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CEDITE ROMANI SCULPTORES, CEDITE GRAII.

Tickler. Alcmena, James.

Shepherd. A' his labours are near an end noo! A' the fifty, if crooded and crammed intil ane, no sae terrible as the last! Loup-loup-loup-tummle-tummle-tummle-sprawl

sprawl-sprawl-row-row-row-roun' about-roun' about -roun' about-like an axle-tree—then ae sudden streek out intil a' his length, and there lies he straught, stiff, and stark, after the dead-thraws, like a gnarled oak-trunk that had keept knottin for a thousan' years.

Tickler. But for an awkward club-foot too much, would I exclaim,

"Cedite Romani imitatores! Cedite Graii."

Shepherd (raising North from the floor). Do you ken, sir, you fairly tyuck me in and I'm a' in a trummle. It's like Boaz frichtenin Ingleby' wi' his ain ba's.

North. Rather hot work, my dear James. I'm beginning to perspire.

Shepherd (feeling North's forehead). Beginnin till perspire !! Never afore, in this weary warld, was a man in sic an evendoun pour o' sweet! A perspiration-fa'! The same wi' your breist! What? You couldna hae been watter had you stood after a thunner-plump for an hour under a roan.

North. Say spout, James, roan is vulgar-it is Scotch-and your English is so pure now, that a word like that grates harshly on the ear, so that were you in England, you would undeceive and alarm the natives. But let us recur to the subject under spirited discussion immediately before Raphael's Dream-I mean the Jug.

Shepherd. Let us come our wa's in till the fire.

[The Three are again seated at "the wee bit ingle blinking bonnily."

North. Where were we?

Shepherd. Ou ay. I was beginnin to pent a pictur o' you, sir, stickin a speech on Slavery or Reform. Slowly you rise -and at the uprisin "o' the auld man eeloquent” hushed is that assemblage as sleep. But wide awake are a' een-a' fixed on Christopher North, the orator o' the human race.

Tickler. As is usual to say on such occasions-you might hear a pin fall-say a needle, which, having no head, falls lighter.

1 Two famous racket-players, I believe.

Shepherd. He begins laigh, and wi' a dimness in and around his een-a kind o' halo, sic as obscures the moon afore a storm. But sune his vice gets louder and louder, musical at its tapmost hicht, as the breath o' a silver trumpet. Action he has little or nane-noo and then the richt haun on the heart, and the left arm at richt angles till the body-just sae, -like Mr Pitt's,—only this far no like Mr Pitt's—for there's nae sense in that—no up and doun like the haunle o' a wellpump. What reasonin! What imagination! Fancy free and fertile as an auld green flowery lea! Pathos pure as dewand wit bricht as the rinnin waters, translucent

"At touch ethereal o' heaven's fiery rod!"

Tickler. Spare his blushes, Shepherd, spare his blushes. Shepherd. Wae's me-pity on him—but I canna spare his blushes-sae, sir, just hang doun your head a wee, till I conclude. In the verra middle o' a lang train o' ratiocination— (I'm gratefu' for havin gotten through that word)—surrounded, ahint and afore, and on a' sides, wi' countless series o' syllogisms-in the very central heart o' a forest o' feegurs, containin many a garden o' flowers o' speech-within sicht, nay amaist within touch, o' the feenal cleemax, at which the assemblage o' livin sowls were a' waitin to break out intil thunder, like the waves o' the sea impatient for the first smiting o' a storm seen afar on the main,—at that verra crisis and agony o' his fame, Christopher is seized wi' a sudden stupification o' the head and a' its faculties, his brain whirls dizzily roun', as if he were a' at ance waukenin out o' a dream, at the edge o' a precipice, or on a "coign o' disadvantage," outside the battlements o' a cloud-capt tower; his eyes get bewildered, his cheeks wax white, struck seems his tongue wi' palsy, he stutters-stutters-stutters-and "of his stutterin finds no end" till-HE STICKS!

Tickler. Fast as a waggon mired up to the axle-tree, while Roger, with the loosened team, steers his course back to the farm-steading, with arms a-kimbo on old Smiler's rump.

Shepherd. He fents! a cry for cauld spring-water

North (frowning). Hark ye—when devoid of all probability -nay, at war with possibility-fiction is falsehood, fun folly, mirth mere maundering, humour forsooth! idiotcy, would-be wit "wersh as parritch without saut," James a merry-Andrew, and the Shepherd-sad and sorry am I to say it—a Buffoon!

Shepherd. Haw! haw! haw! O man, but you're angry. It's aye the way o't. Them that's aye tryin ineffecktwally to make a fule o' ithers, when the tables are turned on them, gang red-wud-stark-staring mad a' thegither, and scarcely leave theirsels the likeness o' a dowg. But forgie me, sir— forgie me--I concur wi' you that the description was naething but a tissue as you hae sae ceevily and coortusly said - o' fausehood, folly, maunderin idiotcy, and wersh parritch

Tickler. James a merry-Andrew, and the Shepherd a Buffoon! Shepherd. Dinna "louse your tinkler jaw, sir," as Burns said o' Charlie Fox, on me, Mr Tickler for I'll no thole frae

you a tithe, Timothy, o' what I'll enjoy frae Mr North — an' it's no twice in the towmont I ventur to ca' him Kit. Oh! my dear freen, Mr North, do you ken, sir, that in lookin ower some sax-year auld accoonts

Tickler. Paid?

