THEATRICAL FUND DINNER.

339

dinna ken, because I never beheld ony woman, either gentle or semple, walkin in her sleep after having committed murder. But, Lord safe us! that hollow, broken-hearted voice, "Out, damned spot," was o' itsel aneuch to tell to a' that heard it, that crimes done in the flesh during time will needs be punished in the spirit during eternity. It was a dreadfu' homily yon, sirs; and wha that saw't would ever ask whether tragedy or the stage was moral, purging the soul, as she did, wi' pity and wi' terror?

Tickler. Ha, ha, ha!—James, was you at the Theatrical Fund Dinner,' my boy? and what sort of an affair was it?

Shepherd. Ay, you may lauch; but you did sae merely to conceal your emotion; for I saw your lips quiver at my picture o' the Siddons, as James Ballantyne used to ca' her in the Journal. He's the best theatrical creetic in Embro' though, notwithstanding rather ower pompous a style o' panegyric. But that's the way o' a' your creetics-high and low-rich and poor-Grosvenor Square and Grub Street-Royal Circus and Lawnmarket-you're a' upon stilts, and wi' speakin-trumpets, and talk o' the stage as if playactors and playactresses were onything mair than puppets, and could hae ony serious or permanent influence on the affairs o' this world. Whew, whew!

North. Would you believe it, James, that many modern Athenians assisted at the dinner you speak of, and did not subscribe a farthing; some not more than a penny, wrapped up in a bit of brown paper, as if it had been the Holy Alliance of Sovereigns?

Tickler. I think little about that-but do you know, James, that there are absolutely gentlemen in Edinburgh that are opposing, and going to appeal to Parliament, against the new improvements of the City-the South and the West approaches, and all because they may be taxed some ten or twenty shillings a-year?

North. They use two arguments-first, that the South and West approaches are local, and therefore ought not to cost those people anything who live in another part of the town.

Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw! So there's nae sic thing as a

1 At this dinner, which took place on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter Scott, who was chairman, avowed himself, for the first time, as the author of the Waverley Novels.

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IMPROVEMENTS OF THE CITY.

City! According to that rule, every bit dirty close maun tak care o' itsel, and there maun be nae general pervadin spirit, like the verra spirit o' life in modern Athens. What sumphs and meesers!

North. The second argument is, that every new improvement in one part of a city deteriorates property in some other part-and that if there be a fine couple of approaches to Edinburgh from the West and the South, the northern part of the New Town, especially the Royal Circus, will be ruined, and the houses sell for nothing.

Shepherd. Haw, haw, haw! Hip, hip, hip, hurraw! What sumphs!

Tickler. Then the Oppositionists have "opened at Budge's a subscription for receiving donations!"

Shepherd. That's desperate bad English surely-bit what for dinna ye publish the names o' the Opposition, sir?

North. Because I hate all personality, James, and besides, the names, with some two or three exceptions, are so obscure that nobody would believe them to be real names, such as Smith, Taylor, Thomson, &c. &c.

Shepherd. And anonymous names o' that sort-weel, weel. I see the creturs, in this ill-written manifesto o' theirs, sir, that you hae gien me to glance at, object to the improvements, because they're to cost some twa or three hundred thousan' pounds. That's the verra reason I wad agree to them—for it shows they're on a gran' and magnificent scale, and I like a' things that's gran' and magnificent. Then, isna Embro' said to be a City of Palaces?

North. James, you're very high on your chair to-night— you're surely sitting on something.

Shepherd. Ay-the last month's Magazines and Reviews. They're a' but indifferent numbers this last month-and your ain, sir, no muckle better than the lave-though it maintains a sort o' superiority.

North. I can afford, now and then, to be stupid. Wait till May-day, my dear Shepherd, and you shall see GLORIOUS

TWINS.

Tickler. The Monthly Review is a creditable work; and you surprise me, North, by telling me that it does not sell. The articles are heavy indeed, and anything but brilliant; but there is a sort of sober, steady stupidity about many of them,

MAGAZINES AND REVIEWS.

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that I should have thought would have been popular among a certain set.

North. It sells pretty well-about six hundred I understand. That number will pay a few pounds, occasionally, to a crack contributor, and the common run of its writers are not persons who can expect to be paid any other remuneration than a tavern supper once a-quarter, which costs Mr Knight but little-and he is too generous a fellow, we all know, to care about such a trifle.

Shepherd. I canna thole't. The Editor, I fear, 's a guseand he maun aye be kecklin himsel, after layin a big muckle clumsy egg amang the nettles, and then hissin at you, as if you were gaun to gie him a kick-haudin his doup up in the air in triumph, as if he were about to fire a royal salute. A guse is a lang-leeved bird, but that's only when he leads a quate life, in or about some auld ha' or castle, and has naething to disturb him-but a guse, though slow in understandin, is a bird o' quick feelings, and allow him to harass himsel wi' passengers and passers-by, and he will get lean in a twelvemonth, dwine away in perfect vexation, and waddling a' by himsel, like a rejected lover, into some obscure nook, expire the victim o' sensibility.

