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tearin-howk-howkin, at his meeserable liver aye wanin and aye waxin aneath that unpacified beak-that beak noo cuttin like a knife, noo clippin like shissors, noo chirtin like pinchers, noo hagglin like a cleaver! A' the while the body o' the glorious sinner bun' needlessly till a rock-block-needlessly bun', I say, sir, for stirless is Prometheus in his endurance o' the doom he drees, as if he were but a Stane-eemage, or ane o' the unsufferin dead?

North. A troubled mystery!

Shepherd. Ane amaist fears to pity him, lest we wrang fortitude sae majestical. Yet see, it stirs! Ha! 'twas but the vultur. Prometheus himself is still-in the micht, think ye, sir, o' curse or prayer? Oh! yonner's just ae single slicht shudder-as the demon, to get a stronger purchase at his food, taks up new grun' wi' his tawlons, and gies a fluff and a flap wi' his huge wings again' the ribs o' his victim, utterin― was't horrid fancy?—a gurglin throat-croak choked savagely in bluid!

North. The Spirit's triumph over pain, that reaches but cannot pierce its core

"In Pangs sublime, magnificent in Death!"

Tickler. Life in Death! Exultation in Agony! Earth victorious over Heaven? Prometheus bound in manglings on a sea-cliff, more godlike than Jove himself, when

"Nutu tremefecit Olympum!"

Shepherd. Natur victorious ower the verra Fate her ain imagination had creawted! And in the dread confusion o' her superstitious dreams, glorifying the passive magnanimity o' man, far ayont the active vengeance o' the highest o' her gods? A wild bewilderment, sirs, that ought to convince us, that nae licht can ever be thrown on the moral government that reigns ower the region o' human life-nae licht that's no mair astoundin than the blackness o' darkness-but that o' Revelation that ae day or ither shall illumine the uttermost pairts o' the earth.

North. Noble. These Impersonations by Ducrow, James, prove that he is a man of genius.

Shepherd. Are they a' his ain inventions.

North. Few or none. Why, if they were, he would be the

THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.-A CONSPIRACY.

147

greatest of sculptors. But thus to convert his frame into such forms-shapes — attitudes postures-as the Greek imagination moulded into perfect expression of the highest states of the soul-that, James, shows that Ducrow has a spirit kindred to those who in marble made their mythology immortal.

Shepherd. That's bonny-na, that's gran'. It gars a body grue—just like ane o' thae lines in poetry that suddenly dirls through you-just like ae smite on a single string by a master's haun, that gars shiver the haill harp.

Tickler. Ducrow was not so successful in his Apollo.

North. 'Twas the Apollo of the painters, Tickler; not of the sculptors.

Tickler. True. But why not give us the Belvidere?

North. I doubt if that be in the power of mortal man. But even were Ducrow to show us that statue with the same perfection that crowns all his other impersonations, unless he were to stand for hours before us, we should not feel, to the full, its divine majesty; for in the marble it grows and grows upon us as our own spirits dilate, till the Sun-god at last almost commands our belief in his radiant being, and we hear ever the fabled Python groan!

Tickler. Yes, North, our emotion is progressive—just as the worshipper, who seeks the inner shrine, feels his adoration rising higher and higher at every step he takes up the magnificent flight in front of the temple.

Shepherd. Na, na, na-this 'ill never do. It's manifest that you twa hae entered intil a combination again' me, and are comin ower me wi' your set speeches, a' written doun, and gotten aff the nicht afore, to dumfounder the Shepherd. What bit o' paper 's that, Mr Tickler, keekin out o' the pocket o' your vest? Notts. Notts in short haun-and a' the time you was pretendin to be crunklin't up to licht the tip o' your segawr, hae you been cleekin haud o' the catch-word-and that's the gate you deceive the Snuggery intil admiration o' your extemporawneous eeloquence! The secret's out nooan' I wunner it was never blawn afore; for noo that ma een are opened, they set till richts my lugs; and on considerin hoo matters used to staun' in the past, I really canna chairge ma memory wi' a mair feckless cretur than yoursel at a reply.

148

TICKLER AS THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

North. You do me cruel injustice, James-were I to prepare a single paragraph, I should stick

Shepherd. Oh! man, hoo I would enjoy to see you stick! stickin a set speech in a ha' fu' o' admirin, that is, wunnerin hunders o' your fellow-citizens, on Parliamentary Reform, for instance, or Slavery in the Wast Indies, or

North. The supposition, sir, is odious; I

Shepherd. No in the least degree odious, sir-but superlatively absurd, and ludicrous far ayont the boun's o' lauchterexcepp that lauchter that torments a' the inside o' a listener and looker-on, an internal earthquake that convulses a body frae the pow till the paw, frae the fingers till the feet, till a' the pent-up power o' risibility bursts out through the mouth, like the lang-smouldering fire vomited out o' the crater o' a volcawno, and then the astonished warld hears, for the first time, what heaven and earth acknowledge by their echoes to be indeed-a Guffaw!

North. James, you are getting extremely impertinent?

