where the organ o' imagination or ideality lies; and at the touch arose the vision in which

"Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen,"

and frae which you, sir, in your freendship say, that I becam ane o' the Immortals.

The moral of the tale?

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

The moral o' the tale is this-that never was I sae happy in my parents' hoose as I was that nicht-that Saturday nicht. Thae eemages o' ideal goodness and beauty had saftened a' ma heart-and sae far frae my heart becoming chilled as my fancy warmed, as you, Mr Muir, aver is the case, I sat as mute as a mouse by the ingle, thinkin' on my father and mither, and brithers and sisters, and on the possible force o' affection in filial and parental hearts, till I cou'd hae dee'd for ony o' them; but since there was nae need o' that, I took a silent oath that I wou'd behave mysell weel in life, that the hearts o' ma twa' parents might sing aloud for joy, and that I wou'd work hard at ony mainer o' wark my maister chose to set me-auld Mr Laidlaw that I might in time mak up a sma' pose again' the day o' their auld age, and see that nae ither snaws than what Time draps frae his frosty fingers shou'd ever let ae single flake fa' on their unsheltered heads.

NORTH.

And that oath you devoutly kept, James.

SHEPHERD.

Ma "theory, at least, o' the social affections, was never sae refined and elevated as to unfit me for the practice o' them;" and yet I shou'd be doing injustice to the spirit within me, to the spirit that breathed in the bosoms of Thomson, and Ramsay, and Burns,-to the spirit that reigns a' owre Scotland, and hath its holy altars at this day in ilka hut and ilka shieling, did I fear to say, I-even I-have refined and elevated my theory of all the social affections far beyond the reach o' sic a meeserable deevil as Lowry Sterne; and that if people will whine owre dead asses, and neglect living mothers, the blame maun be attributed no to a refined and elevated theory o' the social affections; for I defy ony theory beneath the skies to be mair refined and elevated than is the practice o' the Christian, or imagination to conceive thochts or feelings half as beautifu' or shooblime as thousans that the real agonies o' life, be they agonies o' woe or bliss, send into men's hearts, driving like hurricanes, or breathe them like the hush o' some lown place. Think o' the speerit o' a son or a father ca'd upon by nature to do his duty on some great emergency-think, sir, on his haen done it-and done it because he knew it was well-pleasing to God-and then shew me, sir, any theory o' the social affections so high and so refined, that the mind wou'd feel a fall frae it, if required to ack in the light and glow o' common humanity?

NORTH.

Mr Moore seems, by his mild-looking silence, James, to acquiesce

SHEPHERD.

Do you acquiesce, Mr Muir?-Weel, a nod's aneuch.

NORTH.

But Mr Moore, James, says, "that not only is the necessity of commerce with other minds less felt by such persons-(the men of a higher order of genius)-but, from that fastidiousness which the opulence of their own resources generates, the society of those less gifted with intellectual means than themselves, becomes often a restraint and burden, to which not all the charms of friendship, or even love, can reconcile them."

SHEPHERD.

What? He wou'd indeed be a pretty fallow, wha, in opulence o' his ain resources, fand a fastidiousness generated within him towards his sweetheart!-because, forsooth the bonny lassie was less "gifted wi' intellectual means!" That would be rather philosophical, or rather pragmatical or pedantic, than poetical; and a girl would need to be a great gawpus indeed,

provided she was modest, and loving, and handsome, and weel-faured-and a poet's mistress must be endowed wi' sic qualities—afore a man o' the higher order o' genius wou'd feel fastidious to Fanny. Dinna you think sae, sir?

NORTH.

I do. Nay, I believe, that, were a true poet to marry an idiot, 'tis a thousand to one that he would never find it out.

Just as wi' a dowdy.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Precisely.

SHEPHERD.

The idiot would, in his eyes, be a Minerva, fresh frae the brain o' Jove

Lempriere!

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

and the dowdy, a Venus attired by the Graces.

NORTH.

"Men of a high order of genius" are not unfrequently fastidious in the formation of their friendships. They are privileged to be so; but their friendships, when once formed with congenial spirits, though perhaps less gifted, are imperishable-and they are sacred, far beyond the conception of vulgar souls.

SHEPHERD.

What do you mean by vulgar souls, sir?

NORTH.

Not the souls of shepherds, James, but of Bagmen.

Aneuch.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

And what more common than friendships between men of transcendent genius, and men of no genius at all?

"Worth (not wit) makes the man-the want of it the fellow;"

and before the power of Virtue, Genius loves to stand, not rebuked, for haply there was no occasion for rebuke, but in abasement of spirit, and reverence of her who is a seraph.

