NORTH. Dearly beloved Shepherd-your paw. How the dunces wince, my lad, at the honour in which the author of the Queen's Wake is held all over Scotland, and most of all, in Maga the Magnificent-the focus of the many lights-the concentrated essence of the many liquids of Scotland. SHEPHERD. Puir deevils-but they do that—and oh, sir! they're bitter, bitter, bitterest o' a' at the Noctes Ambrosianæ. Some o' them hae even had the impudence to tak the leeberty in my ain house to I understand you, James. NORTH. But by the spirit of Robert Burns, I swear SHEPHERD. Whisht. Nae swearin' in this hoose. Was na't verra kind, very freenly in John Lockhart to dedicate "the Life" to me and Allan Kinningham ? NORTH. Not a whit. What else could he have done? The best pledge a writer can give, James, of the sincerity of his admiration of dead genius, is his love of the living-and SHEPHERD. O pity me the day-sir-how the dunces do hate him and you-and the Magazine and Edinbro'-and a' Scotland-and indeed, some o' them, for your three sakes, the wide warld, and a' mankind-this life, and the life to come! NORTH. Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret. SHEPHERD. I ken that quotation-and can translate it too Kick the confounded scoun❜rels to Auld Nick, 'Tis kick and come again—and come again and kick! NORTH. Yes! they will come sneaking, James, up along my avenue, to the sore annoyance, no doubt, of the flowers, that nod their heads to such visitors as my Shepherd, and smile a welcome to him with a thousand eyes SHEPHERD. Oh! the dear dummies! may nae untimely blight ever blast or blacken their brichtness-but their dewy lives a' be blest, whether short and sweet, as that o' the puir bit annals that see but ae spring and ae simmer, and never ken winter ava', ignorant, as is easy to be discerned frae their thochtless faces, as they keep drying their locks in the sun, that there is in natur sic things as sleet and hail, and frost, and ice, and snaw-naething but saft dews and rains, that mak a' things grow and glow, and the earth murmur to hersell, like a bonnie sleeping lassie dreamin' o' her sweetheart-or langer and mair checkered, like that o' the perannals, that often keep blumein' on to Christmas, and are gathered by some tender haun', to furnish a winter posey for the breast o' beauty, or a winter garland wi' whilk to wreath her hair. NORTH. Beautiful, my James-quite beautiful-exquisite-quite exquisite. SHEPHERD. What! the impident cretures come to you too, sir, wi' their Albums and their trash aneath their oxters? NORTH. Too often. Be my gates open, day and night, to every honest man-and to share my hospitality with sons of genius from afar, shall be my delight till I die. SHEPHERD. Dinna tawk o' deein'-dinna tawk o' deein', even in a metaphor. Were North dead, the Sun micht as weel die too; for what in this warld could he see worth shinin' on then! NORTH. But 'tis hateful to have one's Dulce Domum-one's Sanctum Sanctorum, profaned by hollow-hearted intruders, with a bill of lading in their pockets, who afterwards libel the very spider on your wall, and accuse him of murdering flies, in a way offensive to the shade of his great ancestress-the first weaver of the web of his house-Arachne. Is it not so, Bronte? Won't ye henceforth bark at the beggars ? Bow-wow-wow-whurrrrwhurrrwhurr! BRONTE. SHEPHERD. What'n tosks! Savage and sagawcious! Tear the trampers, Bronte. BRONTE. Whurrurrrwhurrur-bow-wow-wow! SHEPHERD. The gang! Some o' them wi' claes unco naplesa, and a bit sair-worn tippenny watch-chain, that changes colour every time you look at it; and, safe us, siccan a hat! And ithers o' them again wi' sirtoos, nae less, and a fur foraging cap, and a bunch o' seals as big's my nieve-but a's no goold that glitters-wi' their coats o' arms, forsooth, engraven on the chucky-stanes, and beasts they pretend to be their crests—but wi' little siller in their pouch, or I'm deceived sairly-neither cash, credit, nor character-which, if you please, sir, let us drink in a bumper-toast. NORTH. The Three C's.