Shepherd. No by you at least for a bill o' butter for smearin, what should come till haun but a sort o' droll attempt at a sang by that dead facetious fallow, the late Bishop o' Bristol.

1 The Odontist was a real character. He is thus described in Hogg's Reminiscences of Former Days: "Of all the practical jokes that ever Lockhart played off on the public in his thoughtless days, the most successful and ludicrous was that about Dr Scott. He was a strange-looking, bald-headed, bluff little man that practised as a dentist, both in Glasgow and Edinburgh, keeping a good house and hospitable table in both, and considered skilful; but for utter ignorance of everything literary, he was not to be matched among a dozen street-porters with ropes round their necks. This droll old tippling sinner was a joker in his way, and to Lockhart and his friends, a subject of constant mystifications and quizzes which he partly saw through; but his uncommon vanity made him like the notice, and when at last the wags began to publish songs and ballads in his name, O, then, he could not resist going into the delusion! and though he had a horrid bad voice and hardly any ear, he would roar and sing the songs in every company as his own. Ignorant and uneducated as he was, Lockhart sucked his brains so cleverly, and crammed the Odontist's songs with so many of the creature's own peculiar phrases, and the names and histories of his obscure associates, that, though I believe the man could scarce spell a note of three lines, even his intimate acquaintances were obliged to swallow the hoax, and by degrees 'the odontist' passed for a first-rate convivial bard, that had continued to eat and drink and draw teeth for fifty years and more, without ever letting the smallest corner of the napkin appear to be lifted, under which his wonderful talents had lain concealed."

THE FIVE CHAMPIONS OF MAGA.

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Shepherd. Puir Pultusky!

North. A simple soul!

Shepherd. Amaist an Innocent! Yet what wut! Here it is-for his sake I'll chant it affetuosy-amaist lakrimoso-for I see the Doctor sitting afore me as distinct in his drollness, as if in the flesh.

THE FIVE CHAMPIONS OF MAGA.

A SONG BY THE LATE DR SCOTT.

(As sung by the Ettrick Shepherd, at the Noctes Ambrosiana, with the usual applause.)

I.

There once was an Irishman, and he was very fat;

He wore a wig upon his head, and on his wig a hat:

The Cockneys, in his presence, ceased to gibe at North and Hogg, sir, Bekaise he gave them blarney, and bother'd them with brogue, sir. Och! by my soul, this Irishman most sturdily attack would Whoever dared to sport his chaff, or run a-muck at Blackwood.

II.

There once was a Scotchman, and he was very lean;

A prettier man in philibegs was nowhere to be seen :

For fighting in the cause of Kit, he was a perfect satyr;

Upon the Whiggish ranks he rush'd, and spilt their blood like water.
Though wanting "inexpressibles," he constantly attack would,
With fury inexpressible, the enemies of Blackwood.

III.

There once was an Englishman, and he was very short ;

For every mutton-chop he ate he swigg'd a quart of port.

Of Tickler, Mullion, North, and Hogg, he did nought but dream all night, sir,

And in the daytime, for their cause, he nothing did but fight, sir. Whigs, Cockneys, Revolutionists, he furiously attack would,

And floor them with his bunch of fives· this champion stout of Blackwood.

IV.

There once was a Welshman, and he was very tall;

When North's opponents heard his voice, they looked out for a squall: In Maga's cause he was as fierce as General Napper-Tandy;

All foemen were alike to him—the bully or the dandy

He thrash'd them right, he thrash'd them left, their hurdies he attack would,

With Christopher's own potent knout—in honour all of Blackwood.

V.

There once was a Yankee, and he was very sage,

Who 'gainst the foes of Christopher a bloody war did wage;
Those who his rifle to escape were so exceeding lucky,

Ran off, I guess, and hid themselves in Erie and Kentucky.

The Cherokees and Chickasaws he furiously attack would,

And shoot their chiefs and kiss their squaws, if they spoke ill of Blackwood.

North. Next time you pay me a visit, James, at No. 991— I'll show you THE PICTURE.

or is't

Shepherd. I understaun' you, sir-Titian's Venus his Danaw yielding to her yellow Jupiter victorious in a shower o' gold? O the selfish hizzie !

North. James, such subjects

Shepherd. You had better, sir, no say anither syllable about them-it may answer verra weel for an auld bachelor like you, sir, to keep that sort o' a serawlio, naked limmers in iles, a shame to ony honest canvass, whatever may hae been the genius o' the Penter that sent them sprawling here; but as for me, I'm a married man, and

North. My dear James, you are under a gross delusion

Shepherd. It's nae delusion. Nae pictur o' the sort, na, no e'en although ane o' the greatest o' the auld Maisters, sall ever hang on ma wa's-I should be ashamed to look the servant lassies in the face when they come into soop the floor or ripe the ribs

North (rising with dignity). No picture, sir, shall ever hang on my walls, on which her eye might not dwell

Shepherd. Mrs Gentle! a bit dainty body—wi' a' the modesty, and without ony o' the demureness, o' the Quaker leddie; and as for yon pictur o' her aboon the brace-piece o' your Sanctum, by Sir Thomas Lawrence

North. John Watson Gordon, if you please, my dear James.

Shepherd. It has the face o' an angel.

North (sitting down with dignity). I was about to ask you,

1 No. 99 Moray Place was Christopher's imaginary residence in Edinburgh. No. 6 Gloucester Place was his real abode.