28 SONG WRITTEN BY RIDDELL. And the last of his days aye the bauldest, young man.— Wi' his neb to the sun, And his doup to the General Director,1 young man. North. A perfect Pistrucci! Shepherd. Haud your tongue, and I'll sing you ane o' the bonniest sangs you ever heard in a' your born days. I dinna ken that I ever wrote a better ane mysel. It is by a friend o' mine-as yet an obscure man-Henry Riddell―t'ither day a shepherd like mysel-but now a student. SONG.-To the Air of “Lord Lennox.” 1. When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain; And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, 2. Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming ; And my soul's fondest hopes are all gather'd to thee. North. Beautiful, indeed, James-Mr Riddell is a man of much merit, and deserves encouragement. The verses on the death of Byron, published a week ago by my friend John 1 This is a mysterious allusion to that part of the town where executions take place.-C. N. Mr David Bridges, cloth-merchant, had a shop in the vicinity of the spot where persons "dance cutty-mun wi' their nebs to the sun," or, in plain language, are hanged. From a taste which he supposed himself to have in painting, he was dubbed by the Blackwood wits "General Director of the Fine Arts in Scotland." TICKLER REAPPEARS. 29 Anderson, show feeling and originality. But would you believe it, my beloved Shepherd, my eyes are gathering straws. Re-enter TICKLER. Shepherd. There's Harry Longleggs. Tickler. I felt somewhat hungry so long after supper, and having detected a round of beef in a cupboard, I cut off a segment of a circle, and have been making myself comfortable at the solitary kitchen-fire. North (rising). Come away, my young friend-Give me your arm, James. That will do, Shepherd-softly, slowly, my dearest Hogg-no better supporter than the author of the Queen's Wake. Shepherd. What a gran' ticker is Mr Ambrose's clock! It beats like the strong, regular pulse of a healthy house. Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! Hear till her gee'ing the warning. I'll just finish these twa half tumblers o' porter, and the wee drappie in the bit blue noseless juggy. As sure's death, it has chapped Three. The lass that sits up at the Harrow1'll hae gane to the garret, and how'll I get in? (Sus canit).—O let me in this ae night, This ae ae ae night, &c. With a' our daffin, we are as sober as three judges with double gowns. Tickler. As sober! Shepherd. Dear me, Mr North, what's that in your coatpouch? North (subridens illi). Two numbers of Maga, you dog. The London trashery has had hitherto the start of me in the market. Our next Number is for April-and April showers bring May-flowers. 2 Mr AMBROSE looks out in his nightcap-wishing good-night with his usual suavity-Exeunt―TICKLER in advance— and NORTH leaning on the SHEPHERD. 1 The sign of the hostelrie near the Grassmarket where Hogg resided when in Edinburgh. 2 Previous to this time the London periodicals had the start of Blackwood's Magazine, inasmuch as they were published at the beginning of the month, while Blackwood did not appear until the end of it. Blackwood brought up his lee-way on the 28th of February 1825, by putting forth two numbers at once the one for February, and the other for March. These were the two numbers which North had in his coat-pocket. (SEPTEMBER 1825.) Blue Parlour.—NORTH and TICKLER. North. With what admirable ingenuity hath our Ambrose contrived to procure a perpetual play of Zephyr, even during the summer noon, in this Sanctum Sanctorum! Tickler. What a scientific thorough-draught! How profound these shadows! Not a leaf is withered on that beautiful geranium! Never was that flowering myrtle more "brightly, deeply, beautifully green." Week after week that carnation tree displays new orbs of crimson glory. Saw ye ever, North, such a tiger-lily, so wildly, fiercely beautiful, like its forest brother, the animal that terrifies the desert with his glittering and gorgeous motion, as he bounds over brake and jungle in famine or in play? North. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy! First Timothy? Tickler. Too poetical? Why, that red champagne has stirred up all the ethereal particles that mysteriously constitute the soul; and, as Jeffrey said to Coleridge, "Why, sir, my whole talk is poetry." North. Whoever wishes to know what poetry is, to know it clearly, distinctly, and permanently, let him read Barry Cornwall's article thereon in the last Number of the Edinburgh Review.1 Tickler. That young gentleman deserves a dressing at your hands or mine, North, for he often runs a-muck now; not in the Malay, however, but Cockney fashion, and the pen must be wrested out of his lily hand. North. The image is not unamusing; a slight, slim poetaster mincing a-muck among the great English bards! I love 1 No. LXXXIII. BARRY CORNWALL IN EDINBURGH REVIEW. 