Tickler. North, do you know anything about this Journal of Foreign Literature about to be published in London?

North. Something. I have heard some great, and many respectable, names spoken of in connection with it, and if not started till the plan is matured, and regular contributors engaged, it will certainly succeed-otherwise, as certainly fail. It is, I hear, to be published by an eminent German house in London, and is intended to give the spirit of Continental literature and philosophy.

Tickler. A fine field undoubtedly-and I am happy to hear the plan is not to be confined to the literature and philosophy of Germany.

Shepherd. So am I-for the German authors are like pigs— great cry and little wool. I hae read about some thretty volumms o' translations frae the German this last year, chiefly tales, and deevil tak me if there be a first-rate tale in the haill lot.

North. A first-rate tale, James, is rather a rarity. I can't say that I ever read one. The Crusaders of Sir Walter Scott

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SCOTT'S NOVELS.-PASTORAL POETRY.

comes pretty near my notion of one, but not quite up to it— there being somewhat too much changing of dresses, and too much legerdemain. Redgauntlet, by the same writer, is somewhere, I opine, about a tenth-rate tale-Peveril of the Peak a fourth-rate one-Quentin Durward a third-rate-Waverley a second-The Pirate a third-Ivanhoe and Kenilworth

Shepherd. Let's see a tale o' your ain, sir, afore ye speak sae bauldly o' your betters.

North. Jeffrey and I never write anything original. It's porter's work.

Shepherd. Because ye canna. Ye're only creetics, and writin a review's ae thing, and writin a byuck's anither, let me tell you that, sir; and yet I dinna ken, Mr North, although I hae nae howps o' Mr Jaffray, oh! man, but I do think that you, that wrote the "Birds," and "Streams," and "Cottages," and "Hints for the Holidays," and "Selby's Ornithology," and other Leading Articles, last year, micht write a byuck to shame us a', gin ye wad only let yersel lowse on a subject, and pour yersel out wi' a' your birr ower four volumms, like a spate carrying everything afore you on to Finis, and drownin the catastrophe in a flood of tears.

North. James, I'll tell you a kind of composition that would tell.

Shepherd. What is't, man? Let's hear't.

North. Pastoral Dramatic Poetry, partly prose and partly verse-like the "Winter's Tale,” or, "As You Like It," or "The Tempest," or "The Midsummer-Night's Dream."

Shepherd. You're just the man for that, Mr North, sir,—only you're rather auld.

North. I have four such dramas, James, in my escritoire. Shepherd. Out wi' them, and let's see whether they'll be damned or no. Oh, sir, but you're hated by the Cockneys! North. I-I-James-hated by the Cockneys? What harm did I ever to the nation?

Shepherd. Extirpated them-that's a' dethroned their king, and drove him into exile,-reduced the Royal Family to beggars-taught the Nobility to spell themselves wi' the letter M, and rendered Little Britain desolate.

Tickler. Dramas of which the scenes are laid in the country cannot be good, for the people have no character.

Shepherd. Nae character's better than a bad ane, Mr

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Tickler;-but you see, sir, you're just perfectly ignorant o' what you're talkin about-for it's only kintra-folk that has ony character ava,-and town's-bodies seem to be a' in a slump. Hoo the street rins wi' leevin creatures, like a stream rinnin wi' foam-bells! What maitter if they a' break as they gang by? For anither shoal succeeds o' the same empty race!

North. The passions in the country, methinks, James, are stronger and bolder, and more distinguishable from each other, than in towns?

Shepherd. Deevil a passion's in the town, but envy, and back-biting, and conceitedness. As for friendship, or love, or hate, or revenge-ye never meet wi' them where men and women are a' jumbled throughither, in what is ca'd ceevileezed society. In solitary places, the sicht o' a human face aye brings wi't a corresponding feeling o' some kind or ither,— there can be nae sic thing as indifference in habitations stannin here and there, in woods and glens, and on hill-sides, and the shores o' lochs or the sea.

Tickler. Are no robberies, murders, and adulteries, perpetrated in towns, James?

Shepherd. Plenty-and because there are nae passions to guard frae guilt. What man wi' a sowl glowin wi' the free feelings o' nature, and made thereby happy and contented, wi' his plaid across his breast, would condescend to be a highway robber, or by habit and repute a thief? What man, whose heart loupt to his mouth whenever he forgathered wi' his ain lassie, and never preed her bonny mou' but wi' a whispered benediction in her ear, wad at ance damn and demean himsel by breakin the seventh commandment? As for committin murder, leave that to the like o' Thurtell and Probert, and the like, wha seem to have had nae passions o' ony kind, but a passion for pork chops and porter, drivin in gigs, wearin rough big-coats wi' a dizzen necks, and cuffin ane anither's heads wi' boxin-gloves on their nieves, but nae real South kintra shepherd ever was known to commit murder, for they're ower fond o' fechtin at fairs, and kirns, and the like, to tak the trouble o' puttin ye to death in cool blood

1

Tickler. James, would you seriously have North to write dramas about the loves of the lower orders-men in corduroy breeches, and women in linsey-woollen petticoats—

1 See ante, p. 81, note.