64 TICKLER'S APPETITE. North. Are the English people a dependent, ignorant, grovelling, mean, debased, and brutal people? Shepherd. Not they, indeed-they're a powerfu' population, second only to the Scotch. The English puir-laws had better be cut down some twa-three millions, but no abolished. Thae Political Economy creatures are a cruel set-greedier theirsels than gaberlunzies1-yet grudging a handfu' o' meal to an auld wife's wallet. Charity is in the heart, not in the head, and the open haun should be stretched out o' the sudden, unasked and free, not held back wi' clutched fingers like a meeser, while the Wiseacre shakes his head in cauldrife' calculation, and ties a knot on the purse o' him on principle. North. Well said, James, although perhaps your tenets are scarcely tenable. Shepherd. Scarcely tenable? Wha'll take them frae me either by force or reason? Oh! we're fa'en into argument, and that's what I canna thole3 at meals. Mr Tickler, there's nae occasion, man, to look sae down-in-the-mouth—everybody kens ye're a man o' genius, without your pretending to be melancholy. Tickler. I have no appetite, James. Shepherd. Nae appeteet! how suld ye hae an appeteet? A bowl o' Mollygo-tawny soup, wi' bread in proportion-twa codlins (wi' maist part o' a labster in that sass), the first gash o' the jiget-stakes-then I'm maist sure, pallets, and finally guse no to count jeellies and coosturd, and bluemange, and many million mites in that Campsie Stilton-better than ony English-a pot o' Draught-twa lang shankers o' ale-noos and thans a sip o' the auld port, and just afore grace a caulker o' Glenlivet, that made your een glower and water in your head as if you had been lookin at Mrs Siddons in the sleepwalking scene in Shakspeare's tragedy of Macbeth—gin ye had an appeteet after a' that destruction o' animal and vegetable matter, your maw would be like that o' Death himsel, and your stamach insatiable as the grave. Tickler. Mr Ambrose, no laughter, if you please, sir. North. Come, come, Tickler-had Hogg and Heraclitus been contemporaries, it would have saved the shedding of a world of tears. Shepherd. Just laugh your fill, Mr Ambrose. A smile is 1 Gaberlunzies-mendicants. 2 Cauldrife-chill. 3 Thole-endure. AMBROSE'S WAITING. aye becoming that honest face o' yours. sae wutty again, gin I can help it. 65 But I'll no be (Exit Mr Ambrose with the epergne.) Tickler. Mr Ambrose understands me. It does my heart good to know when his arm is carefully extended over my shoulder, to put down or to remove. None of that hurry-andno-speed waiter-like hastiness about our Ambrose! With an ever-observant eye he watches the goings-on of the board, like an astronomer watching the planetary system. He knows when a plate is emptied to be filled no more, and lo! it is withdrawn as by an invisible hand. During some 66 syncope and solemn pause" you may lay down your knife and fork and wipe your brow, nor dread the evanishing of a halfdevoured howtowdy; the moment your eye has decided on a dish, there he stands plate in hand in a twinkling beside tongue or turkey! No playing at cross purposes—the sheep's head of Mullion usurping the place of the kidneys of ODoherty. The most perfect confidence reigns round the board. The possibility of mistake is felt to be beyond the fear of the hungriest imagination; and sooner shall one of Jupiter's satellites forsake his orbit, jostling the stars, and wheeling away into some remoter system, than our Ambrose run against any of the subordinates, or leave the room while North is in his chair. North. Hear the Glenlivet!-hear the Glenlivet! Shepherd. No, Mr North, nane o' your envious attributions o' ae spirit for anither. It's the sowl within him that breaks out, like lightning in the collied1 night, or in the dwawm-like" silence o' a glen the sudden soun' o' a trumpet. Tickler. Give me your hand, James. Shepherd. There noo-there noo. It's aye me that's said to be sae fond o' flattery; and yet only see how by a single word o' my mouth I can add sax inches to your stature, Mr Tickler, and make ye girn like the spirit that saluted De Gama at the Cape o' Storms. North. Hear the Glenlivet!-hear the Glenlivet! Shepherd. Hush, ye haveril.3 Give us a speech yoursel, Mr North, and then see who'll cry, "Hear the Glenlivet!—— 1 "Like lightning in the collied night," Midsummer Night's Dream. Collied -blackened as with coal. 2 Dwawm-like-swoon-like. VOL. I. 3 Haveril-a chattering half-witted person. E hear the Glenlivet!" then. But haud your tongues, baith o' you-dinna stir a fit. And as for you, Mr Tickler, howk the tow out o' your lug, and hear till a sang. tie o' the shoe to the kembe. Love beckons in ev'-ry sweet motion, Com manding due homage to gie; But the shrine of my dear - est de votion Tickler (Passing his hand across his eyes). "I'm never merry when I hear sweet music." North. Your voice, James, absolutely gets mellower through years. Next York Festival you must sing a solo-"Angels ever bright and fair," or "Farewell, ye limpid streams and floods." Shepherd. I was at the last York Festival, and one day I was in the chorus, next to Grundy of Kirk-by-Lonsdale. I kent my mouth was wide open, but I never heard my ain voice in the magnificent roar. North. Describe-James-describe. Shepherd. As weel describe a glorious dream of the seventh heaven. Thousands upon thousands o' the most beautiful angels sat mute and still in the Cathedral. Weel may I call them angels, although a' the time I knew them to be frail evanescent creatures o' this ever-changing earth. A sort o' paleness was on their faces, ay, even on the faces where the blush-roses o' innocence were blooming like the flowers o' Paradise-for a shadow came ower them frae the awe o' their religious hearts that beat not, but were chained as in the presence of their Great Maker. All eyne were fixed in a solemn, raised gaze, something mournful-like I thocht, but it was only in a happiness great and deep as the calm sea. I saw- -I did not see the old massy pillars-now I seemed to behold the roof o' the Cathedral, and now the sky o' heaven, and a licht -I had maist said a murmuring licht, for there surely was a faint spirit-like soun' in the streams o' splendour that came through the high Gothic window, left shadows here and there throughout the temple, till a' at ance the organ sounded, and I could have fallen down on my knees. North. Thank you kindly, James. Catch me harpin ower lang on ae string. Yet music's a subject I could get geyan' tiresome upon. Tickler. So is painting and poetry. Shepherd. Paintin! na-that's the warst ava. Gang into an exhibition, and only look at a crowd o' Cockneys, some wi' specs, and some wi' quizzing-glasses, and faces without ae grain o' meaning in them o' ony kind whatsomever, a' glowering perhaps at a picture o' ane o' Nature's maist fearfu' or magnificent warks! Mowdiewarts," they micht as weel look at the new-harled' gable-end o' a barn. Is't a picture o' a deep dungeon-den o' ruefu' rocks, and the waterfa' its ragin prisoner, because nae wizard will with his key open but a wicket in the ancient gates of that lonesome penitentiary? Is't a picture o' a lang lang endless glen, wi' miles on miles o' dreary mosses, and hags, and lochs-thae wee black fearsome lochs that afttimes gurgle in their sullen sleep, as if they wanted to grup and drown ye as you gang by them, some lanely hour, takin care to keep at safe distance along the benty* knowes-mountain above mountain far and near, some o' them illuminated wi' a' their woods till the verra pine-trees 1 Geyan-rather. 3 New-harled-new-plastered. 2 Mowdiewarts-moles. 4 Benty-covered with bent-grass. |