96 BEAR-PAWS FROM SCANDINAVIA. and dry toast. And oh my man Pechy! but you've a stout back and a strong arm to deposit wi' sic an air o' majesty that twa-quartern loaf fresh frae the baker's, and steamin as sweet's a bank o' violets after a shower.-Mr Awmrose, ye needna bile ony mair eggs for though they're no very big anes, yet whatever the size, sax is ma number-thae bit chickens maun hae belanged to a late cleckin-But whare's the Roond? Ay-ay -Prince o' Picardy! I see ye bearin him frae the bit sideboardie.-Noo attend to Mr North, Mr Awmrose, and dinna mind me―tak tent o' Mr North, sir-and see that he wants for naething-for I discern by the glegness o' the een o' him, that he's yaup-yaup-yaup-and 's sharpenin his teeth wi' the fork, till you hear them raspin like a mower whettin his scythe. North. Ambrose, bring yon. Ambrose. Here they are, sir. (Placing them before MR HOGG.) Shepherd. Angels and ministers o' grace defend us !—what the deevil's thae ? North. What think ye, James? Shepherd. Hauns! Human hauns! Preserved human hauns! Pickled human hauns! The preserved and pickled human hauns o' a Christian! North. Well-what although? Shepherd. Weel! what altho'? Are they a present frae Dr Knox, or his freen Hare?1 Aiblins the verra hauns o' Burke himsel! What throttlers! North. Why, they are throttlers, James but they never belonged in life to any of the gang. Shepherd. That's a great relief-But excuse me, sir, for haudin ma nose-for I fear they're stinkin. North. Sweet, I assure you, James, as the downy fist of a virgin, yet warm from her own bosom. Bear-paws from Scandinavia-a Christmas-present from my intrepid friend Lloyd, now Schall-king of the Frozen Forests. Shepherd. Let's pree them. [The SHEPHERD takes one Paw, and NORTH another, and they both begin to masticate. 2 The author of Field Sports in the North of Europe, reviewed by Professor Wilson in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xxvii. SILENCE IN THE SNUGGERY. 97 Shepherd. Mine's is pickit as clean's an ivory kame for the tap-knot o' a bit bonny lassie. Noo for the palms. North. The mustard? Shepherd. Eh? North. The mustard? Shepherd. Eh? Oh! but the palms is prime. The ile o' palms!1 Far better nor the ignorant warld suspecks. Nae wunner the beasts sooks them in their wunter-caves. North. Try your paw with chicken, James. Shepherd. I'm doin sae, sir. Frae this time, henceforrit and for evermair, hoo wersh the race o' hams! What's pigface to bear-paw! North. Hyperion to a Satyr. Shepherd. Say Satyr to Hyperion, sir. Mine's anatomeezed -and lo! the skeleton! O the wonnerfu' warks o' natur! North. There! Shepherd. What'n a what! I'm hungrier than if I had ate a haill solan-guse. What'n a what! North. Let us now set in to serious eating, James. [There is silence in the Snuggery from half-past seven till half-past eight; or, rather, a sound like the whutter of wild-fowl on the feed along a mud-bank, by night, in Poole Harbour, at low-water, as described by Colonel Hawker. North. James? Shepherd. What's your wull, sir? North. A caulker? Shepherd. Wi' a' my heart and sowl. Here's to Mr Lloyd's health and happiness-and when he's dune huggin the bears, may he get a wife! North. Amen! Shepherd. Noo, sir, let's hae some leeterary conversation. North. I was just going to propose it, James. Suppose we have a little poetry. Shepherd. What a cauld squash o' poetry's this we've had blawn intil our faces o' late, like sae mony blashy shoo'rs o' sleet? But Stoddart has genius. 3 1 Oil of palms—a play on Professor Wilson's Isle of Palms. 2 What-whet. 3 Thomas Tod Stoddart is the author of The Angler's Companion to the Rivers and Lochs of Scotland, a standard work on fishing in all its departments: he has also published some admirable angling songs. VOL. III. G 98 MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON. North. He has. Let us speak now of the great masters. Lean back, James-hand-over-head-and pull out the volume it chances to light on-one or other of the works of the Immortals. Shepherd (obeying the mandate).-Muir's Life o' ByronFirst volumm! Whan are we to hae the second? North. I know not. Probably ere next Noctes. Shepherd. I'm wearyin unco sair for the second volumm. But our carrier, when he's gotten a heavy load o' the necessaries o' life, sic as vivers,1 and pots and pans, and ither household utensils, aye leaves ahint him at Selkirk a' parshels that he jalouses may conteen byucks, "Especially," quo' he, "thae great muckle clumsy square anes ye ca' quartos." North. Not so with Maga? Shepherd. Na, na! A bale o' Blackwood's as licht as a feather, and he swears that his beast never reests on the steyest2 brae gin Maga's aboard. The buoyancy o' the bale, sir, gars his cart dance alang a' the ups and douns i' the road through the Forest, like a bit pleasure yawcht tilting outower the waves at Windermere Regatta. North. Poetry! Shepherd. I can tell ye a curious tale about this quarto. It lay for the best part o' a moon amang some cheeses, at Selkirk, afore it was discovered by some weans to be a byuck, by means o' the broon paper and the direction, and was forwarded at last to Mount Benger in a return cart loaded wi' strae. But Gudefallow clean forgot that his lordship was there, and sae by some queer mischance he got bundled up intil the laft; and mair nor a month afterwards, you may guess the surprise o' ane o' the hizzies that had gane up for fodder, when a great big broon square paper parshel bounced out o' her lap in the byre North. Poor Girzzy! Shepherd. to the sair disappointment o' Crummie, wha, after smellin an' snokin an' snortin at it for a while, began cavin her head like a dementit cretur, and then ettlin3 to toss 't out o' the door, gettin't entangled by the twine on the point o' ane o' her horns, she brak out o' the byre, as if stung by a gadflee, or some divine æstrum North. Classical ! Shepherd. 