Shepherd. Hoo thochts and feelings, sir, do arise, and follow ane anither in the sowl, like flocks o' birds frae distant regions, and disappearing ahint the lift intil distant regions, flocks after flocks, withouten end, sometimes in wintry weather, when flakes are visibly augmenting the snaw-wreaths, and sometimes in autumn, when the leaves are rustlin to the bit robin-red-breast

North. What imagery!
Shepherd.

amang

-preparin, ere lang, to flit doun the glen, and tak his domicile up the dwellins o' us Christian creturs, that never grudge our crumbs to the birdie, safe in his scarlet shield frae the verra cats, wha, for fear o' the weans, daurna touch a feather, by love and pity consecrated ever sin' the burial o' the Babes in the Wood

North. A story that, in its touching simplicity, would almost seem to have been written, prophetically, for Blackwood's Magazine.

Shepherd. It's an out-o'-the-way place, the Forest, sirs, though a great road rins through't; for it's no easy to break the charm o' the seelence and the solitariness o' natur. A great road rins through't; but aften hae I sat on a knowe commanding miles o't, and no ae single speck astir, far as the ee could reach-no a single speck, but aiblins a sheep crossin, or a craw alichtin, or an auld crouchin beggar-woman, that ye thocht was leanin motionless on her stick, till, by-andby, ye discerned the colour o' her red cloak, and a gey while afterwards, saw, rather than heard her, prayin for an awmous, wi' shrivelled hauns faulded on her breast, or in their palsy held up heavenwards, sae beseechingly as to awauken charity in a meeser's heart!

North. But no miser, James, art thou-though but a poor man, thou hast “ a hand open as day to melting charity." Shepherd. What Heaven has been pleased to give me o' this life's needments, o' that I never grudged a share to ony son or dochter o' affliction.

North. True as holy writ.

-for our

Shepherd. And holy writ it was that taucht me natur, sir, is selfish, and it's my belief that mony and mony a time wad the best o' us neglect the commonest duties o' humanity, if it werena for religion. We hae a', at times, hard cauld hearts; and I dinna scruple to confess that I've felt my

SHEPHERD'S CHARITY-MOUNT BENGER-ALTRIVE.

177

anger risin at beggars-even at auld bowed-down widow-beggars-when three or fowre o' them in the course o' a lang simmer day hae come creepin in succession, at a snail's pace, in at the yett, and then taken their station at the verra parlour-window, wi' a sort o' meek obstinacy and wae-begone dourness that wadna understand the repulse o' neglect, or even o' a waff o' the haun to be awa wi' theirsels-when suddenly some holy text has been revivified in my heart, perhaps that ane tellin o' the widow and her mite, and a' at ance, as if an angel had jogged my elbow, I hae ca'd the puir auld body in; and then to be sure the wife hersel wasna slaw, without waitin for a word frae me, to come wi' her ain twa comely hauns fu' o' meal, and empty them tidily intil the wallet, no unobserved, sir, by Him wha taught us to say, "Give us this day our daily bread."

Tickler. Yes, my dear James, the blessing of many a wayfaring man and woman

Shepherd. Wi' troops o' weans

Tickler. -has been on Mount Benger.

Shepherd. It needed them a', for it's a gey cauld place staunin yonner on a knowe in a funnel, in the thoroughfare o' a perpetual sugh. Yet 'twas cheerfu' in the sun-glints, and hallowed be the chaumer in which my bairns were born! Howsomever, we're fully as comfortable noo at Altrive Lake— a far lowner spat-and yon nyuck o' the garden, wi' the bit bourtree1-bower, oh, sir! but it's an inspirin retreat frae the din and daffin o' the weans, for the inditin o' a bit cheerfu' or pensie sang! Sometimes, indeed, wee Jamie fin's me out, and thrusts the sweet lauchin face o' him through the thornless branches, to frichten me, as he thinks-God bless the bonny bogle !-but I scald him aff wi' a pretended anger, and a froon fu' o' luve, and awa veers he through amang the flowers like a butterfly, while out o' my heart gushes the sang like a showerswollen stream.

Tickler. Childless Eld feels as if he were a father, James, at such a picture.

Shepherd. You and Mr North should baith marry yet. Indeed Mrs Gentle maun be

North. James! (Putting his finger to his lips.)

Shepherd. Forgie me, sir.

1 Bourtree-alder-tree.

VOL. III.

2 Pensie-pensive.

M

178

A "BOOZING BUFFOON IN THE QUARTERLY.

North. Have you read the last number of the Quarterly Review, James ?

Shepherd. Na. It hasna come our length yet.

North. 'Tis therein said, James, that in these our Noctes you are absurdly represented as a "boozing buffoon."

Shepherd. What? In the Quarterly? Na, na, sir. I can swallow a gude deal frae you—but that's bacon I canna bolt. The yeditor kens better-for

North. But, like other editors, James, he sometimes naps when he should only be nodding, and sometimes nods when he should be broad awake as a full north-west moon.

Shepherd. Eh?

North. Some hypocritical humbug has had the audacity, however, to palm that falsehood upon our dozing friend, and, through him, on the Pensive Public;- -some brainless bigwig, who believes that the Baltic has been drunk half dry by a whale.

Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw! haw!

North. At this moment, James, that "budge doctor of the Stoic Fur" fears that the world thinks you are a ten-gallonman, that you have a sma'-still in your bedroom, and that you have bribed the gauger by making him a parlour-boarder. Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw! haw!