-Cash, Credit, and Character! Hurra-hurra-hurra! SHEPHERD. Weel, sir as I was sayin'-in they come you ken the door out-by-lootin' their heads aneath the lintel, though it's better than sax feet ony day, just like a gander gaun in at a gate that he cou'dna touch the arch o', war he to try to flap himsell up into a flee,-and there they keep fummlin' in the trance wi' their Spanish clocks, nae less, fastened round their thrapples, (Heaven grant it may never be waur wi' them,) and it's a gude quarter o' an hour o' precious time lost, afore they can get their daft-neerdowell-lookin' head-gear to tak' haud o' yon pegs. Then they canna eat this, and they canna eat that, wi' their tale; but let them alane a wee, and, hech sirs! but you see they're desperate hungry-maist vorawcious-four-meal-a-day-chiels, when they get them, which is plainly no aften-at breakfast eatin' the verra shells o' the fowre eggs in the forenoon chowin' cheese and crusts, and drinkin' porter gin you were to let them hae't-at denner helpin' themsells afore the mistress, and never offerin' to put so muckle's a potatto on the plate o' my bonny wee Jamie, God bless him! NORTH. The mistress-my dearest Shepherd-wee Jamie, and a' the lave o' themhere's to them all-and God bless them indeed-well do they deserve his blessing, James-and thou too, my friend. Come, James, sit nearer the old man. SHEPHERD. I canna get ony closer for the crutch. Oh! Sir-Mr North-but I do like you weel, weel. Faith, I'm maist greetin'. NORTH. That Glenlivet is very strong, James. SHEPHERD. Haud your tongue-it's no that-But to return to thae stravaigers—after eatin' and drinkin' you out o' house and ha', and stupifyin' ye wi' their Cockney clishmaclavers till you're like to scunner, aff they set in the mornin' early, without lettin' the servant lass ken the colour o' their coin, wi' a shirt on their backs and a pair o' stockings on their legs, and a silk pocky handkerchief in their pouch-no belangin' to them-and sailin' awa' to Lunnan in the steerage o' some dirt-gabbert, for they canna afford smack or steamer. In a month or twa you see them libelling you in periodicals, or what's mair unendurable yet, laudin' you with their flattery, sickenin' to my stammach, as whuppit-up Boor-milk, that stauns in the middle o' the table, and's ca'd Flummery. The Athenæum ? Just sae. NORTH. SHEPHERD. Yon young Eerisher had better keep a calm sugh. NORTH. Yes-Mum's the word for him, and some of his compeers. What think you of that story of the dressing-case? It was a bad sign of the Times. The New Times are, I fear, not so good as the Old. SHEPHERD. Ten guineas for a dressing-case! Wull ye tell me, sir, what is a dressingcase? Does the whalp shave wi' gowden razors? But hoo did the bizziness terminate? Did the auld lang-bearded Jew carry aff his article? Ask at Bow-street. NORTH. SHEPHERD. Nae doubt he's weel acquainted with Gray's Elegy-and really when I saw the cretur out at Mount-Benger, lying sae conceity on a bit knowe, I cudna help saying intil mysell "Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown." NORTH. I much fear he has no talents-poor fellow. Yet he might speak the truth. He ought not to say what he knows to be false. You remember a saying of Dr Johnson's, James? SHEPHERD. No me. It passes the power o' my understandin' to comprehend hoo sic a clever chiel as that Buckingham can thole contributors o' that class. Ane wad hae thocht, that after a' his travellin' through this wide and weary warld, he wad hae fund out by this time which side his bread was buttered on-but that cawve, that coof Creeto-the Cawker-and Pert Paddy, are cretures that wull soon kill ony critical, for naething sae deadly to a young new wark as a feelin' towards it in the public mind o' cool contempt. He'll no be lang i' findin' that out-let him kick all such out o' the concern-and under his able owspices, the Athenæum, I hope, will flourish. NORTH. I hope it will. Buckingham's politics and mine are wide as the poles asunder-but I respect the independent spirit of the man, the energy of his character, and his talents. SHEPHERD. Nane o' a' the new weekly periodicals wull ever cut out the Literary Gazette. NORTH. Never, James. And simply for one reason-Mr Jerdan is a gentleman, and is assisted by none but gentlemen. SHEPHERD. And havein' taen the start he'll keep it—let the lave whup and spur as they like after his heels. But I like to see a gude race, so I houp nane o' them 'Il be distanced. NORTH. "Tis a pretty race. The Athenæum is well laid in upon his flank-and there goes the Sphynx and Atlas at a spanking rate-looking within the ropes like winners; but the rider of the Ould Horse has him in hand, and letting him loose within a rod of the judges' stand, he will win the gold cup by two lengths at least-and I take him at even against the field for the Derby. TICKLER-ODOHERTY-MACRABIN—(una voce). Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! SHEPHERD. What the deevil are you ne'erdoweels guffawin' at? MACRABIN. The best caricature of you both ever drawn, by ODoherty! See here! SHEPHERD. Hae ye daured, ODoherty, to draw a carricatoor o' us twa? A wee thing wad gar me gie you the braid o' your back on the Turkey carpet. I cry you mercy. ODOHERTY. NORTH. One other toast before we part-Here's to the health and happiness of the only Whig I ever knew whom it was possible to love-the amiable, ingenious, enlightened, and most eloquent-whom? OMNES. Jeffrey-Jeffrey-Jeffrey-Jeffrey-Jeffrey! Hurra, hurra, hurra! And no Sir Walter? SHEPHERD. NORTH. He, my dear Shepherd, is at all times in our hearts. TICKLER. Come, now, hands all round the table-are the quaighs filled? Aye, John, you may well stare wild like a goshawk. Here goes-(sings.) AIR,-Isabel. Come, jolly boys, and never disunited, Let's now with claret nobly freighted We up Leith Walk, ere now, have often stoited, With a' the warld awake Jolly boys, jolly boys, jolly boys Farewell, dear host, be soon and blythe our meeting, Jolly boys, jolly boys, jolly boys. SHEPHERD. Nae harm, my dear lads, in partin' wi' a bit bonny sang o' my ain-no sae merry, but yet no melancholy." GOOD NIGHT AND JOY BE WI' YOU A'. THE night is wearing to the wane, The little sternies dance amain, And the moon bobs aboon the shaw. Good night an' joy be wi' you a', O, we hae wander'd far and wide, O'er Scotia's land of firth and fell; Now let us take a kind farewell,— Ye hae been kind as I was keen, Of this and mony a former day. Omnes-Gude nicht and joy be wi' us a'. (Exeunt.) NORTH,-(Demi-Transatlantic.) John, open the windows-upon my word 'tis a very fine morning. Get the hot-bath ready, John, and my dressing things-I must get through the rest of that infernal Emigration Report yet before breakfast. Printed by Ballantyne and Company. (Left yawning.) CHRISTOPHER IN EDINBURGH, AND CHRISTOPHER IN LONDON. We have no idea what is thought of us in the fashionable world. Most probably we are looked on as a pretty considerable Quiz. Our external, or personal appearance, is, we cheerfully confess, somewhat odd, both face and figure. It is not easy for you to pass us by on the streets without a stare at our singularity, or to help turning round, as soon as you think you are out of reach of our crutch, which, by the by, we sometimes use as a missile, and can throw almost as far as that celebrated Gymnast of the Six Foot Club can swing the thirteen pound sledge-hammer; while, with a placid smile of well-pleased surprise, you wonder if that can indeed be the veri table and venerable Christopher North. Such is our natural and acquired modesty, that so far from being flattered by these proofs of public esteem and popular favour, they fret and annoy us more than we care to express. The truth is, we can seldom, on such occasions, help feeling as if there were a hole in our black silk stocking, the white peeping through like a patch of snow-a shoe minus a silver-buckle-a button off some part of our dress-the back part of our hat in front-the half-expanded white rose VOL. XXIII. bud-tie of our neckcloth, of which we are alike proud and particular, dissolved into two long slips, which more than anything else appertaining to a man's habiliments, give your person the impress of a weaver expert at the treddle and fly-shuttle-or, to us who keep a regular barber on the chin establishment, with a salary of L.80, worst suspicion of all, and if verified to the touch, death to that day, a Beard! A Beard! fair reader, as rough as the brush-naughty little mermaid with which you keep combing your glossy locks in that mirror-no, you do not think it flatters-both, before you "lie down in your loveliness," and after you rise up in it,-alarmed by the unexpected and apparently endless ringing of the breakfast bell. Yet, we are not so very much of a Quiz, after all; and considering how the storms of so many seasons have beat against us, it is astonishing how well we wear, both in root, branch, and stem. We cannot help-in our pride-Heaven forgive and pity us !— sometimes likening ourselves to an old Ash beside a Church. There stands the tree, with bark thick as cork, and hard as iron-hoary arms overshadowing with a pleasant glimmer-for 5 K |