MOORE'S PHILOSOPHY OF HUMAN LIFE. 103 North. I fear, James, the star won't do either. For Mr Moore inditeth, that "for the happiness of himself [the Poet aforesaid] and those linked with him, he is on the right road," which is not the language men use in speaking of a star, or even a constellation. And in the sentence that follows, he is again a good Christian; but not one of "the great martyrs separated by Fame from the rest of mankind," as may be known from her "marks not being to be found upon him" (he is no witch, James), and from the want of a crown on his temples. Still, whether a laughing hyena, a zebra, a quagga, a star, or a watchman, he " 'may dazzle," Mr Moore tells us, 66 may captivate the circle, and even the TIMES in which he lives [Mr Moore himself, I believe, does so,] but he is not for hereafter;" and this, James, is a specimen of fine writing in the philosophy of human life! Shepherd. O hoch! hoch! hoch! O hoch! hoch! hoch! Shepherd. Just rather a wee qualmish, sir. I can stamack as strang nonsense as maist men; but then there's a peculiar sort o' wersh fushionless nonsense that's gotten a sweaty sweetishness about it, no unlike the taste o' the puirest imaginable frost-bitten parsnip eaten alang wi' yesterday's sowens, to some dregs dribbled out o' an auld treacle-bottle that has been staunnin a' the season on the window-sole catchin fleesthat I confess does mak me fin' as gin I was gaun to bock.' That sentence is a sample o't-sae here's to you, you Prince o' Jugglers.-Oh! but that's the best you hae brew'd these fifty years, and drinks like something no made by the skill o' man, but by the instinck o' an animal, like hinny by bees. We maun hain3 this Jug, sir; for there'll never be the marrow3 o't on this earth, were you to leeve till the age o' Methuselah, and mak a jug every hour, till you become a Defunk. North. Tolerable tipple.-Besides, James, how can Mr Moore pretend to lay down an essential distinction between the character of those men of genius, who are born to delight the circle in which they move, and to be at once good authors and good men, delightful poets and admirable husbands, and those who are born to win a crown of immortality as bards, and as Benedicts to go to the devil? Shepherd. Na. You may ask that wi' a pig's tail in your cheek. Marrow-match, equal. Bock-vomit. 2 Hain-husband. 104 MOORE'S THEORY OF POETRY AND MARRIAGE. North. With a pig's tail in my cheek! What is the meaning and origin, pray, of that expression? Shepherd. A pig's tail's a quod o' tobacco. North. Oh!-According to this creed, Poets born to delight their circles must always be trembling on the brink of marriage misery. Shepherd. And mony o' them tummle ower, even according to Mr Muir's ain theorem. For the difference-if there be ony-can only be a difference o' degree-Sae wha's safe? North. Pope, it seems, once said, that to follow poetry, as one ought, "one must forget father and mother, and cleave to it alone." This was not very reverent in Pope, perhaps a little impious or so at all events not a little self-conceited; but while it might be permitted to pass without blame, or even notice, among the many clever things so assiduously set down in Pope's letters, it must be treated otherwise when brought forward formally by a brother bard to corroborate a weak and worthless argument on the nature of genius and virtue, by which he would endeavour to prove that they are hostile and repugnant. Shepherd. I aye pity Pop. North. In these few words is pointed out, says Mr Moore, "the sole path that leads genius to greatness. On such terms alone are the high places of fame to be won—nothing less than the sacrifice of the entire man can achieve them!" Shepherd. Sae to be a great poet, a man maun forget— bonny-feedy forget-mind no in the Scriptural sense, for o' that neither Pop nor Muir seem to hae had ony recollection, or aiblins they would hae qualified the observe, or omitted it -father and mother, sisters and brothers, freens and sweethearts, wife and weans, and then, after havin obleeterated their verra names frae the tablets o' his memory, he is to sit doun and write a poem worthy an immortal crown! Oh the sinner! the puir, paltry, pitifu', contemptible, weak, worthless, shamefu', shameless, sowlless, heartless, unprincipled, and impious atheist o' a sinner, for to pretend, for the length o' time necessar to the mendin the slit in the neb o' his pen, to forget a' that—and be a-POET. North. James-James-James-be moderate Shepherd. I'll no be moderate, sir. A' sorts o' moderation hae lang been ma abhorrence. I hate the verra word—and, MOORE'S THEORY REFUTED. 