254

MRS JOHNSTON.-MISS FERRIER.

explains a'-Genius-Genius-wull a' the metafhizzians in the warld ever expound that mysterious monysyllable ? Tickler. Monosyllable, James, did ye say?

Shepherd. Ay-Monysyllable! Doesna that mean a word o' three syllables?

Tickler. It's all one in the Greek-my dear James.

Shepherd. Do you ken onything about Elizabeth de Bruce, a novelle, in three volumes, announced by Mr Blackwood? North. Nothing-but that it is the production of the lady' who, a dozen years ago, wrote Clan Albin, a novel of great merit, full of incident and character, and presenting many fine and bold pictures of external nature.

Shepherd. Is that the way o't? I ken her gran❜ly—and she's little, if at a' inferior, in my opinion, to the author o' the Inheritance, which I aye thought was written by Sir Walter, as weel's Marriage, till it spunked out that it was written by a leddy. But gude or bad, ye'll praise't, because it's a byuck o' Blackwood's.

North. That speech, James, is unworthy of you. With right good-will do I praise all good books published by Ebony -and know well that Elizabeth de Bruce will be of that class. But the only difference between my treatment of his bad books, and those of other publishers, is this—that I allow his to die a natural death, while on theirs I commit immediate murder.

Shepherd. Forgie me, Mr North. It's a' true you say—and mair nor that, as you get aulder you also get milder; and I ken few bonnier sichts than to see you sittin on the judgmentseat ance a-month, no at the Circuit, but the High Court o' Justiciary, tempering justice wi' mercy; and aften sentencing them that deserve death only to transportation for life, to some unknown land whence never mair come ony rumour o' their far-aff fates.

Tickler. Are Death's Doings worthy the old Anatomy ?3 North. Yes-Mors sets his best foot foremost—and, like Yates, plays many parts, shifting his dress with miraculous

4

1 Mrs Johnston, compiler of Meg Dodds' Cookery Book, and for many years the principal writer in Tait's Magazine. See ante, p. 173, note 1.

2 Miss Ferrier; born in 1782, died in 1854.

3 Death's Doings, says the American editor, consisted of a series of engravings by Dagley, with letterpress by Croly, Jerdan, and others.

4 A celebrated mimic and comedian.

CRUIKSHANK'S ILLUSTRATIONS.

255

alacrity, and popping in upon you unexpectedly, an old friend with a new face, till you almost wish him at the devil.

Tickler. We can't get up these things in Scotland.

North. No-no-we can't indeed, Tickler. Death's Doings will have a run.

Shepherd. That they wull, I'se warrant them, a rin through hut-and ha', or the Auld Ane's haun maun hae forgot its cunnin, and he maun hae gien ower writin wi' the pint o' his dart. Tickler. James, a few minutes ago you mentioned the name of that prince of caricaturists, George Cruikshank; pray, have you seen his Phrenological Illustrations?1

Shepherd. That I hae, he sent me the present o' a copy to Mount Benger; and I thocht me and the haill hoose wud hae faen distracted wi' lauchin. O sirs, what a plate is yon Pheeloprogeniteeveness? It's no possible to make out the preceese amount o' the family, but there wad seem to be somewhere about a dizzen and a half-the legitimate produce o' the Eerish couple's ain fruitfu' lines. A' noses alike in their langness, wi' sleight vareeities, dear to ilka pawrent's heart! Then what kissing, and hugging, and rugging, and ridin on backs and legs, and rockin o' craddles, and speelin o' chairs, and washing o' claes, and boilin o' pirtawties! And ae wee bit spare rib o' flesh twurlin afore the fire, to be sent roun' lick and lick about, to gie to the tongues of the contented crew a meat flavour, alang wi' the wershness o' vegetable maitter! Sma' wooden sodgers gaun through the manuel exercise on the floor-ae Nine-pin stannin by himsel amang prostrate comrades-a boat shaped wi' a knife, by him that's gaun to be a sailor, and on the wa', emblematical o' human Pheeloprogenitiveness (O bit that's a kittle word!) a hen and chickens, ane o' them perched atween her shouthers, and a countless cleckin aneath her outspread wings! What an observer o' Nature that chiel is !—only look at the back of the Faither's neck, and you'll no wonner at his family; for is't no like the back o' the neck o' a great bill?2

Tickler. "Language" is almost as good. What a brace of Billingsgates, exasperated, by long-continued vituperation, up to the very blood-vessel-bursting climax of insanity of speech! The one an ancient beldame, with hatchet face and 1 Phrenological Illustrations, or an Artist's View of the Craniological System of Drs Gall and Spurzheim. 2 Bill-bull.

256

LANGUAGE.-VENERATION.

shrivelled breast, and arms lean, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand, smacking her iron palms till they are heard to tinkle with defiance; the other, a mother-matron, with a baboon visage, and uddered like a cow, with thighthick arms planted with wide-open mutton fists on each heap of hips, and huge mouth bellowing thunder, split and cracked into pieces by eye-glaring rage! Then the basket of mute unhearing fish, so placid in the storm! Between the combatants, herself a victress in a thousand battles, a horrible virago of an umpire, and an audience "fit though few," of figures, which male, which female, it is hard to tell, smoking, and leering, with tongue-lolling cheek, finger-tip, and nose-tip, gnostically brought together, and a smart-bonneted Cyprian holding up her lily-hand in astonishment and grief for her sex's degradation, before the squint of a white-aproned fishmonger, who, standing calm amid the thunder, with paws in his breeches, regards the chaste complainant with a philanthropic grin.

