ANN ELIZA SCHUYLER. North. Why not? Daughter-wife-of a clergyman? "No stately beds my humble roof adorn, 171 Shepherd. Far mair simplicity o' langage seem to hae had the young leddies o' New England in thae days, sir, than them o' Auld England o' the present age.-Come doun some half-century still nearer us, and fin' you ony virgin or wife o' poetical genie at that pint o' time! North. I come down to 1752, and find Ann Eliza Schuyler, the daughter of Mr Brandt Schuyler, New York. At seventeen she was married to Mr Bleeker of New Rochelle, and removed with him to Tomhanick, a beautiful solitary village, eighteen miles above Albany. There they passed several years, we are told, in the unbroken quiet of the wilderness; but then, were driven from the repose of that beautiful and romantic spot by the savages in alliance with Burgoyne. On their way from Albany, down the Hudson, they were forced to go ashore by the illness of their youngest daughter, where the poor creature died. Soon after, the capture of Burgoyne(an unfortunate soldier, but a most accomplished man—witness his celebrated comedy, "The Heiress")—allowed them to return to their retreat in the country; but the loss of her daughter made so deep an impression on her mind, that the mother never recovered her former happiness. A few years afterwards, her husband, when assisting his men in taking in the harvest, was surprised by a party of the enemy from Canada, and carried off prisoner. The shock which she received was so great, that her health was gone for ever; and though her husband was soon rescued from thraldom, and 172 A STRIKING SPECTACLE. they, after a visit to their friends in New York, returned to Tomhanick, there she shortly died, in the thirty-first year of her age. Shepherd. And is her poetry as interesting as her life? North. I have seen but little of it, and wish the editor of the Specimens had given us more; for he well observes, that a female cultivating the elegant arts of refined society at the Ultima Thule of civilised life, in regions of savage wildness, and among scenes of alarm, desolation, and blood, is a striking spectacle. Tickler (as the timepiece smites Twelve). A striking spectacle indeed! (Enter PICARDY and Tail, with all the substantialities of the season.) Shepherd. I maun hear mair frae you, sir, anither time, about these American poetesses. Ony flourishing at this day?-Eh! Eh! What'n a guse! North. Several, James. Shepherd. What? Severals. Mr Awmrose-Dinna bring in a single ither guse, till we hae despatched our freen at the head o' the table.—Mr Tickler, whare'll ye sit? and what 'ill ye eat? and what 'ill ye drink? and what 'ill ye want to hear? and what 'ill ye want to say? For oh, sir! you've been pleesant the nicht-in ane o' your lown, but no seelent humours. Tickler. The legs. Shepherd. Baith? Tickler. Do you mean to insult me? Certainly-both. Shepherd. I've sprained ma thooms. Sae tak him to yoursel, and[SHEPHERD shoves over the goose to TICKLER. North. Help yourself first, James. Shepherd. Be easy, sir, on ma accoont. Alloo me to gie you some slices o' the breist aff ma ain plate, Mr North, I've never touched them North. Do, James. Shepherd. Na, niffer1 plates at ance-though yours is clean, and mine soomin wi' sappy shavins aff the bonny bosom o' the best bird that ever waddled among stubble. [SHEPHERD insists on NORTH exchanging trenchers. 1 Niffer-exchange. North. You know the way, James, to the old man's heart. Shepherd. It's like the grave. What for? 'Cause the "paths o' glory lead" till it! Thank ye, Tickler, for the twa spauls. [SHEPHERD, with infinite alacrity and address, forks both legs with the same instrument, and leaves TICKLER desolate. Tickler Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare! Robb'd of a goose, I yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair, Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Ambrose a goose !-a goose!-my kingdom for a goose,and, Tappie! pot o' pota! Shepherd. Gurney! Gurney! Guse, man, guse, ane's gane and anither's comin-guse, man-Gurney-guse, guse, guse! [GURNEY appears, and the Noctes vanish. XXIX. (MARCH 1831.) Scene,―The Snuggery. Time,-Nine o'clock. NORTH, SHEPHERD, TICKLER. Shepherd. The Snuggery, sir, has a power o' contraction an' expansion that never belonged afore to ony room in this sublunary world. Let the pairty be three or thretty, it accommodates its dimensions to the gatherin-still the Snuggery, though the Saloon. North. I hope you approve of the Busts, James ?—among the finest of Macdonald's. Shepherd. Life-in-death Eemages! A' busts, methinks, are solemn―as for thae, they are shooblime. Wha's that aboon your head, sir? North. Socrates. Shepherd. The Christopher North o' the ancient, as you are the Socrates o' the modern Athens. Baith o' you by natur, as may be read in your fizonomies, wi' a strang bias to animalto sensual indulgences; an' baith o' you, by means o' selfstudy and self-government, pure in conduct, in heart, and in haun, as ony philosopher that ever strengthened, by his practice, his theory o' truth. Oh! sir, but the Sophists hate you wi' a malignant hatred—and fain would they condemn you to drink the hemlock, ay, out o' that verra punch-bowl, the dolphin himsel North. I have an antidote against all poison, James- North. Hush. An herb of sovereign virtue, gathered on the Sacred Mountains. THE KNIGHTS OF ST AMBROSE. Shepherd. Wha's the Eemage atower ma pow? 175 Tickler. Here we are once more, James-the Knights of St Ambrose Shepherd. An admirable, but an indescribable set o' Tickler. Satirists, caricaturists, madcaps, harebrains, beein-the-bonnets, scape-goats, scape-graces, idlers, dreamers, loungers, ramblers, spectators, tatlers, amateurs, cognoscenti, artists, poets, painters, sculptors, novelists, critics, politicians, physicians, theologians, metaphysicians, statesmen, saints, sinners, heroes, patriots, martyrs Shepherd. Mankind's Epitome. North. Our orgies, James, have thrown their share of light on human life. Tickler. That motley masquerade called human life! North. In which, here and elsewhere, we have contrived, not discreditably, to support our characters. I hope, my dear James, that you sometimes think of Ambrose's, when going out to meditate at eventide by the shores of St Mary's Loch, orup away yonder to the Loch of the Lowes, where, when stillness steeps the solitude, you even hear the Grey Mare's Tail Shepherd. Whuskin through the wild, wi' an eerie sugh, till again a' is hushed as death-ay, as the verra grave. Tickler. Think you sometimes of us, then, James? Shepherd. I hae startled to hear that Time-piece smiting the hour in the wilderness; and a' at ance hae believed mysel in the heart o' Embro'-here in the Snuggery-wi' your twa endless legs, Mr Tickler, emblems o' infinitude and eternity, stretched awa intil the regions ahint the grate, far ayont the bounds o' this "visible diurnal sphere," and creawtin superstitious terrors in the inhabitants o' Sawturn. North. Tickler? Shepherd. Oh, sir! how many tailors are for how many years, night and day employed, without respect to Sabbaths, in gettin up for you ae pair o' leggins? 1 1 Tickler. You are pleased to be facetious, sir. Shepherd. Maist facetious-but it's no in the poo'r o' mortal man to do justice to the subjeck. North. You do, however, my dear Shepherd, sometimes think of us in the Forest? 1 Leggins-long gaiters, reaching up to the knees. |