SHEPHERD.

A' orders o' minds mingle naturally, and o' their ain accord; and life woudna possess that delichtfully variegated character that is noo sae charmin', gin ilka class keepit aloof by itsell, and trusted to itsell for a' its enjoyment o' this warld.

NORTH.

Proceed to paint the inevitable results of any opposite system.

SHEPHERD.

Suppose poets, for example, and o' poets we're speakin', a' flocked thegither

NORTH.

On pretence of being birds of the same feather.

SHEPHERD.

-For a while they would a' luk unco bonny in the sunshine, sitting thegither on "some heaven-kissing hill," and assistin' ane anither to sort their plummage, till it purpled wi' many-shiftin' colours in the eye o' day, and seemed to set their necks and their wings on fire.

NORTH.

"But ere the second Sunday came”.

SHEPHERD.

-The knowe would be a' covered wi' bluidy feathers, as if there had been foughten there a Welsh main o' cocks! Some o' the poets would be seen sittin' on their doups, wi' their een picket out, and yet, like true ggemm, dartin' their nebs roun' aboot on a' sides, in houps o' finnin' a foe. Ithers o' them wou'd be aff and awa, whurr, ower the back o' beyont, and there venturin' to raise an occasional craw on their new domain. And ane, ob

noxious to a' the rest, would be lyin' battered to bits, stane-dead. So much sir, for birds o' a feather flocking thegither-when thae birds happened to be poets.

NORTH.

Whereas, by the economy of nature," poets and all other men of the higher order of genius" are sprinkled over society, and all their ongoings intermingled with those of the children of the common clay. And thus "poets and men of the higher order of genius" are made to submit or to conform to the usages of this world, and its ordinary laws, or, if they do not, they soon are made to feel that they are ridiculous, and that genius is never less respected than when it chooses to wear a cap and bells.

J

Anither skreed.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Mr Moore, towards the close of his disquisition, says," that if the portrait he has attempted of those gifted with high genius, be allowed to bear, in any of its features, a resemblance to the originals, it can no longer be matter of question whether a class, so set apart from the track of ordinary life, so removed, by their very elevation, out of the influences of our common atmosphere, are at all likely to furnish tractable subjects for that most trying of all social experiments-matrimony."

SHEPHERD.

I dinna like the soun' o' that sentence.

NORTH.

Nor I, James, In the first place, the portrait may bear, " in some of its features, a resemblance to the originals," and yet the question started by Mr Moore by no means be put to sleep.

His logic's oot at the elbows.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Secondly, Mr Moore has utterly failed in shewing, that the class he speaks of, are set apart from the track of ordinary life, and removed, by their very elevation, out of the influences of our common atmosphere.

SHEPHERD.

And you, sir, have utterly succeeded in provin' the very contrar.

NORTH.

Thirdly, there is a Cockneyish and Bagman-like vulgarity in the would-be fashionable slang-whangishness of the terms, " at all likely to furnish subjects for that most trying of all social experiments-matrimony."

SHEPHERD.

Hoo the deevil, Mr Muir, can ye, wi' ony semblance o' sense ava, man, ca' that the maist tryin' o' a'" social experiments," which is, has been, and will be, performing by all men and women in the "varsal world," with the exception of a few fools or unfortunates, called bachelors and old maids, frae the beginning till the end o' time-frae Milton's First Man, to Campbell's Last?

NORTH.

Why, really, James, Mr Moore here speaks of matrimony in the style of a sentimental farce-writer for the Cobourg Theatre. Observe what a silly look the word "matrimony" wears, and how like ninnies the "men of the higher order of genius" kythe on being brought forward by Hymen, in a string, and kicking and flinging out unlike "tractable subjects."

SHEPHERD.

The haill discussion grows ludicrous on reflection, and an air o' insincerity, almost o' banter, Mr Muir, at last plays owre your features, as if you were bammin' the public;-but the public's no sae easy bammed, sir, and imperiously demands "a wise and learned spirit" in him who takes it upon him to pruve that the holiest o' a' God and Natur's ordinances, is no suited to men o' the higher order o' genius, wha sou'd be a' monks and celibates, sae fastidious necessarily are they alike in freenship and love! Ony mair havers?

A few.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Say awa', for ony thing's better nor politiks-and I'm gratefu' to you for keepin' aff them the nicht.

NORTH.