31 Barry, for he writes pretty-very pretty verses—and has an eye for the beautiful; but in the character of critic .... Tickler. He courts the world's applause, by endeavouring to imitate Leigh Hunt, Hazlitt, Jeffrey, the London Magazine, himself, Johnny Keates, and the morning papers; and in such slang he jargons the characters of Shakespeare and Milton. It is indeed despicable to see the old Blue and Yellow reduced to such drivelling as this;-but what are you reading, North? North. The account of the Lion-fight at Warwick; a most brutal business-hideous and loathsome. But why confuse such infamous cruelty with such a cheerful pastime as pugilism?1 Would you believe it, that the editor of the New Times has discontinued those admirable accounts of all the great fights that made his paper as much prized in the sporting as it has long been in the political and fashionable world? I do not find that he has shut his columns to those grossly indecent quack advertisements that render newspapers unfit to lie on the breakfast-table of an honest family. Is this consistent? Tickler. Very silly. By so doing, he disappoints a vast number of his subscribers. What right has he to disappoint five hundred country gentlemen, all anxious to know the character and result of any battle? North. None. They take his paper, to be sure, for other and higher reasons; but they are entitled to find in its columns full and particular accounts of all such contests,—for, right or wrong, they form part of our national pastimes, create a prodigious interest among all classes, and a man looks and feels like a ninny on going into company in utter ignorance of that event which furnishes the sole conversation of that one day. I trust this hint will be taken. Tickler. Confound all cruelty to animals!--but I much question the efficacy of law to against the human. Let that moral indignation of the people. protect the inferior creation protection be found in the That Irish jackass, Martin," 2 1 "After supper Dr Johnson said, 'I am sorry that prize-fighting has gone out; every art should be preserved, and the art of defence is surely important.""-BOSWELL'S Life, ch. xxxix. 2 Richard Martin, M.P. for Galway, carried through Parliament a bill for the prevention and punishment of cruelty to animals, and sedulously watched its enforcement, by infesting the police-offices with informations. In Blackwood's Magazine for October 1825, the vehement expressions here directed against the Irish member are qualified and explained. 32 RICHARD MARTIN, M.P. throws an air of ridicule over the whole matter by his insufferable idiotism. I hope to see his skull, thick as it is, cracked one of these days; for that vulgar and angry gabble with which he weekly infests the police-offices of the metropolis, is a greater outrage to humanity than any fifty blows. ever inflicted on the snout of pig, or the buttocks of beeve; blows which, in one and the same breath, the blustering and blundering blockhead would fain prosecute, punish, and pardon. North. It is not possible to define cruelty to animals, so as to bring it within the salutary operation of law. That being the case, there should be no law on the subject. I am an old, weak man, now, but I was once young and strong; and this fist, Timothy, now with difficulty folded into a bunch of fives, -for these chalk-stones forbid,—has levelled many a brute in the act of unmercifully beating his horse, his ass, or his wife. Every man ought to take the law into his own hands on such occasions. Thus only can the inferior animals walk the streets of London in any degree of security. Tickler. Pray, Mr Richard Martin, did you ever try to drive a pig? or to keep a flock of sheep, or a drove of cattle together, in the midst of the riot, tumult, and confusion of Smithfield? It is no such easy job, I can tell you; and nothing short of a most impertinent and provoking puppy must that person be, who stops short a drover in all his agonies of exasperation, for merely banging the hide of an over-fed ox, about to join the colours of another regiment. North. Why don't they murder him at once? Tickler. Oh! he cannot expect to sit in another Parliament. I presume you know that he is to be Chancellor of the University of London ? North. I do. University of London! With what an air of pride will a young man look about him, in a company of poor Oxonians and Cantabs, who may have just finished his education in the University of London !1 Tickler. Tims, I am told, is to be a Professor. Yet, joking 1 There are three collegiate institutions in the metropolis-first, University College, London, founded in 1825, to which reference is made in the text; secondly, King's College, London, established in 1829; and thirdly, the University of London, established in 1836. 2 The writers in Blackwood's Magazine had affixed the harmless nickname of "Tims" to Mr P. G. Patmore, author of Letters on England, by Victoire Count de Soligny, 1823; and My Friends and Acquaintances, 1854. |