238 THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. North. That I do, James. 'Twas there, up a spiral stone staircase, in a room looking towards the Castle, that first I saw my Shepherd's honest face, and first I ate along with him cod's head and shoulders. Shepherd. We made a nicht o't wi' twa dear freens1;—ane o' them at this hour in Ettrick, and the ither ower the saut seas in India, an Episcopalian chaplain. North. But let's be merry, James. Our remembrances are getting too tender. 2 Shepherd. What I was gaun to say was this,—that yon room, quate as it seemed, was aften the maist infernally noisy chawmer on the face o' this noisy earth. It wasna far, ye ken, frae the playhouse. Ae wunter there was an afterpiece ca'd the Burnin o' Moscow, that was performed maist every nicht. A while afore twal the Kremlin used to be blawn up; and the soun', like thunder, wauken'd a' the sleepin dowgs in that part o' the town. A' at ance there was set up siccan a barkin, and yellin, and youlin, and growlin, and nyaffin, and snaffin, and clankin o' chains frae them in kennels, that it was waur than the din o' aerial jowlers pursuing the wild huntsmen through the sky. Then cam the rattlin o' wheels, after Moscow was reduced to ashes, that made the dowgs, especially the watch anes, mair outrageous than ever, and they keepit rampaugin in their chains on till past twa in the mornin. About that hour, or sometimes suner, they had wauken'd a' the cocks in the neebourhood-baith them in preevate families and in poulterers' cavies; and the creturs keepit crawin defiance to ane anither quite on to dawn o' licht. Some butchers had ggem-cocks in pens no far frae my lodgings; and oh! but the deevils incarnate had hoarse, fierce, cruel craws! Neist began the dust and dung carts; and whare the mailcoaches were gaun, or comin frae, I never kent, but ilka halfhour there was a toutin o' horns-lang tin anes, I'm sure, frae the scutter o' broken-winded soun'. After that a' was din and distraction, for day-life begudes to roar again; and aften 1 Mr Grieve of Cacra Bank, Ettrick, an Edinburgh merchant; and Mr James Gray, one of the masters of the High School. The latter was an accomplished linguist. After leaving the High School, he held an appointment in Belfast College, and died in India, in the service of the Church of England, while engaged in translating the Scriptures into one of the native dialects. 2 Quate-quiet. Begude-began. 3 hae I risen without ever having bowed an ee, and a' owing to the burnin o' Moscow, and blawin up o' the Kremlin. North. Nothing of the sort can happen here. This must be a sleeping house fit for a Sardanapalus. Shepherd. I'll try it this verra nicht.-But what for tauk o' bedtime sae sune after denner? It's really a bit bonny parlour. North. What think you, James, of that pattern of a paper on the wall? Shepherd. I was sae busily employed eatin durin denner, and sae muckle mair busier drinkin after denner, that, wull ye believe me when I say't, that gran' huntin-piece paperin the wa's never ance caught my een till this blessed moment? Oh sirs, but it's an inspeeritin picture, and I wush I was but on horseback, following the hounds! Tickler. The poor stag! how his agonies accumulate, and intensify in each successive stage of his doom, flying in distraction, like Orestes before the Furies! Shepherd. The stag! confoun' me gin I see ony stag. But yon's a lovely leddy-a Duchess—a Princess—or a Queen— wha keeps aye crownin the career, look whare you wullthere soomin' a ford like a Naïad-there plungin a Bird o' Paradise into the forest's gloom-and there, lo! reappearing star-bright on the mountain brow! The North. Few ladies look loveable on horseback. bumping on their seat is not elegant; nor do they mend the matter much when, by means of the crutch, they rise on the saddle like a postilion, buckskin breeches excepted. Tickler. The habit is masculine, and, if made by a country tailor, to ordinary apprehension converts a plain woman into a pretty man. North. No modest female should ever sport beaver. It gives her the bold air of a kept-mistress. Tickler. But what think you of her elbows, hard at work as those of little Tommy Lye, the Yorkshire Jockey, beginning to make play on a north-country horse in the Doncaster St Leger, when opposite the Grand Stand? North. How engagingly delicate the virgin splattering along, whip in mouth, draggle-tailed, and with left leg bared to the knee-pan! Shepherd. Tauk awa-tauk awa-ye twa auld revilers; 1 Soomin-swimming. 240 DIANA ON HORSEBACK. but let me hae anither glower o' my galloping goddess, gleaming gracefully through a green glade, in a' the glorious grimness of a grove of gigantic forest-trees! Tickler. What a glutter o' gutturals ! Shepherd. O that some moss-hidden stump, like a snake in the grass, wud but gar her steed stumble, that she might saftly glide outower the neck before the solitary shepherd in a flichter o' rainbow light, sae that I were by to come jookin out frae ahint an aik, like a Satyr, or rather the god Pan, and ere her lovely limbs cou'd in their disarray be veiled among the dim wood violets, receive into my arms and bosom-0 blessed burthen!—the peerless Forest Queen! North. Oh gentle Shepherd!-thou fond idolater!-how canst thou thus in fancy burn with fruitless fires before the image of that beautiful cruelty, all athirst and a-wing for blood? Shepherd. The love that starts up at the touch o' imagination, sir, is o' mony million moods.