this verra room-and what has been the consequence o' sic puling criticism? Wishy-washy water-colours, sae faint that you canna tell a tree frae a tether, or a dowg frae a soo, or a fish frae a fule, or a man frae a woman. Why, Mr North, I'd lay my lugs, that gin our conversation here were a' taen doun in short-hand, and prented in the Magazine, there wadna be wantin puir cheepin fushionless creturs to ca't coorse. North. Theocritus has been blamed, James, on the same score. Shepherd. The Allan Ramsay o' Sicily, as I hae heard; and the best pastoral poet o' the ancient warld. Thank God, Mr North, the fresh airs o' heaven blow through your shepherd's hut, and purify it frae a' pollution. Things hae really come to a queer pass when towns' bodies, leevin in shops and cellars, and garrets and common stairs, and lanes and streets that, wi' a' their fine gas lamp-posts, are pestilential wi' filth and foulzie; and infested wi' lean, mangy dowgs, ruggin out stinkin banes frae the sewers; and wi' auld wives, like broken-backed witches, that are little mair than bundles o' movin rags, clautin' among the bakiefu's o' ashes; and wi' squads o' routin or spewin bullies o' chiels, staggerin hame frae tripe-soopers, to the disturbance o' the flaes in their yellow-tinged-lookin blankets; and wi' anes, and twas, and threes, o' what's far waur than a' these, great lang-legged, tawdry, and tawpy limmers, standin at closes, wi' mouths red wi' paint, and stinkin o'gin like the bungs o' speeritcasks, when the speerit has been years in the wudd; while far and wide ower the city (I'm speakin o' the Auld Town) you hear a hellish howl o' thieves and prostitutes carousin on red herrings and distillery-whusky, deep down in dungeons aneath the verra stanes o' the street; and faint far-aff echoes o' fechts wi' watchmen, and cries o' "murder, murder—fire, fire" drowned in the fiercer hubbub o' curses, endin in shouts o' deevilish lauchter-I say-What was I gaun to say, sir? something about the peace and pleasantness o' Mount Benger, was't no? and o' the harmless life and conversation o' us shepherds amang the braes, and within the murmurs o' the sheep-washing Yarrow. 2 North. I hope it was so―for that dark picture needs relief. Shepherd. And it shall hae relief. Wad it no be relief to rise, at Mount Benger, just a wee bit dim, dewy half-hour 1 Clautin-groping. 2 Tawpy limmers-slovenly jades. afore the sun; and when a' the household were yet asleep in the heaven o' mornin dreams, to dauner awa down to the soun' o' the waterfa', that ye skently see glimmerin in the uncertain twilight? North. And so leap in upon the Naïad before she has braided her tresses, or arranged the cerulean folds of her flowing cymar. Shepherd. Wad it no be relief to see green glittering Nature becoming distincter and distincter, far and wide ower the vale and braes, and hills and mountains, till, ere you can finish the unpremeditated prayer that God's beautiful creation has breathed into your heart-Earth and Heaven are in broad daylight, and, solemn thocht! anither morning is added to the span of man's mortal years ? Tickler. "O rus!" Shepherd. A' the larks are awa up wi' their sangs to heaven-a' the linties are low down in the broom wi' theirs -sic is the variety o' instinct amang the bonny creturs that live in nests! And the trouts are loupin in the water, and the lambs are rinnin races on the braes, and gin I were there to see, perhaps the wild swan is amang the water-lilies of St Mary's Loch, or say rather the Loch o' the Lowes, for that is a lonelier water, and farther up amang the shadows o' the hills. North. A morning landscape, by Claude Lorraine ! Shepherd. Returnin back hame, the wife and weans are a' at the door, and isna my wee Jamie' a fine fallow, wi' his licht-blue cunnin een, and that bashfu' lovin lauch, when he sees his father-and that saft and low forest voice, that gars me, every time I see the blessed face o' him, thank God for his goodness, and my heart overflow wi' what is surely happiness, if there be sic a thing as happiness on this inexplicable earth? Tickler. Here's your fireside, James-your porch-the rooftree. North, fill a bumper. (Three times three.) North. You once were so good as to flatter me by saying, that I ought to go into Parliament. Now, James, if you wish it, I will bring you in. Shepherd. I haena the least ambition. Sae far frae envyin the glory o' the orators in that House, I wadna swap ane o' my ain bit wee sangs wi' the langest-wunded speech that has been "hear'd, hear'd," this Session. Tickler. James, let us have Meg of Marley. 