North. Not a whit inferior is "Veneration." No monk ever gloated in his cell with more holy passion on the bosom of a Madonna, than that alderman on the quarter of prize beef fed by Mr Heavyside, and sprig-adorned, in token of victory over all the beasts in Smithfield, from knuckle to chine. You hear the far-protruding protuberance of his paunch rumbling, as, with thick-lipped opening mouth he inhales into palate, gullet, and stomach-bag, the smell of the firm fat, beneath whose crusted folds lies embosomed and imbedded the pure, precious lean! Wife-children-counter-iron-safe-Bank of England -stocks-all are forgotten. With devouring eyes, and outspread hand, he stands, staff-supported, before the beauty of the Beeve, as if he would, if he could, bow down and worship it! Were all the bells in the city, all the cannons in the Tower, to ring and roar, his ears would be deaf to the din in presence of the glorious object of his veneration. For one hour's mouthworship of this idol, would he sink his soul and his hope of any other heaven. "Let me eat, were I to die!" is the sentiment of his mute, unmuttered prayer; and the passionate watering from eyeball, chop, and chin, bears witness to the intensity of his religious faith-say rather his adoration !

Shepherd. I wush Mr Ambrose had been in the room, that he micht hae telt us which o' the three has spoken the

greatest nonsense. Yet I'm no sure if a mair subdued style o' criticism would do for the warks o' the Fine Arts, especially for picturs.

Tickler. George Cruikshank's various and admirable works should be in the possession of all lovers of the Arts. He is far more than the Prince of Caricaturists,—a man who regards the ongoings of life with the eye of genius; and he has a clear insight through the exterior of manners into the passions of the heart. He has wit as well as humour-feeling as well as fancy-and his original vein appears to be inexhaustible.Here's his health in a bumper.

Shepherd. Geordy Cruikshank!-But stop awee, my tummler's dune. Here's to him in a caulker, and there's no mony folk whase health I wad drink, during toddy, in pure speerit.

North. I will try you with another, James. A man of firstrate genius—yet a man as unlike as can be to George Cruikshank-William Allan.1

Shepherd. Rax ower the green bottle-Wully Allan! hurraw, hurraw, hurraw!

North. The "Assassination of the Regent Moray," my friend's last great work, is one of the finest historical pictures of modern times; and the Duke of Bedford showed himself a judicious patron of the art, in purchasing it. In all but colouring, it may stand by the side of the works of the great old masters. A few days ago I looked in upon him, and found him hard at work, in a large fur cap, like a wizard or an alchemist, on "Queen Mary's Landing at Leith." Of all the Queen Marys that ever walked on wood, the Phantom his genius has there conjured up, is the most lovely, beautiful, and majestic. Just alighted from her gilded barge, the vision floats along

Shepherd. Come, come, nae mair description for ae nicht. Ne quid nimis.

Tickler. It will shine a star of the first magnitude and purest lustre

Shepherd. Did you no hear me tellin Mr North that there was to be nae mair description?

Tickler. The Cockney critics will die of spite and spleen;

1 Afterwards Sir William Allan, the late president of the Royal Scottish Academy. He died in 1850.

VOL. I.

R

258

SHEPHERD ON LOCKHART.

for the glory of Scotland is to them an abomination, and the sight of any noble work of the God-given genius of any one of her gifted sons, be it picture, or poem, or prose tale bright as poetry, turns their blood into gall, and forces them to eat their black hearts.

North. But England admires Mr Allan-throughout London Proper-and all her towns and cities. His pictures will in future ages be gazed at on the walls of galleries within the old palaces of her nobles

Shepherd. I say nae mair description for this ae night-nae mair description-for either that, or else this tummler, that's far ower sweet, is beginning to mak me fin' raither queer about the stamach.

North. You alluded, a little while ago, to the Quarterly Review, James.-What think you of it, under the new management? Shepherd. Na-I wad rather hear your ain opinion.

North. I may be somewhat too partial to the young gentleman,1 James, who is now editor; and indeed consider him as a child of my own———

Shepherd. Wasna't me that first prophesied his great abeelities when he was only an Oxford Collegian, wi' a pale face and a black toozy head, but an ee like an eagle's, and a sort o'lauch about the screwed-up mouth o' him, that fules ca'd no canny, for they couldna thole the meanin o't, and either sat dumfoundered, or pretended to be engaged to sooper, and slunk out o' the room?

North. I have carefully preserved, among other relics of departed worth, the beautiful manuscript of the first article he

ever sent me.

Tickler. In the Balaam-box?

Shepherd. Na, faith, Mr Tickler, you may set up your gab noo; but do you recollec how ye used to try to fleech and flatter him, when he begood sharpening his keelivine pen, and tearing aff the back o' a letter to sketch a bit caricature o' Southside? Na-I've sometimes thocht, Mr North, that ye were a wee feared for him yoursel, and used, rather without kennin't, to draw in your horns. The Balaam-box, indeed! Ma faith, had ye ventured on sic a step, ye micht just as weel at ance hae gien up the Magazine.

1 John Gibson Lockhart, Esq., the late editor of the Quarterly Review. Born in 1793; died in 1854.