-A beautiful Cruelty! Thank you, Mr North, for the poetic epithet. North. Such SHAPES, in the gloom of forests, hunt for the souls of men! Shepherd. Wood-witch, or Dell-deevil, my soul would follow such a Shape into the shades o' death. Let the Beautiful Cruelty wear murder on her face, so that something in her fierce eyeballs lure me to a boundless love. I see that her name is Sin; and those figures in the rear, with black veils, are Remorse and Repentance. They beckon me back into the obscure wi' lean uplifted hands, and a bony shudder, as if each cadaver were a clanking skeleton; but the closer I come to Sin, the farther awa and less distinct do they become; and, as I touch the hem o' her garment, where are they gone? North. James, you must have been studying the German Romances. But I see your aim-there is a fine moralTickler. Curse all German Romances.-(Rings the bell violently.) You've brak the bell Shepherd. Ay, Mr Tickler, just sae. rope, ye see, wi' that outrageous jerk. What are ye wantin? Tickler. A spitting-box. Shepherd. Hoots! You're no serious in sayin you're gaun to smoke already? Wait till after sooper. A TWINGE AND ITS CURE. 241 Tickler. No, no, James. I rang for our dear Christopher's cushion. I saw, by the sudden twist that screwed up his chin, that his toe twinged.-Is the pain any milder now, sir? Shepherd. Oh, sir! oh, sir! say that the pain's milder noo, sir !—Oh, dear me ! only to think o' your listenin to my stupid havers, and never betrayin the least uneasiness, or wish to interrupt me, and gaur me haud my tongue!—Oh, sir! oh, sir! say that the pain's milder noo, sir! North. Wipe my brow, James-and let me have a glass of cold water. Shepherd. I'll wipe your broo. Pity me-pity me—a' drappin wi' cauld sweat! But ye maunna tak a single mouthfu' o' cauld water. My dearest sir-its poishin for the gout-try a soup o' my toddy. There! grasp the tummler wi' baith your hauns. Aff wi't-it's no strang.—Arena ye better noo, sir? Isna the pain milder noo? North. Such filial tenderness, my dear boy, is not lost on -oh! gemini-that was the devil's own twinge! Shepherd. What's to be dune? Pity me, what's to be dune ? What's to be dune ? North. A single small glass, James, of the unchristened creature, my dear James. Shepherd. Ay, ay-that's like your usual sense. Here it's open your mouth, and I'll administer the draught wi' my ain hauns. Tickler. See how it runs down his gizzern, his gizzern, his gizzern, see how it runs down his gizzern-ye ho! ye ho! ye ho!' North. Bless you, James-it is very reviving-continue to converse-you and Tickler-and let me wrestle a little in silence with the tormentor. Shepherd. Wha wrote yon article in the Magazine on Captain Cleeas and Jymnastics ? 2 Tickler. Jymnastics!-James,-if you love me - G hard. The other is the Cockney pronunciation. Shepherd. Weel, then, GGGhhymnastics! Wull that do? Tickler. I wrote the article. Shepherd. That's a damned lee. It was naebody else but Mr North himsel. But what for didna he describe some o' the fates o' the laddies at the Edinburgh Military Academy, 1 This is the fag-end of some old Bacchanalian ditty. VOL. I. 3 Fates-feats. on the Saturday afore their vacanse? I never saw the match o' yon! Tickler. What tricks did the imps perform? Shepherd. They werena tricks-they were fates. First, ane after anither took haud o' a transverse bar o' wud aboon their heads, and raised their chins ower't by the power o' their arms, wi' a' the ease and elegance in the warld. Every muscle, frae wrist to elbow, was seen doin its wark, aneath the arms o' their flannel-jackets. Then ane after anither mounted like so many squirrels up to anither transverse bar— (transverse means cross.) Tickler. Thank ye, James,—you are a glossarial Index. Shepherd. Eh? What?-and leanin ower't on their breasts, and then catching haud, by some unaccountable cantrip, o' the waistband o' their breeks, awa they set heels ower head, whirligig, whirligig, whirligig, wi' a smoke-jack velocity, that was perfectly confoundin, the laddie doin't being nae mair distinguishable in lith and limb, than gin he had been a bunch o' claes hung up to frichten craws in the fields, within what's ca'd a wund-mill. Tickler. I know the exercise-and have often done it in my own back-green. Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha, ha! What maun the neebors hae thought the first time they saw't, lookin out o 'their wundows; or the second aither? Ha, ha, ha, ha! What a subject for a picture by Geordie Cruickshanks-Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Tickler. Your laugh, Hogg, is coarse-it is offensive. Shepherd. Ha, ha, ha, ha! My lauch may be coorse, Tickler, for there's naething superfine about me; but to nae man o' common sense can it, on sic an occasion, be offensive. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh dear me! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Lang Timothy whurlin round a cross-bar, up in the air amang the rowan-tree1 taps, in his ain back-green at Southside!!! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I wush I mayna choke mysel. Tickler. Sir, you are now a fit object of pity-not of anger or indignation. Shepherd. I'm glad o' that, for I hate to see ye angry, sir. It gars. ye look sae unco ugly-perfectly fearsome. Weel, 1 This rowan tree, or mountain ash, still flourishes in the back-green of No. 20 George Square, formerly occupied by Mr Robert Sym. |