BROUGHAM.-FAUNTLEROY. 331 Tickler. In the decision of a judge, James, what the world demands now-is despatch. Shepherd. The idea o' the balance trembling to a hair is noo obsolete! Yet it was an idea, sir, o' the finest grandeur, and I've gazed on't personified in a pictur, till I hae sworn a seelent oath in a' cases o' diffeeculty to ca' on my conscience wi' the same nicest adjustment to look alang the beam ere she decided that it had settled intil the unwaverin and everlastin richt. North. Brougham is a great orator, as orators go, James, sober or Shepherd. What? North. And some of his speeches in the House of Commons, in favour of the mitigation of our penal code, were noble in eloquence and in argument. He boldly denounced the doctrine of the justice of capital punishments in cases of forgery, the doctrine of its expediency even in a country that had grown great and glorious by commerce. Shepherd. I hae nae douts on baith. Tickler. And I have none either. Fauntleroy' performed an appropriate part in the character of Swing. Yet, so cheap is pity, that the most vulgar pauper can afford to pipe his eye for the fate of the unfeeling forger, who has wasted on insatiable prostitutes the pittances of widows and orphans, forgetting their faces and their hands held up to Heaven in resignation by their cold hearths, in the mournful sight, forsooth, of the white cheeks and closed eyes of a cowardly and hypocritical convict quivering, not in remorse for his crime, but in terror of its punishment, on the scaffold that has shook to the tread of many a wretch, unpitied, because poor-and unpetitioned for, because no-Banker. North. Let us, at another time, argue this great question. But hark! the thunderous voice of the great Commoner subdued down to the timid tone of the Lord Chancellor, who, on the very same petition being presented by the Duke of Sussex, which, in former times, called for Henry Brougham's indignant denunciations of cruelty and injustice, lately opened his mouth and emitted nothing but wind, like a barn-door fowl agape in the pip! 1 Henry Fauntleroy, banker, was tried at the Old Bailey for forgery, 30th October 1824, found guilty, and executed a month afterwards. Shepherd. What lang thin folios are thae you're lookin at, Mr Tickler? Do they conteen picturs? Tickler. "The Beauties of the Court of King Charles the Second, a series of Portraits illustrating the Memoirs of De Grammont, Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon, and other Contemporary Writers; with Memoirs, Critical and Biographical, by Mrs Jameson, authoress of Memoirs of the Loves of the Poets, and the Diary of an Ennuyée." North. One of the most eloquent of our female writers—full of feeling and fancy-a true enthusiast with a glowing soul. Shepherd. Mrs Jameson's prose aye reminds me o' Miss Landon's poetry—and though baith hae their fauts, I would charactereese baith alike by the same epithet-rich. I hate a simple style, for that's only anither word for puir. What I mean is, that when you can say nae better o' a style than that it's simple, you maun be at a great loss for eulogium. There's naething simpler nor water, and, at times, a body drinks't greedily frae the rim o' his hat made intil a scoop; but for a' that, in the lang rin, I prefer porter. Tickler. Much. North. In calling water the best of elements, Pindar was considering it as the groundwork of Glenlivet. : Shepherd. Nae dout, Glenlivet's pure speerit, and in ae sense simple but then it's an essence-an ethereal essence o' the extract o' maut-and water's but the medium in which it's conveyed. But o' a' the liquids, no ane's simple except water. Even milk and water's a wee composite, and has its admirers—though no here. But let me look at the Beauties. Tickler. Avast hauling. Shepherd. That's richt-every man his ain number. And wha's fa'n to my share, but her wham Mrs Jameson weel ca's "the pretty, witty, merry, open-hearted Nelly"-that jewel o' a cretur, Nell Gwynn! Gie me a kiss, ma lassie! Better for thee hadst thou been born in the Forest! North. La Belle Hamilton! La Belle Stewart! Superb Sultana with voluptuous bust! Divine Diana, dreaming of delight and Endymion ! Shepherd. What's that you're sayin, sir? Her bosom's no worth lookin at, I'm sure, in comparison wi' wee Nelly's, that reminds ane o' the Sang o' Solomon. I wunner hoo Sir Peter could control himsel, sae as to be able to draw't. Surely HER BEAUTIES OF KING CHARLES: 333 