1 Vivers-victuals. and then doun the knowe, across the holm, 3 Ettlin-attempting. 2 Steyest-steepest. HOW IT REACHED MOUNT BENGER. 99 ower the Yarrow, up the brae, and out o' sicht ahint the hill, richt awa like a red-deer, clean out the region o' Yarrow a'thegither, and far awa ayont the head o' Ettrick into the verra heart o' Eskdalemuir, whar she was fun', days after, sair forfeuchen,1 ye may weel suppose, wi' the Beeography across her een, just as if she had been a bill' gien to stickin, wi' a brodd on his griesly forehead. A' the shepherds, ye ken, sir, are gude scholars in our region and him that first fand her was the President o' the Eskdalemuir Spootin, Theological, and Philosophical Club. Puttin on his specks-for he's a gey auld cretur-he sune made out the inscription in capitals on the forehead o' the beast - "JAMES HOGG, Esq., MOUNT BENGER, YARROW, BY SELKIRK," and then in Eetalics aneath"To be forwarded by the first opportunity." North. That must have been a poser to the President. Shepherd. It was that, sir. Nor was his perplexity diminished by the twa sma' words in ane o' the corners"Per mail." The mail hasna begun yet to rin that road, ye ken, sir, in the shape o' a cotch, and the President himsel confessed to me, on tellin the tale, that amang the multitude o' out-o'the-way thochts that crooded intil his brain, to account for the faynomenon,-ane o' them was, that in this age o' inventions, when some newfangled notion or ither, out o' some ingenious noddle, is pitten daily intil practice for expeditin human intercoorse, the coo was an express North. Hee-hee-hee! James, you tickle my fancy, and I get slightly convulsed about the midriff. Shepherd. Yes, sir-that the coo was an express sent by Mr Elliot o' Selkirk. North. Instead of a carrier-pigeon. Shepherd. Just sae, sir. And that the coo, ha'in been bred in Eskdalemuir, had returned to the spat o' her nativity, eager to browse the pasturage on which she had fed when a young and happy quey. Howsomever, to mak a lang story short, our freen contrived to get the quarto aff Crummie's horns, and brocht it doun, neist day, himsel to Mount Benger, when, by layin a' our heads thegither, we cam to see intil the heart o' the mystery, which, like maist others, when severely scrutineesed, degenerated intil an accoontable though somewhat uncommon fack. North. Open the volume, James, at haphazard-and let the 1 Forfeuchen-fatigued. 2 Bill-bull. 100 แ MOORE ON MARRIAGES OF MEN OF GENIUS." first page that meets your eyes be the text of our discursive dialogue. Shepherd. Sall I read it up, sir? North. Do, ore rotundo, like a Grecian. What seems it about? Shepherd. The marriages o' men o' genius-if I dinna mistak North. Hark! and lo! [The time-piece strikes nine, and enter PICARDY and Tail, with the materiel. They sweep away the "Reliquias Danaum," and deposit all things needful in their place. Shepherd. Clever chiels, thae, sir. North. I hope, James, that Mr Moore will strike out of the volume, before it becomes an octavo, that misbegotten, misconceived, misdelivered, misplaced, and mistimed abortion Shepherd. What'n a skrow' o' misses, like a verra boardinschule letten lowse; puir bit things, I pity them—a' walkin by themsels, rank and file, twa deep, the feck o' them geyan sickly, and greenin for hame-But no to purshue that eemage -what was you beginnin till abuse, sir, when I interruppit you about the misses? North. Mr Moore's Homily on Husbands. Shepherd. He says "The truth is, I fear, that rarely, if ever, have men of the higher order of genius shown themselves fitted for the calm affections and comforts that form the cement of domestic life." Hoots toots! Toots - hoots! Hoots-hoots! Toots-toots! North. You are severe, James, but your strictures are just. Shepherd. The warst apothegm that ever was kittled in the shape o' a paradox; and then, sir, the expression's as puir's the thocht. The calm affections-if by them Mr Muir means a' the great natural affections, and he can mean naething else -are no the "cement" merely o' domestic life, but they are its Sowl, its Essence, its Being, Itsel! Cement's a sort o' lime or slime North. I should not quarrel with the words, James, if their meaning Shepherd. But I do quarrel wi' the words, sir, and they deserve to hae their noses pu'd for leears. I recolleck the passage perfeckly weel, and it's as easy to rend it intil flinders, as to tear to rags a rotten blanket left by some gypsey on a nyuck by the roadside. Tak you the byuck, sir-for you're 1 Skrow-number, swarm. |