North. Everything the Cockney reads he takes for gospel. Shepherd. Except, aiblins, the Bible.

Tickler. Good, James-good.

North. That the rhinoceros drinks a river every morning before breakfast

Tickler. And the war-horse literally devours the ground 1 The passage is as follows:-"When the Ettrick Shepherd was first heard of, he had indeed but just learned to write by copying the letters of a printed ballad, as he lay watching his flock on the mountains; but thirty years or more have passed since then, and his acquirements are now such, that the Royal Society of Literature, in patronising him, might be justly said to honour a laborious and successful student, as well as a masculine and fertile genius. We may take the liberty of adding, in this place, what may not perhaps be known to the excellent managers of that excellent institution, that a more worthy, modest, sober, and loyal man does not exist in his Majesty's dominions than this distinguished poet, whom some of his waggish friends have taken up the absurd fancy of exhibiting in print as a sort of boozing buffoon; and who is now, instead of revelling in the license of tavern suppers and party politics, bearing up, as he may, against severe and unmerited misfortunes, in as dreary a solitude as ever nursed the melancholy of a poetical temperament."—Quarterly Review, vol. xliv. p. 81.

A BRAINLESS BIG-WIG" IN THE QUARTERLY.

179

between him and his enemies-swallowing at lunch five acres, four roods, and three perches.

Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw! haw!

North. So, being a man of the strictest veracity, and of the highest authority in the moral world, the mandarin shakes his head at our Noctes, and gives not only the lie circumstantial, but the lie direct to a fact unfortunately established, I fear, in the conviction of the Pensive Public, that We Three have frequently demolished at a sitting the Tower of Babel.

Tickler. Were the worthy gentleman here now, why he would be under the table in a state of civilisation superior to anything seen since the last debauch of Sardanapalus.

North. 'Tis a sad dog-and, to my knowledge-with a wife and a dozen children-keeps a—————

Shepherd. O fie, sir, nae personalities. We maun pity and forgie stupidity when it begins to maunder-even though it maunder malice.

Tickler. I presume he has made a pilgrimage to the grave of Sir Roger de Coverley.

North. Sleeping in the sunshine side by side with Will Wimble. Tickler. He believes devoutly, no doubt, that the Spectator had a short nose

North. And got boozy thrice a-week at Button's.

Tickler. The world is well stocked just now, James, with matter-of-fact men

Shepherd. What? Ca' ye't a matter-o'-fact that a boozin buffoon ever Glenlivetised at the Noctes?

Tickler. It is a matter-of-fact lie, James-and that the Cockney knoweth right well; but he wished to do you a kindness, without in his dotage clearly comprehending how to set about it, and, with the best intentions in the world, has accordingly committed one of the usual calumnies of the Cockneys, manifestly priding himself all the while in the idea of having essentially served the Ettrick Shepherd, and given him a shove up the hill of preferment.

North. Somewhat of the latest-a feeble fumble of falsehood at the eleventh hour.

Shepherd. I'm sure I ought to be muckle obleeged to the weak, but weel-meanin man for his vindication o' my character. But I howp the wark o' supererogation mayna be ill for his constitution; and it's the first time I ever heard o'

180 A

JACKASS BRAYING” IN THE QUARTERLY.

onybody's pityin Atlas for supportin on his back and shouthers the starry heavens.

North. He then tells the Pensive Public, that at our Noctes the entire talk is of "Party Politics.”

Shepherd. Na! that's an even-doun lee-and gin a writer wall indulge in trash, he should spice't wi' at least ae grain o' truth, or he'll be in danger, in a fit o' coughing, to choke on his ain slaver.

Tickler. Don't be coarse, James.

Shepherd. Coorse? Wha's fine but fules? Muckle nonsense we do speak at the Noctes-but pairty politics we leave to the twa Houses o' Parliament-an' discuss, when we hae discussion, the universal and eternal interests o' mankind.

Tickler. The truth is, gents, that this jackass must have had his long ears pulled, and his tauty hide knouted by Maga, and Joannes' has with his well-known good-nature indulged him in a quarterly bray————

Shepherd. A jackass brayin at the moon! a comical eemage. North. But still he must be cudgelled off the premises, and "taught never to come there no more,”—if it were only for the sake of the poor echoes.

Shepherd. Do you ken, sirs, that it's a curious fack in natur that the bray o' an ass has nae echo? Gin it had an echo, sic is the disposition o' the cretur, that it would keep brayin till it drapped doun dead, forgetfu' o' its thustles; whereas, by the present constitution o' the breed, nae lang-continued brayin can tak place excepp when there are a multitude o' asses by some strange chance colleckit thegither; and then, indeed, ilka ane imagines that a' the rest are but his echoes, and thus, in pride o' heart, the gang do astonish the heavens. But in the Quarterly Review, the ass aforesaid maun find himsel a solitary beast, and will sune loot doun his lang leather and lantern jaws in seelence amang the dockens.

Tickler. I only hope he won't cross the breed, James, else, instead of the ethereal coursers of the sun that run in that chariot, ere long we shall see a team of mules that, in their native obstinacy, will reest when they meet with any up-hill work, or bolt obliquely into the sea.

Shepherd. Nae fears.

Tickler. I am delighted to see that the Quarterly—like

1 John G. Lockhart.