Shepherd. Nae personality, sir; nae personality sall be alloo'd, in ma presence at least, at a Noctes. That's to say, nae personality towards the persons present-for as to a' the rest o' the warld, men, women, and children, I carena though you personally insult, ane after anither, a' the human race. North. I insult?

Shepherd. Yes-you insult. Haena ye made the haill civileesed warld your enemy by that tongue and that pen o' yours, that spares neither age nor sect?

North. I???

Shepherd. You !!!

Tickler. Come, come, gentlemen, remember where you are, and in whose presence you are sittin; but look here—here is the APOLLO BELVIDERE.

[TICKLER is transformed into Apollo Belvidere.

Shepherd. That's no canny.

North. In his lip "what beautiful disdain!”

Shepherd. As if he were smellin at a rotten egg.
North. There "the Heavenly Archer stands."

Shepherd. I wadna counsel him to shoot for the Guse Medal. Henry Watson' would ding him till sticks.

1 Mr Henry Watson, an accomplished member of the Queen's Body-Guard, the Royal Scottish Archers, is a brother of the distinguished painter, Sir John Watson Gordon.

SHEPHERD AS THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

149

North. I remember, James, once hearing an outrageous dispute between two impassioned connoisseurs, amateurs, men of vertu, cognoscenti, dilettanti, about this very Apollo Belvidere.

Shepherd. Confoun' me gin he's no monstrous like marble! His verra claes seem to hae drapped aff him—and I'se no pit on my specks, for fear he should pruve to be naked.—What was the natur o' the dispute?

North. Simply whether Apollo advanced his right or left foot

Shepherd. Ane o' the disputants maun hae been a great fule. Shouldna Apollo pit his best fit foremost, that is the richt ane, on such an occasion as shootin a Peethon? Huttut.-Stop a wee-let's consider. Na, it maun be the left fit foremost unless he was ker-haun'd.' Let's try't.

[The SHEPHERD rises, and puts himself into the attitude of the Apollo Belvidere-insensibly transforming himself into another TICKLER of a shorter and stouter size.

North. I could believe myself in the Louvre, before Mrs Hemans wrote her beautiful poem on the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy. Were the two brought to the hammer, an auctioneer might knock them down for ten thousand pounds each. Shepherd. Whilk of us is the maist Apollonic, sir?

North. Why, James, you have the advantage of Tickler, in being, as it were, in the prime of youth-for though by the parish register you have passed the sixtieth year-stone on the road of life, you look as fresh as if you had not finished the first stage.

Shepherd. Do you hear that, Mr Tickler?

North. You have also most conspicuously the better of Mr Tickler in the article of hair. Yours are locks-his leeks. Shepherd. Mr Tickler, are you as deaf and dumb's a statute, as weel's as stiff?

North. As to features, the bridge of Tickler's nose-begging his pardon-is of too prominent a build. The arch reminds me of the old bridge across the Esk, at Musselburgh. Shepherd. What say you to that, Mr Tickler?

North. "'Tis more an antique Roman than a "

Shepherd. Mr Tickler?

North. But neither is the nose of the gentle Shepherd pure Grecian.

Tickler. Pure Peebles?

1 Ker-haun'd-left-handed.

150

SHEPHERD AS PAN, AS HERCULES.

Shepherd. Oho! You've fun' the use o' your tongue.
North. Of noses so extremely-

Shepherd. Mine's, I ken,'s a cockit ane. Our mouths? North. Why, there, I must say, gentlemen, there's a wide opening for

is

Tickler. Don't blink the buck-teeth.

Shepherd. Better than nane ava.

North. Of Tickler's attitude I should say generally—that

[Here TICKLER reassumes SOUTHSIDE, and taking the Snuggery at a stride, usurps THE CHAIR, and outstretches himself to his extremest length, with head leaning on the ridge, and his feet some yards off on the fender.

Shepherd (leaping about). Huzzaw-huzzaw-huzzaw !— I've beaten him at Apollo! Noo for Pan.

[The SHEPHERD performs Pan in a style that would have seduced Pomona.

Tickler. Ay-that's more in character.

North. Sufficient, certainly, to frighten an army.
Tickler. The very picture of our Popular Devil.
North. Say rather, with Wordsworth-

Pan himself,

The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god."

Shepherd. Keep your een on me-keep your een on me— and you'll soon see a change that will strike you wi' astonishment. But rax me ower the poker, Mr North-rax me ower the poker.

[NORTH puts the poker into Pan's paws, and instanter he is
Hercules.

Tickler (clapping his hands). Bravo! Bravissimo!
North. I had better remove the crystal.

(Wheels the circular closer to the hearth.) James, remember the mirror. Tickler. At that blow dies the Nemean lion.

[The SHEPHERD, flinging down the poker-club, seems to drag up the carcass of the Monster with a prodigious display of muscularity, and then stooping his neck, heaves it over his head, as into some profound abyss.

North. Ducrow's Double!

Shepherd (proudly). Say rather the Dooble, that's Twa, o' Ducraw. Ducraw's nae mair fit to ack Hercules wi' me, than he is to ack Samson.

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