105 for the year being, I aye dislike the minister that's the Moderator o' the General Assembly. North. But be merciful on Mr Moore, James. Do not extinguish altogether the author of Lalla Rookh. Shepherd. I wadna extinguish, sir, the maist minute cretur in the shape o' a poet, that ever twinkled, like a wee bit tiny inseck in the summer sun. I wad rather put ma haun intil the fire, sir, than to claught1 a single ane o' the creturs in ma nieve, as ane might a butterfly wi' its beautifu' wings expanded, wavering or steadfast in the air or on a flower, and crush his mealy mottledness intil annihilation. Na-na-let the bit variegated ephemeral dance his day-his hour-shinin in his ain colours sae multifarious and so bonny blent, as if he had drapt doun alang wi' the laverock frae the rainbow. North. What? Thomas Moore ! Shepherd. I'm no speakin the noo o' Tammas Muir-except by anither kind o' implication. Sin' I wadna harm a hair on the gaudy wings o' an ephemeral, surely I wadna pu' a feather frae them o' ane o' the Immortals. North. Beautiful-James. Shepherd. Mr Muir's a true poet, sir. But true poet though he be, he maunna be alloo'd to publish pernicious nonsense prose about Poets and Poetry, without gettin't across the knuckles till baith his twa hauns be as numb as lead. in Let you and me convict him o' nonsense by the Socratic method. Begin the Sorites, sir. North. The Sorites, James! A good Poet must be a good man-a great Poet must be a great man. Shepherd. Is the law universal in nature? North. It is, and without exception. But sin steals or storms its way into all human hearts and then farewell to the grander achievements either of genius or virtue. Shepherd. A man canna imagine a' the highest and holiest affections o' the heart, without having felt them in the corecan he, sir? North. No. Shepherd. A man, therefore, maun hae felt a' that man ought to feel, afore he North. Yes. Shepherd. Can what? 1 To claught-to have clutched. 2 Nieve-fist. Shepherd. But can a man who has ance enjoyed the holiest affections o' natur, in his ain heart, ever cease to cherish them in its inmost recesses? North. Never. Shepherd. But is it possible to cherish them far apart, and aloof frae their natural objects? North. Impossible. Shepherd. But can they be cherished, even amang their natural objects, without being brocht into active movement towards them, without cleaving to them, as you may see bees cleaving to the flowers as they keep sook, sookin intil their verra hearts? North. They cannot. Shepherd. Then Mr Muir's dished. For colleck a' thae premises, inferences, conclusions, admissions, axioms, propositions, corollaries, maxims, and apothegms intil ae GREAT TRUTH, and in it, beside a thousan' ithers, will be found this ane North. "The sacrifice o' the entire man is the sacrifice o' the entire poet." Shepherd. Or, in other words, the man withouten a human heart, humanly warmed by the human affections, may as weel think o' becoming a poet, as a docken a sunflower. Mr Muir's dished. North. Mr Moore forgets, that without the practice of virtue, virtue "Languishes, grows dim, and dies ;" and that, without the indulgence of action, so do the highest and holiest feelings; so that the poet who neglects, disregards, shuns, or violates the duties of life, is forsaken of inspiration, and dies a suicide. Shepherd. Ony mair nonsense o' Mr Muir's? North. Lots. Shepherd. But what's that paper-ba' that you're aye keepin rowin atween your fore-finger and your thoom? North. Let me unroll it, and see-why, it's something quizzical. Shepherd. Fling't ower. Let's receete it. |