Politics! I had forgotten there was such a thing in all the wide world. But here is a bit of poetical politics, by a young friend of mine, Jamesa promising youth, of the right kidney-and who, I doubt not, will one day or other do honour to an honourable name. My young friend informs me that the lines are written by one, who, without positively condemning the late French Revolution, cannot bestow upon it that unqualified approbation which many wish it to receive,-much less can justify those in our own country, who, while they profess themselves friendly to the constitution, take advantage of the late transactions in France for the purpose of inflaming the minds of an ignorant populace, and actually wear the Tri-color -the acknowledged badge of revolution.

THE TRI-COLOR.

Again o'er the vine-cover'd regions of France,
"See the day-star of Liberty rise!"
The plaudits of nations shall hail its advance
To its own native place in the skies.
O'er her patriot legions behold-as of yore-
The Tri-color banner unfurled;

'Tis the banner whose glory Napoleon bore
To the uttermost ends of the world.

The Red is the flush on the cheek of the brave,
As they tell of the deeds they have done;
And the Blue is the soft eye of Pity-to save,
When the battle of Freedom is won.

The White is the robe virgin innocence wears,
France's triumphs are innocent now,

For unnurtured by blood, and unwater'd by tears,
Is the wreath that encircles her brow.

But though freshly and fairly the laurel may bloom
For France in this hour of her pride,

And the voice of her martyrs proclaim from the tomb,
""Twas in Liberty's cause that we died;"

Shame to those! who, unconscious of Liberty's worth,
Sound the tocsin of groundless alarm,

Nor know, that, when brought from the land of its birth,
The Tri-color loses its charm.

For the Red is Rebellion's appropriate hue,

The Blue, livid Envy's foul stain;

And the White is pale Terror, that trembles to do

The deeds the base heart can contain;

But the red rose of England, and Scotland's brown heath,
Twined with Ireland's green shamrock we see,

Then let's bind them the closer with Loyalty's wreath,
That's the Tri-color, Britain, for thee!

Capital-sir-capital!

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

In looking back through the lives of the most illustrious, we shall find, says Mr Moore, "that with scarcely one exception, from Homer down

to Lord Byron, they have been, in their several degrees, restless and solitary spirits"

That's a lee.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

"with minds," he continues, "wrapped up like silkworms in their own tasks".

SHEPHERD.

Oh! Mister Muir, but that's a desperate bad eemage. Homer and Byron -twa silkworms! But wull ye answer me this, sir, dinna silkworms marry? Linnæus says they do-and James Wulson shewed me a box o' them a' enjoyin' their hinney-moon. If sae, why soudna poets marry too, as weel's thae bit "restless and solitary spirits" the silkworms, wham they, in their ither warks, it seems, sae nearly resemble?

NORTH.

Mr Moore may know more of Homer's life than I do, James; but I for one will never believe that he was a restless and solitary spirit—

SHEPHERD.

Wrapped up like a silkworm. Nor me.

NORTH.

"A stranger and rebel," Mr Moore insanely adds, " to domestic ties, and bearing about with him a deposit for posterity in his soul, to the jealous watching and enriching of which almost all other thoughts and considerations have been sacrificed."

SHEPHERD.

Says he that o' the ever-rejoicing Homer, wha was equally at hame on the battle-field, the plain o' ocean, the tent-palace o' the king o' men, the sky-dwelling o' the immortal gods?

NORTH.

Mr Henry Nelson Coleridge says well, in his Introduction to the Study of the Classics, Part First, "that Homer always seems to write in good spirits, and he rarely fails to put his readers in good spirits also. To do this is a prerogative of genius in all times; but it is especially so of the genius of primitive or heroic poetry. In Homer, head and heart speak, and are spoken to together. Morbid peculiarities of thought and temper have no place in him. He is as wide and general as the air we breathe, and the earth upon which we tread; and his vivacious spirit animates, like a Proteus, a thousand different forms of intellectual production-the life-preserving principle in them all. He is as the mighty strength of his own deep-flowing ocean,

• Whence all the rivers, all the seas have birth,
And every fountain, every well on earth.'”

SHEPHERD.

Oh, sir, what a wonnerfu' memory is yours! You're the only man I ever kent that can repeat aff by heart great screeds o' prose composition on a' manner o' soobjects, just as if they were extemporawneous effusions o' his ain, thrown aff in the heat o' discoorse. Mr Henry Nelson Coleridge maun be a clever fallow.

NORTH.

A scholar and a gentleman-though I intend taking him to task for a few trifles one of these days.

SHEPHERD.

What's Hartley about?

NORTH.

Dreaming in the leafless woods! Many an article he promises to send me --but I ask," Where are they?" and echo answers," Where are they?"

SHEPHERD.

Send him to boord wi' me in the Forest.

NORTH.

But to return to Mr Moore-he picks out the names of some great philo