'Twas silent as a midnight church, that dim and mystic place, "I leave," he said, " an empire dread, by mount, and shore, and sea, Or Soldan of the sunbeam's clime, girt with a conquering host. 66 They hear me, they that dwell far down where the sea-serpent lies, "They come to me with ancient wealth-with crown and cup of gold, "But a mightier power is on me now-it rules my struggling breath; His voice in faintness died away-and a sudden flush was seen, "Must those high words of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear? "And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love- Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply- Noctes Ambrosianae. No. LIV. ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ. [This is a distich by wise old Phocylides, An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days; C. N. ap. Ambr. Scene, the Snuggery-Time, Nine-Present, NORTH, SHEPHERD, and TICKLER. TICKLER. CENTAUR! No more like a centaur, James, than he is like a whale. Ducrow is not" demi-corpsed"-as Shakspeare said of Laertes-with what he bestrides; how could he, with half-a-dozen horses at a time? If the blockheads will but look at a centaur, they will see that he is not six horses and one man, but one manhorse or horseman, galloping on four feet, with one tail, and one face much more humane than either of ours SHEPHERD. Confine yoursell to your ain face, Mr Tickler. A centaur wou'd hae sma' diffeeculty in ha'in' a face mair humane nor yours, sir-for it's mair like the face o' Notus or Eurus nor a Christian's; but as for ma face, sir, it's meeker and milder than that o' Charon himsell Chiron, James. NORTH. SHEPHERD. Weel then, Cheeron be't-when he was instillin' wisdom, music, and heroism intil the sowle o' Achilles, him that afterwards grew up the maist beautifu' and dreadfu' o' a' the sons o' men. TICKLER. The glory of Ducrow lies in his Poetical Impersonations. Why, the horse is but the air, as it were, on which he flies! What godlike grace in that volant motion, fresh from Olympus, e'er yet "new-lighted on some heavenkissing hill!" What seems "the feather'd Mercury" to care for the horse, whose side his toe but touches, as if it were a cloud in the ether? As the flight accelerates, the animal absolutely disappears, if not from the sight of our bodily eye, certainly from that of our imagination, and we behold but the messenger of Jove, worthy to be joined in marriage with Iris. SHEPHERD. I'm no just sae poetical's you, Mr Tickler, when I'm at the Circus; and ma bodily een, as ye ca' them, that's to say, the een, ane on ilka side o' ma nose, are far owre gleg ever to lose sicht o' yon bonny din meere. NORTH. A dun mare, worthy indeed to waft Green Turban, "Far descended of the Prophet line," across the sands of the Desert. VOL. XXIX. NO. CLXXVI. R SHEPHERD. Ma verra thocht! As she flew round like lichtnin', the saw-dust o' the Amphitheatre becam the sand-dust o' Arawbia-the heaven-doomed region, for ever and aye, o' the sons o' Ishmael. TICKLER. Gentlemen, you are forgetting Ducrow. SHEPHERD. Na. It's only you that's forgettin' the din meere. His Mercury's beautifu'; but his Glawdiawtor's shooblime. TICKLER. Roman soldier you mean, James. SHEPHERD. Haud your tongue, Tickler. Isna a Roman sodger a Glawdiawtor? Does na the verra word, Glawdiawtor, come frae-the Latin for swurd ? Nae wunner the Romans conquer'd a' the warld, gin a' their sodgers foucht like yon! Sune as Ducraw tyeuck his attetud, as steadfast on the steed as on a stane, there ye beheld, staunin' afore you, wi' helmet, swurd, and buckler, the eemage o' a warriour-king! The hero looked as gin he were about to engage in single combat wi' some hero o' the tither side-some giant Gaul-perhaps himsell a king-in sicht o' baith armies-and by the eagle-crest cou'd ye hae sworn, that sune wou'd the barbaric host be in panic-flicht. What ither man o' woman born cou'd sustain sic strokes, deliver'd wi' sovereign micht and sovereign majesty, as if Mars himsell had descended in mortal guise, to be the champion o' his ain eternal city! Ma verra thocht! NORTH. SHEPHERD. Your thocht! you bit puir, useless, triflin' cretur!-Ax your pardon, sir -for really, in the enthusiasm o' the moment, I had forgotten wha's vice it was, and thocht it was Mr Tickler's. Who's ? TICKLER. SHEPHERD. Sit still, sir. I wunner gin the Romans, in battle, used, like our sodgers, to cry," Huzzaw, huzzaw, buzzaw !” NORTH. We learned it from them, James. And ere all was done, we became their masters in that martial vociferation. Its echoes frightened them at last among the Grampians; and they set sail from unconquered Caledon. SHEPHERD. What a bluidy beatin' Galgacus gied Agricola ! NORTH. He did so indeed, James-yet see how that fellow, his son-in-law, Tacitus, lies like a bulletin. He swears the Britons lost the battle. SHEPHERD. Haw, haw, haw! What? I've been at the verra spat—and the tradition's as fresh as if it had been but the verra day after the battle, that the Romans were cut aff till a man. Not one escaped? NORTH. SHEPHERD. Deevil the ane-the hills, whare the chief carnage rotted, are greener nor the lave till this hour. Nae white clover grows there-nae white daisies-wud you believe me, sir, they're a' red. The life-draps seepit through the grun'-and were a body to dig doun far eneuch, wha kens but he wou'dna come to coagulated gore, strengthening the soil aneath, till it sends up showers o' thae sanguinary gowans and clover, the product o' inextinguishable Roman bluid? The Living Statues ! TICKLER NORTH. Perfect. The very Prometheus of Eschylus. Oh! James! what high and profound Poetry was the Poetry of the world of old! To steal fire from heaven-what a glorious conception of the soul in its consciousness of immortality! SHEPHERD. And what a glorious conception o' the sowle, in its consciousness