North. Drop Cyprus, you villain! Drop Cyprus, you villain! I say, you villain, drop Cyprus-or I will brain you with Crutch!

[O'BRONTE turns a deaf ear to all remonstrances, and continues his cat-carrying career through flower, fruit, and kitchen gardens—the crutch having sped after him in vain, and upset a bee-hive. Tickler. Demme-I'm off. North. Was that thunder?

[Makes himself scarce.

Shepherd. Bees-bees-bees! Intil the Arbour-intil the Arbour-Oh! that it had a door wi' a hinge, and a bolt in the inside! Hoo the swarm's ragin wud! The hummin heavens is ower het to haud them and if ae leader chances to cast his ee hither, we are lost. For let but ane set the example, and in a moment there 'ill be a charge o' beggonets.1

English Opium-Eater. In the second book of his Georgics, Virgil, at once poet and naturalist - and indeed the two characters are, I believe, uniformly united-beautifully treats of the economy of bees-and I remember one passage

Shepherd. They're after Tickler-they're after Ticklerlike a cloud o' Cossacks or Polish Lancers-a' them that's no settlin on the crutch. And see see a division the left o' is bearin doun on O'Bronte. He'll sune liberate

the army Ceeprus.

Tickler (sub tegmine fagi). Murder-murder-murder !

Shepherd. Ay, you may roar

-that's nae flea-bitin-nor

midge-bitin neither-na, it's waur than wasps-for wasps'

stings hae nae barbs, but bees' hae

and when they strike again withouten leavin

them in, they canna rug them out ahint their entrails sae they curl theirsels up upon the wound, be it on haun, neck, or face, and, demon-like, spend their vitality in the sting, till the venom gangs dirlin to your verra heart. But do ye ken I'm amaist sorry for Mr Tickler -for he'll be murdered outricht by the insecks-although he in a mainner deserved it for rinnin awa, and no sharin the common danger wi' the rest at the mouth of the Arbour. If he escapes wi' his life, we maun ca' a court-martial, and hae him broke for cooardice. Safe us! he's comin here, wi' the haill bike about his head !-Let us rin- let us rin! Let us [The SHEPHERD is off and away.

2

rin for our lives!

1 Beggonets-bayonets.

2 Bike-swarm.

22

OPIUM-EATER ON COWARDICE.

North. What! and be broke for cowardice? Let us die at our post like men.

English Opium-Eater. I have heard Mr Wordsworth deliver an opinion, respecting the courage, or rather the cowardice, of poets, which at the time, I confess, seemed to me to be unwarranted by any of the accredited phenomena of the poetical character. It was to this effect: That every passion of the poet being of "imagination all compact," fear would in all probability, on sudden and unforeseen emergencies, gain an undue ascendancy in his being over all the other unaroused active powers :-(and here suffer me to put you on your guard against believing, that by the use of such terms as Active Powers, I mean to class myself, as a metaphysical moralist, in the Scottish school,-that is, the school more especially of Reid and Stewart'-whose ignorance of the Will-the sole province of Moral Philosophy-I hold to be equally shameful and conspicuous :)-so that, except in cases where that Fear was withstood by the force of Sympathy, the poet so assailed would, ten to one (such was the homely expression of the Bard anxious to clench it), take to almost immediate flight. This doctrine, as I have said, appeared to me, at that time, not to be founded on a sufficiently copious and comprehensive induction ;-but I had very soon after its oral delivery by the illustrious author of the Excursion, an opportunity of subjecting it to the test act :-For, as Mr Wordsworth and myself were walking through a field of considerable -nay, great extent of acres-discussing the patriotism of the Spaniards, and more particularly the heroic defence of

"Iberian burghers, when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales

Of fiercely-breathing war,"

a bull of a red colour (and that there must be something essentially and inherently vehement in red, or rather the natural idea of red, was interestingly proved by that answer of the blind man to an inquirer more distinguished probably for his curiosity than his acuteness-"that it was like the sound of a trumpet") bore down suddenly upon our discourse, breaking, as you may well suppose, the thread thereof, and dissipating, for

1 Dr Thomas Reid, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow, born in 1709, died in 1796. For Stewart, see ante, vol. ii. p. 238.

a while, the many high dreams (dreams indeed!) which we had been delighting to predict of the future fates and fortunes of the Peninsula. The Bard's words, immediately before the intrusion of Taurus, were, "that death was a bugbear," and that the universal Spanish nation would "work out their own salvation." One bellow-and we were both hatless on the other side of the ditch. "If they do," said I, "I hope it will not be after our fashion, with fear and trembling." But I rather suspect, Mr North, that I am this moment stung by one of those insects, behind the ear, and in among the roots of the hair, nor do I think that the creature has yet disengaged -or rather disentangled itself from the nape-for I feel it struggling about the not-I trust-immedicable wound-the bee being scarcely distinguishable, while I place my finger on the spot, from the swelling round the puncture made by its sting, which, judging from the pain, must have been surcharged with-nay, steeped in venom. The pain is indeed most acute and approaches to anguish I had almost said

agony.

