face, and defend ye ahint your back, and review your books in Maga wi' a fine natural, nice, philosophical discrimination o' poetry-a deadly draucht to the dunces-and that, whan you are dead at last, seleck frae the Scriptures a solemn verse for your yepitaph, composed on some mild, mournfu', and melancholy nicht, when memory grows wondrous bricht aneath the moon and stars, an elegy or hymn on your genius, and on what's better than, and o' mair avail than, your genius,-your virtue, or I wad raither say your religion,—and wha wad think naething o' pu'in the nose or kickin the houghs o' the fallow that wad daur but to utter ae single syllable against you, when out o' sicht a'thegither and for ever, and just the same, but for your writings, to the warld still whurlin roun' and roun' on its axis, as if you had never been born!

North. Yes,-Jaines,-people are proud of being praised in Maga-for they know that I would scorn to prostitute praise to Prince, Kaesar, or King.

Shepherd. Brawly' do they ken that, sir,-and the consequence is, that ye have only to look intil an author's face to ken whether he's been praised or no in Blackwood. If never mentioned at a', he pits on a queer kind o' creeticeesin and dissatisfied face at naming o' The Periodical, but's feared to say onything against it, in case Mr North comes to hear o't, for hope's no yet quite dead within him, and he still keeps applyin at headquarters, through the awgency o' freens, for a notice in the Noctes;-if roosed to the skies, he hauds up his head like an exultin heir o' immortality, tryin a' the time no to be ower proud, and sayin ceevil things to the silly-praisin ither folk's warks-being far removed aboon envy or jealousy noo-and on an equality wi' a' writers, leevin or dead, but Sir Walter-geein capital denners, sittin in a front seat o' a box in the playhouse-amaist howpin that the pit will applaud him wi' a ruff-aftener than afore, and mair conspicuous even, in his pew-on Princes Street, enveloped in a new London greatcoat lined wi' silk,-and kissin his hand to person1 Brawly-finely.

VOL. II.

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66

THE DAMNED IN DITTO.

ages in chariots, who occasionally return the salute as if they had never seen him atween the een afore;—but oh! sir,—ask me not to pent the face o' him that has been damned!

Tickler. Wheesht-James-wheesht.

Shepherd. Yes-I will wheesh-for it's "a face to dream o'," as that rare genius Coleridge says, no to see," and I'm sure, Mr North, gin you were to come on't suddenly, at the corner o' Picardy, you wad loup out o' your seven senses.

North. It is so long since I have damned an author, that the gentleman you allude to, James, must be well stricken in years.

Shepherd. He's no mair than forty-to ma certain knowledge and though he never, to be sure, had muckle meanin in the face o' him, yet was he a stout able-bodied man, and ance walked sax miles in an hour, tae and heel. Noo he seems several centuries auld-just like a tree that has been left stannin after bein' barked, and although a' covered, yards up frae the grun', wi' nasty funguses, and sae sliddery-lookin in its whiteness, that you see at ance nae sailor cud speel't, yet has here and there bits o' twigs that seem to contain life in them, but no life aneuch to put forth leaves, only bits o' scraggy, fushionless, bluidless buds, like shrivelled haws, or moles,—that is, deevil-marks,— -on the arms and shouthers o' an auld witch. Good safe us! Mr North, if he was to come in the noo!

North. Catch him coming within compass of my crutch, James. Instinct with him now does the work of reason.

Tickler. I scarcely think, James, that you are in your usual spirits to-night. Come, be brilliant.

Shepherd. Oh, man, Mr Tickler, wha wad hae expeckit sic a sumphish speech frae you, sir? Wha was ever brilliant at a biddin? Bid a sleepin fire bleeze-Wull't? Na. But ripe the ribs, and then gie the central coal a smash wi' the poker, and lo! a volcano vomits like Etna or Vesuvius.

Tickler. After all, my dear James, I believe the truth to be, that Christmas is not a merry season.

Shepherd. Aiblins scaircely sae to men like us, that's gettin raither auld. But though no merry, it needna be melancholy -for after a', death, that taks awa the gude-a freen or twa drappin awa ilka year-is no so very terrible, except when he comes to our ain fireside, our ain bed, or our ain cradle—and,

ENGLISH BISHOPS.-COPPLESTONE.

67

for my ain part, I can drink, wi' an unpainfu' tear, or without ony tear at a', to the memory o' them I loved dearly, naething doubtin that Heaven is the trystin-place where all friends and lovers will feenally meet at last, free frae a' jealousies and heartburnings, and sorrows, and angers-sae, why should our Christmas be melancholy, though we three have buried some that last year lauched, and sang, and danced in our presence, and because of our presence, and looked as if they had been destined for a lang lang life?

North. What mortality among the English Bishops, James, this year!

Shepherd. An English Bishop maun hate to dee, proud as he is o' himsel, and his Cathedral, wi' his pouthered weeg, his balloon sleeves, his silk petticoats, and his fearsome income-a domestic chaplain, wha's only a better sort o' flunkey, aye booin and booin at every word the Spiritual Lord says, and

North. James!-I am delighted, Tickler, to see Copplestone a Bishop;1 not an abler, better man in England. Talent and integrity are, nowadays, sure to make their way to the Bench; and it is thus that the church establishment of England will stand like a rock.