King Charlie keepit watch on the penter a' the time he was shapin and colouring thae buddin, budded, full-blawn blossoms o' the bower o' Paradise! Tickler. James ! Shepherd. The penter, in ae sense, has the advantage ower the poet, when dealin wi' female charms; in anither, the poet ower the penter. He has the material objeck afore his material ee, and the brush maun obey the breist in a' its swellins, and that's the definition o' a portrait. But we, sir, set an immaterial shadow afore our spiritual een, an' in words which are but air-in verse, which is o' a' air the finest, we breathe intil being the beauty we idealeeze, and the vision o' Bonny Kilmeny gangs up the glen, floatin awa in poetry! North. La Belle Hamilton!-She who was gracieuse dans le moindre de ses mouvements! " nez delicat". 66 grande et "Le petit Shepherd. Snivelin French! La bonny Gwynn! quelle fut sae fu' de feu d'amour sur les yeux Tickler. What is that? Shepherd. French. North. Among her luxuriant tresses, a few pearls negligently thrown "Tresses that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Or pearl, that dares appear, Be its own blush-be its own tear." Shepherd. Nae pearlins amang ma Nelly's hair, curlin and clusterin roun' her lauchin cheeks, and ae ringlet lettin itsel doun alang her neck, amaist till her bonny breist, wi' sic a natural swirl, ane thinks it micht be removed by the haun— sae-or blawn awa-sae-by a breath. Wha's she you're glowerin at, Mr Tickler? Tickler. Castlemaine-Cleveland. Voluptuous vixen! Insatiate harpy! Shepherd. An' by what depraved instinct, sir, seleck ye and fasten upon her? It speaks volumms. Tickler. Coarse, cruel, insolent, and savage-yet, by some witchlike art, the fair fury could wind round her finger all the heartstrings of the laughter-loving King. 334 IT IS A SPLENDID PUBLICATION. Shepherd. Yet believe me, sir, that strange as micht hae been his passion for sic a limmer, he would hae been glad, on awakenin some mornin, to find her lyin aside him stiff-andstark-stane-dead. Infatuation is fed by warm leevin flesh and bluid, and ae cauld touch o' the unbreathin clay breaks the pernicious spell; but true love outlives the breath that sichs itsel awa frae the breist even o' a faithfu' leman, and weeps in distraction ower the frail and her frailties when they hae drapped into the dust. North. Let us close the fair folios, for the present, my boys. I do not deny that many worthy people may have serious objections to the whole work. But not I. Tis a splendid publication, and will, ere long, be gracing the tables of a thousand drawing-rooms. The most eminent engravers have been employed, and they have done their best; nor do I know another lady who could have executed her task, it must be allowed a ticklish one, with greater delicacy than Mrs Jameson. "She has nought extenuated, nor set down aught in malice," when speaking of the frail or vicious; and her own clear spirit kindles over the record of their lives, who in the polluted air of that court, spite of all trials and temptations, preserved without flaw or stain the jewel of their souls, their virtue. Shepherd. That's richt. Mony a moral may be drawn by leddies in high life yet frae sic a wark. "Dinna let puir Nelly starve!!!" North. When from the picture of Castlemaine, in her triumphant beauty, we turn, says Mrs Jameson, to her last years and her death, there lies in that transition—a deeper moral than in twenty sermons. Let woman lay it to her heart! Shepherd. Amen. North. Come, my dear James-before going to suppergive us a song. Shepherd. I'm no in vice, sir. But I'll receet you some verses I made ae gloomy afternoon last week-ca'd “The Monitors." North. Better than any song, I venture to predict, from the very title. THE MONITORS. (SHEPHERD recites.) THE MONITORS. The lift looks cauldrife i' the west, When summer's thrilling sweets entwined› That winter wi' his joyless air, For ah! it points me to descry I daurna look unto the east, For there my morning shone sae sweet; An' when I turn me to the west, The gloaming's like to gar me greet; Tell of a dreary onward path; Yon new moon on her cradle-sheet, Kind Monitors! ye tell a tale That oft has been my daily thought; Against a world wi' courage true. Yes-I hae fought an' won the day, 1 Touts-sounds. 2 Eerisome-fear-inspiring. 335 3 The Hainault or Flemish scythe-an intermediate implement between the sickle and the cradle-scythe. 4 I carena by-I am indifferent. |