North. Bruise the bee "even on the wound himself has made." "Tis the only specific.-Any alleviation of agony ? English Opium-Eater. A shade. The analysis of such pain as I am now suffering-or say rather, enduring

[TICKLER and the SHEPHERD, after having in vain sought
shelter among the shrubs, come flying demented towards
the Arbour.

Tickler and Shepherd. Murder!-murder !-murder!
North-

"Arcades ambo,

Et cantare pares, et respondere parati !"

English Opium-Eater. Each encircled, as to his forehead, with a living crown-a murmuring bee-diadem worthy of Aristæus.

North. Gentlemen, if you mingle yourselves with us, I will shoot you both dead upon the spot with this fowling-piece. Shepherd. Whatna foolin-piece? Oh! sir, but you're cruel! [TICKLER lies down, and rolls himself on a plat. North. Destruction to a bed of onion-seed! James! into the tool-house.

Shepherd. I hae tried it thrice-but John and Betty hae

24

THE BATTLE OF THE BEES.

barred themselves in against the swarm-Oh! dear meI'm exhowsted-sae let me lie down and dee beside Mr Tickler! [The SHEPHERD lies down beside MR TICKLER.

English Opium-Eater. If any proof were wanting that I am more near-sighted than ever, it would be that I do not see in all the air, or round the luminous temples of Messrs Tickler and Hogg, one single bee in motion or at rest.

North. They have all deserted their stations, and made a simultaneous attack on O'Bronte. Now, Cyprus, run for your

life!

Shepherd (raising his head). Hoo he's devoorin them by hunders !-Look, Tickler.

Tickler. My eyes, James, are bunged up-and I am fleshblind.

Shepherd. Noo they're yokin to Ceeprus! His tail's as thick wi' pain and rage as my arm. Hear till him caterwaulin like a haill roof-fu'! Ma stars, he'll gang mad, and O'Bronte 'ill gang mad, and we'll a' gang mad thegither, and the garden 'ill be ae great madhouse, and we'll tear ane anither to pieces, and eat ane anither up stoop and roop, and a' that 'ill be left o' us in the mornin 'ill be some bloody tramplin up and doun the beds, and that 'ill be a catastrophe waur-if possible-than that o' Sir Walter's Ayrshire Tragedy-and Mr Murray 'ill melodramateeze us in a piece ca'd the "Bluidy Battle o' the Bees;" and pit, boxes, and gallery 'ill a' be crooded to suffocation for a hunder nichts at haill price, to behold swoopin alang the stage the LAST O' THE NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ !!! English Opium-Eater. Then, indeed, will the " gaiety of nations be eclipsed," sun, moon, and stars may resign their commission in the sky, and old Nox reascend, never more to be dislodged from the usurpation of the effaced, obliterated, and extinguished universe.

Shepherd. Nae need o' exaggeration. But sure aneuch I wadna, for anither year, in that case, insure the life o' the Solar System.-(Rising up.)-Whare's a' the bees?

North. The hive is almost exterminated. You and Tickler have slain your dozens and your tens of dozens-O'Bronte has swallowed some scores-Cyprus made no bones of his allowance-and Mr De Quincey put to death-one. So much for the killed. The wounded you may see crawling in all direc

tions, dazed and dusty; knitting their hind-legs together, and impotently attempting to unfurl their no longer gauzy wings. As to the missing, driven by fear from house and home, they will continue for days to be picked up by the birds, while expiring on their backs on the tops of thistles and binweeds —and of the living, perhaps a couple of hundreds may be on the combs, conferring on state-affairs, and

Shepherd. Mournin for their queen. Sit up, Tickler.

What'n a face!

[TICKLER rises, and shakes himself.

-and

North. 'Pon my soul, my dear Timothy, you must be bled forthwith-for in this hot weather inflammation and feverShepherd. Wull sune end in mortification-then comathen death. We maun lance and leech him, Mr North, for we canna afford, wi' a' his failins, to lose Southside.

Tickler. Lend me your arm, Kit

North. Take my crutch, my poor dear fellow. How are you now?

Shepherd. Hoo are you noo ?-Hoo are you noo?

English Opium-Eater. Mr Tickler, I would fain hope, sir, that, notwithstanding the assault of these infuriated insects, which in numbers without number numberless, on the upsetting

Tickler. Oh! oh!-Whoh! whoh!-Whuh! whuh!

Shepherd. That comes o' wearin nankeen pantaloons without drawers, and thin French silk stockins wi' open gushets, and nae neckcloth, like Lord Byron. I find corduroys and tap-boots impervious to a' mainner o' insecks, bees, wasps, hornets, ants, midges, clegs, and, warst o' a'-the gad. By the time the bite reaches the skin, the venom's drawn out by ever so mony plies o' leather, linen, and wurset—and the spat's only kittly. But (putting his hand to his face) what's this ?-Am I wearin a mask? a fause-face wi' a muckle nose? Tell me, Mr North, tell me, Mr De Quinshy, on the honours o' twa gentlemen as you are, am I the noo as ugly as Mr Tickler?

North. "Twould be hard to decide, James, which face deserves the palm; yet-let me see-let me see-I think-I think, if there be indeed some slight shade of—What say you, Mr De Quincey?