Tickler. The Edinburgh Review entertains singular opinions on Copplestone. One number he is a barn-door fowl, another a finished scholar; now a retromingent animal; then a firstrate theologian, metaphysician, and political economist-he soon afterwards degenerates into a third-rate man, and finally into an old woman, afraid of Catholic emancipation, and preaching prosy sermons, smelling of orthodoxy and dotage. -What do the blockheads mean, North?

Shepherd. Sumphs, sumphs indeed. But do you ken, in spite o' a' that, I'm just desperate fond o' Christmas minshed pies. Sirs-in a bonny bleeze o' brandy, burnin blue as snapdragon-I can devoor a dizzen.

Tickler. Christmas geese are prime birds, James, with onions and sage sufficient, and each mouthful accompanied by its contingent of rich red apple-sauce.

Shepherd. A guse aye gies me the colic-yet I canna help eatin't for a' that for whan there's nae sin nor iniquity,

1 Dr Edward Copplestone, elected Provost of Oriel College, Oxford, in 1814, was promoted to the bishopric of Llandaff in 1828. He died in 1849.

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HUNGER AND THIRST.

it's richt and reasonable to purchase pleasure at the expense o' pain. I like to eat a' sorts o' land or fresh-water wild-fools— and eke the eggs. Pease-weeps'1 eggs is capital poached.

Tickler. James, whether do you like eating or drinking best? Is hunger or thirst the preferable appetite?

Shepherd. Why, you see, I, for ane, never eat but when I'm hungry-and hunger's soon satisfied if you hae plenty o' vittals. Compare that wi' drinkin when you're thurstyeither clear well-water, or sour-milk, or sma' yill, or porter, or speerits half-and-half, and then I wad say that eatin and drinkin's pretty much of a muchness-very nearly on a par, wi' this difference, that hunger wi' me's never sae intense as thurst. I never was sae hungry that I wad hae devoured a bane frae the gutter, but I hae often been sae thursty, on the muirs, that I hae drank black moss-water wi' a green scum on't without scunnerin.

North. I never was hungry in my life.

Shepherd. That's a confounded lee, sir, beggin your pardon

North. No offence, James-but the instant I begin to eat, my appetite is felt to be excellent.

Shepherd. Felt and seen baith, sir. A how-towdie's a mere laverock to you, sir, on the day the Magazine's finished aff— and Mr Awmrose himsel canna help lauching at the relays o' het beef-stakes that ye keep yokin to, wi' pickled ingans or shallotts, and spoonfu's o' Dickson's mustard, that wad be aneuch to blin' a Lynx.

Tickler. I have lost my appetite

Shepherd. I howp nae puir man 'ill find it, now that wages is low and wark scarce;—but drinkin, you see, Mr North, has this great advantage over eatin, that ye may drink a' nicht lang without being thursty-tummler after tummler-jug after jug-bowl after bowl-as lang's you're no sick-and you're better worth sittin wi' at ten than at aucht, and at twal than at ten, and during the sma' hours you're just intolerable good company-scarcely bearable at a', ane waxes sae truly wutty and out o' a' measure deevertin; whereas, I'll defy ony man, the best natural and acquired glutton that ever was born and bred at the feet o' a father that gaed aff at a city feast, wi' a gob o' green fat o' turtle half-way down 1 Pease-weep-lapwing.

his gullet, in an apoplexy, to carry on the eatin wi' ony spunk or speerit after three or four courses, forbye toasted cheese, and roasted chesnuts, and a dessert o' filberts, prunes, awmons, and raisins, ginger-frute, guava jeely, and ither Wast Indian preserves. The cretur coups ower' comatose. But only tak tent2 no to roar ower loud and lang in speakin or singin, and you may drink awa at the Glenlivet till past midnight, and weel on to the morning o' the day after to-morrow.

Tickler. Next to the British, Hogg, I know no such constitution as yours-so fine a balance of powers. I daresay, you never had an hour's serious illness in your life.

Shepherd. That's a' you ken-and the observe comes weel frae you that began the nicht wi' geein the club my death-like prognosis.

Tickler. Prognosis?

Shepherd. Simtoms like. This back-end I had, a' three at ance, the Tick Dollaroose, the Angeena Pectoris, and the Jaundice. North. James-James-James!

Tickler. Hogg-Hogg-Hogg!

Shepherd. I never fan' ony pain like the Tick Dollaroose. Ane's no accustomed to a pain in the face. For the toothache's in the inside o' the mouth, no in the face; and you've nae idea hoo sensitive's the face. Cheeks are a' fu' o' nervesand the Tick attacks the haill bunch o' them, screwing them up to sic a pitch o' tension that you canna help screechin out, like a thousan' ools, and clappin the pawms o' your hauns to your distrackit chafts, and rowin yoursel on the floor, on your groof, wi' your hair on end, and your een on fire, and a general muscular convulsion in a' your sinnies, sae piercin, and searchin, and scrutinisin, and diggin, and houkin, and tearin is the pangfu' pain that keeps eatin awa and manglin the nerves o' your human face divine. Draps o' sweat, as big as beads for the neck or arms o' a lassie, are pourin doun to the verra floor, so that the folk that hears you roarin thinks you're greetin, and you're aye afterwards considered a bairnly chiel through the haill kintra. In ane o' the sudden fits I gruppit sic haud o' a grape that I was helpin our Shusey to muck the byre wi', that it withered in my fingers like a frush

1 Coups ower-tumbles over.

3 Back-end-close of the year.

5 Shusey-Susan.

2 Tak tent-take care.

4 Groof-belly.

6 Frush-brittle.

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