Shepherd. Mercy on us, only see how the articles are bouncin about the Parlour! Put your foot, Tickler, on that ane, and haud it doon, for it's made o' parchment, and has breaken my shins. Look at yon ane, the wee wizened' yellow creatur, how it's loupin atower the sopha, and then rinnin alang the floor like a moose, as if it were fain to escape aneath the door! What's the maitter, Mr North? Dear me, what's the maitter?

North. The matter, James? Why, that cursed communication on the Catholic Question has, I verily believe, fractured my skull. Had it hit me a little nearer the temple, I should have been a dead Editor.

Shepherd. Wae's me! Wae's me! A fracture o' Mr North's skull. It maun indeed hae been a hard article that did that —but wha can we get to reduce it?

Tickler. Well-who could have thought they had such spunk in them? Perfect Robin Goodfellows all-hop, step, and jump was the order of the day—and a cleaner somerset never did I see than that performed a minute ago by yonder lubberly-looking article now lying on his side on the rug in the jaws of the Tiger, who in the attempt to swallow him is evidently worsted.

Shepherd. I haena had siccan a whamle3 sin I was flung out o' a gig the summer afore last-but to be sure, in this case, there were nae reins to entangle about ane's legs, and nae wheels to gang shavin close by your lugs, wi' your head lying in a rut.-But let's rub your brows wi' vinegar, sir!

North. I warded off the force of the blow, James, with my crutch, else it might have been fatal.

Shepherd. Only to think o't, Mr North! But let's see what the article is? Burnin wull be ower gude for't. It shinna be burned, no it-Oh my prophetic soul! a Cockney Stink Pot!

North. Mr Ambrose, send in the scavenger.-Sorters, collect and arrange.

(C. B. B., Sorters, and Devil, in full employment.). Shepherd. Thae Incremawtors hae a gran' effec! They canna be less than sax feet four, and then what whuskers! I scarcely ken whether black whuskers or red whuskers be 1 Wizened-withered. 3 Whamle-upset.

2 Atower-over.

150

BEELZEBUB RECITES.

the maist fearsome! What tangs in their hauns! and what pokers! Lucifer and Beelzebub!

North. At home, James, and at their own firesides, they are the most peaceable of men.

Shepherd. I canna believe't, Mr North, I canna believe't; they can hae nae human feeling-neither sighs nor tears.

North. They are men, James, and do their duty.—He with the red whiskers was married this forenoon to a pretty delicate little girl of eighteen, quite a fairy of a thing—seemingly made of animated wax-so soft that, like the winged butterfly, you would fear to touch her, lest you might spoil the burnished beauty.

Shepherd. Married-on him wi' the red whuskers!

North. Come now, James, no affected simplicity, no Arcadian innocence!

Shepherd. You micht hae gien him the play the day, I think, sir; you micht hae gien him the play. The Incremawtor! Devil. The sorters have made up a skuttlefu' o' poetrySir, shall I deliver up to Lucifer or Beelzebub!

North. All poetry to Beelzebub.

Shepherd. A' poetry to Beelzebub !! O wae's me, wae's me-Well-a-day, well-a-day! Has it indeed come to this! A' poetry to Beelzebub! I can scarce believe my lugs— North. Stop, Beelzebub-read aloud that bit of paper you have in your fist.

Beelzebub. Yes, sir.

Shepherd. Lord safe us, what a voice! They're my ain verses too. Whisht-whisht.

(BEELZEBUB recites.)

THE GREAT MUCKLE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE.

AIR-" Sodger Laddie."

I.

D'ye ken the big village of Balmaquhapple,

The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple ?

'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple,

And what's to become of poor Balmaquhapple ?

Fling a' off your bonnets, and kneel for your life, folks,
And pray to Saint Andrew, the god o' the Fife folks ;
Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion:

THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE.

151

II.

"O blessed Saint Andrew, if e'er ye could pity folk,
Men folk or women folk, country or city folk,
Come for this ance wi' the auld thief to grapple,
And save the poor village of Balmaquhapple !
Frae drinking, and leeing, and flyting, and swearing,
And sins that ye wad be affronted at hearing,
And cheating, and stealing, O grant them redemption,
All save and except the few after to mention.

III.

There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye,
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, and sae greedy,
Wha prays every hour, as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses :
He's cheated a thousand, and e'en to this day yet
Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it;
Then gie him his way, he's sae sly and sa civil,
Perhaps in the end he may cheat Mr Devil.

IV.