1 Hogg's eldest son. 4 An' sits down but to ferly. O light his torches warly, At the bright ee an' blithesome brow North. A simple matter-but well worth Joseph Hume's four hours' speech, and forty-seven resolutions. [Clock strikes ten-folding-doors fly open, and the Tria Lumina Scotorum sit down to supper. 1 Written by Hogg. 2 "Bangor" is the name of a tune, which Meg is here represented to have stown (stolen) from the clerk in the sense that he fell through it at sight of her beauty, as the minister, in the next two lines, is said to have fallen through the text. This tune is thus alluded to by Burns: "Mak haste an' turn King David ower, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor."-The Ordination. 8 Snooled-cowed. To ferly to wonder. (JULY 1826.) Scene, Buchanan Lodge-Porch. Time,-Afternoon. NORTH, TICKLER, SHEPHERD. Shepherd. What a changed warld, sirs, since that April forenoon we druve doun to the Lodge in a cotch? I couldna but pity the puir Spring. Tickler. Not a primrose to salute his feet that shivered in the snow-wreath. North. Not a lark to hymn his advent in the uncertain sunshine. Shepherd. No a bit butterflee on its silent waver, meeting the murmur of the straightforward bee. Tickler. In vain Spring sought his Flora, in haunts beloved of old, on the banks of the shaded rivulet North. Or in nooks among the rocky mountains Shepherd. Or oases among the heather Tickler. Or parterres of grove-guarded gardens Shepherd. Or forest glade, where move the antlers of the unhunted red-deer.-In siccan bonny spats hae I often seen the Spring, like a doubtfu' glimmer o' sunshine, appearing and disappearing frae amang the birk-trees, twenty times in the course o' an April day-But, oh! sirs, yon was just a maist detestable forenoon, and as for the hackney-cotchTickler. The meanest of miseries! Shepherd. It's waur than sleepin in damp sheets. You haena sat twa hunder yards till your breeks are glued to the clammy seat, that fin's' saft and hard aneath you, at ane and VOL. I. 1 Fin's-feels. M 178 SHEPHERD ON HACKNEY COACHES. the same time, in a maist unaccountable manner. The auld, cracked, stained, faded, tarnished, red leather lining stinks like a tan-yard. Gin you want to let down the window, or pu't up, it's a' alike; you keep rugging at the lang slobbery worsted till it comes aff wi' a tear in your haun, and leaves you at the mercy o' wind and weather, then what a sharp and continual rattle o' wheels! far waur than a cart; intolerable aneuch ower the macadam, but, Lord hae mercy on us, when you're on the causeway! you could swear the wheels are o' different sizes; up wi' the tae side, doun wi' the tither, sae that nae man can be sufficiently sober to keep his balance. Puch! puch! what dung-like straw aneath your soles; and as for the roof, sae laigh, that you canna keep on your hat, or it'll be dunshed down atower your ee-brees; then, if there's sax or eight o' you in ae fare1 Tickler. Why don't you keep your own carriage, James? Shepherd. So I do-a gig; but when I happen to forgather wi' sic scrubs as you, that grudge the expense o' a yeckipage o' their ain, I maun submit to a glass-cotch and a' its abominations. North. How do you like that punch, James? Shepherd. It's rather ower sair iced, I jalouse, and will be apt to gie ane the toothache; but it has a gran' taste, and a maist seducin smell-Oh! man, that's a bonny ladle! and you hae a nice way o' steerin! Only half-fu', if you please, sir, for thae wine-glasses are perfec tummlers, and though the drink seems to be, when you are preein't, as innocent as the dew o' lauchin lassie's lip, yet it's just as dangerous, and leads insensibly on, by littles and wees, to a state o' unconscious intoxication. Tickler. I never saw you the worse o' liquor in my life, James. Shepherd. Nor me you. North. None but your sober men ever get drunk. Shepherd. I've observed that many a thousan' times; just as nane but your excessively healthy men ever die. Whene'er I hear in the kintra o' ony man's being killed aff his horse, I ken at ance that he's a sober coof, that's been gettin himsel drunk at Selkirk or Hawick, and sweein aff at a sharp turn 1 This is a faithful description of the old hackney-coach-a very different vehicle from the smart broughams which now ply upon our streets. |