There's Cappie the cobbler, and Tammie the tinman,
And Dickie the brewer, and Peter the skinman;
And Geordie, our deacon, for want of a better;
And Bess, that delights in the sins that beset her.
O, worthy Saint Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye,

If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit,
Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit.

But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them!
Their bodies at least, and their souls, if they have them;

But it puzzles Jock Linton, and small it avails,

If they dwell in their stomachs, their heads, or their tails;

And save, without frown or confession auricular,

The clerk's bonny daughters, and Bell in particular;

For ye ken that their beauty's the pride and the stapple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple."

North (to Tickler, aside). Bad-Hogg's.

Shepherd. What's that you two are speaking about? Speak up.

North. These fine lines must be preserved, James. Pray, are they allegorical?

152

HEATHER AND WHINS ON FIRE.

Shepherd. What a dracht in that lum!' It's a verra fiery furnace!-hear till't hoo it roars, like wund in a cavern! Sonnets, charauds, elegies, pastorals, lyrics, farces, tragedies, and yepics—in they a' gang into the general bleeze; then there is naething but sparking ashes, and noo the thin black wavering coom o' annihilation and oblivion! It's a sad sicht, and but for the bairnliness o't, I could weel greet. Puir chiels and lasses, they had ither howps when they sat down to compose, and invoked Apollo and the Muses!

North. James, the poor creatures have been all happy in their inspiration. Why weep? Probably, too, they kept copies, and other Balaam-boxes may be groaning with duplicates. 'Tis a strange world we live in!

Shepherd. Was you ever at the burning o' heather or whins, Mr North.

North. I have, and have enjoyed the illuminated heavens. Tickler. Describe.

North. In half-an-hour from the first spark, the hill glowed with fire unextinguishable by waterspout. The crackle became a growl, as acre after acre joined the flames. Here and there a rock stood in the way, and the burning waves broke against it, till the crowning birch-tree took fire, and its tresses, like a shower of flaming diamonds, were in a minute consumed. Whirr, whirr, played the frequent gorcock, gobbling in his fear; and, swift as shadows, the old hawks flew screaming from their young, all smothered in a nest of ashes.

Tickler. Good-excellent!-Go it again.

North. The great pine-forest on the mountain side, two miles off, frowned in ghastly light, as in a stormy sunsetand you could see the herd of red deer, a whirlwind of antlers, descending, in their terror, into the black glen, whose entrance gleamed once-twice-thrice, as if there had been lightning; and then, as the wind changed the direction of the flames, all the distance sunk in dark repose.

Tickler. Vivid colouring, indeed, sir. Paint away.

North. That was an eagle that shot between and the moon. Tickler. What an image!

North. Millions of millions of sparks of fire in heaven, but only some six or seven stars. How calm the large lustre of

Hesperus !

1 Lum-chimney.

A CALCULATION.

Tickler. James, what do you think of that, eh?

153

Shepherd. Didna ye pity the taids and paddocks, and asks and beetles, and slaters and snails and spiders, and worms and ants, and catterpillars and bumbees, and a' the rest o' the insect-world, perishin in the flamin nicht o' their last judgment?

North. In another season, James, what life, beauty, and bliss over the verdant wilderness! There you see and hear the bees busy on the white clover-while the lark comes wavering down from heaven, to sit beside his mate on her nest! Here and there are still seen the traces of fire, but they are nearly hidden by flowers-and

Shepherd. For a town-chiel, Mr North, you describe the kintra wi' surprisin truth and spirit; but there's aye something rather wantin about your happiest pictures, as if you had glowered on everything in a dream or trance.

North. Like your own Kilmeny, James, I am fain to steal away from this everyday world into the Land of glamoury. Shepherd. Hoo mony volumms o' poetry, think ye, the Incremawtor has thrust, just noo, intil the fire?

North. I should think about some score, or so, of crown octavo-350 pages-twenty lines to the page. Calculate that, James.

Shepherd. Here's my keelivine.

multiply by

350

Maist equal to a "farther portion" o' the "Excursion!" Surely, surely, there maun hae been twa-three1 thousan' gude lines amang sic a multitude!

Tickler. Devil the one-all fudge and flummery. More meaning in any one paragraph of Pope than in the whole skuttleful.

Shepherd. A skuttlefu' o' poetry! I canna thole either the sicht or the soun'. It's degrawdin to the divine art. Get out o' my reach, ye wee wicked weezen'd devil, or I'll clour your pow2 for you. And as for thae Incremawtors

1 Twa-three-two or three.

2 Pow-poll, or head.