o' immortality, o' Divine Justice! O the mercy o' Almichty Jove! To punish the Fire-stealer by fastenin' him down to a rock, and sendin' a vultur to prey on his liver-perpetually to keep prey-preyin' on his puir liver-sirswaur even nor the worm that never dees-or if no waur, at least as illrug-ruggin', gnaw-gnawin', tear-tearin', howk-howkin', at his meeserable liver aye wanin' and aye waxin' aneath that unpacified beak-that beak noo cuttin' like a knife, noo clippin' like shissors, noo chirtin like pinchers, noo hagglin' like a cleaver! A' the while the body o' the glorious sinner bun' needlessly till a rock-block-needlessly bun', I say, sir, for stirless is Prometheus in his endurance o' the doom he drees, as if he were but a Stane-eemage, or ane o' the unsufferin' dead! A troubled mystery! NORTH. SHEPHERD. Ane amaist fears to pity him, lest we wrang fortitude sae majestical. Yet see, it stirs ! Ha! 'twas but the vultur. Prometheus himself is still-in the micht, think ye, sir, o' curse or prayer? Oh! yonner's just ae single slight shudder-as the demon, to get a stronger purchase at his food, taks up new grun wi' his tawlons, and gies a fluff and a flap wi' his huge wings again' the ribs o' his victim, utterin-was't horrid fancy?-a gurglin' throatcroak choked savagely in bluid! NORTH. The Spirit's triumph over Pain, that reaches but cannot pierce its core"In Pangs sublime, magnificent in Death!" TICKLER. Life in Death! Exultation in Agony! Earth victorious over Heaven! Prometheus bound in manglings on a sea-cliff, more godlike than Jove himhimself, when "Nutu tremefecit Olympum !" SHEPHERD. Natur victorious owre the verra Fate her ain imagination had creawted! And in the dread confusion o' her superstitious dreams, glorifying the passive magnanimity o' man, far ayont the active vengeance o' the highest o' her gods! A wild bewilderment, sirs, that ought to convince us, that nae licht can ever be thrown on the moral government that reigns ower the region o' human life-nae licht that's no mair astoundin' than the blackness o' darkness-but that o' Revelation that ae day or ither shall illumine the uttermost pairts o' the earth. NORTH. Noble. These Impersonations by Ducrow, James, prove that he is a man of genius. SHEPHERD. Are they a' his ain inventions, sir? NORTH. Few or none. Why, if they were, he would be the greatest of sculptors. But thus to convert his frame into such forms-shapes-attitudes-postures -as the Greek imagination moulded into perfect expression of the highest states of the soul-that, James, shews that Ducrow has a spirit kindred to those who in marble made their mythology immortal. SHEPHERD. That's bonny-na, that's gran'. It gars a body grue-just like ane o'. thae lines in poetry that suddenly dirls through you-just like ae smite on a single string by a master's haun' that gars shiver the haill harp. TICKLER. Ducrow was not so successful in his Apollo. NORTH. 'Twas the Apollo of the painters, Tickler; not of the sculptors. TICKLER. True. But why not give us the Belvidere? NORTH. I doubt if that be in the power of mortal man. But even were Ducrow to shew us that statue with the same perfection that crowns all his other impersonations, unless he were to stand for hours before us, we should not feel, to the full, its divine majesty; for in the marble it grows and grows upon us as our own spirits dilate, till the Sun-god at last almost commands our belief in his radiant being, and we hear ever the fabled Python groan! TICKLER. Yes, North, our emotion is progressive-just as the worshipper, who seeks the inner shrine, feels his adoration rising higher and higher at every step he takes up the magnificent flight in front of the temple. SHEPHERD. Na, na, na-this 'll never do. It's manifest that you twa hae entered intil a combination again' me, and are comin' ower me wi' your set speeches, a' written doon, and gotten aff the nicht afore, to dumbfounner the Shepherd. What bit o' paper's that, Mr Tickler, keekin' out o' the pocket o' your vest? Notts. Notts in short haun'-and a' the time you was pretendin' to be crunklin't up to licht the tip o' your segawr, hae you been cleekin' haud o' the catch-word-and that's the gate you deceive the Snuggery intil admiration o' your extemporawneous eeloquence! The secret's out noo-an' I wunner it was never blawn afore; for, noo that ma een are opened, they set till richts ma lugs; and on considerin' hoo matters used to staun' in the past, I really canna charge ma memory wi' a mair feckless cretur than yoursell at a reply. NORTH. You do me cruel injustice, James-were I to prepare a single paragraph, I should stick SHEPHERD. Oh! man, hoo I wou'd enjoy to see you stick! stickin' a set speech in a ha' fu' o' admirin', that is, wunnerin' hunders o' your fellow-citizens, on Parliamentary Reform, for instance, or Slavery in the Wast Indies, or NORTH. The supposition, sir, is odious; I— SHEPHERD. No in the least degree odious, sir-but superlatively absurd, and ludicrous far ayont the boun's o' lauchter-excepp that lauchter that torments a' the inside o' a listener and looker-on, an internal earthquake that convulses a body frae the pow till the paw, frae the fingers till the feet, till a' the pent-up power o' risibility bursts out through the mouth, like the langsmouldering fire vomited out o' the crater o' a volcawno, and then the astonished warld hears, for the first time, what heaven and earth acknowledge by their echoes to be indeed-a Guffaw! NORTH. James, you are getting extremely impertinent. SHEPHERD. Nae personality, sir; nae personality sall be alloo'd, in ma presence at least, at a Noctes. That's to say, nae personality towards the persons present for as to a' the rest o' the warld, men, women, and children, I carena though you personally insult, ane after anither, a' the human race. I insult? NORTH. SHEPHERD. Yes-you insult. Haena ye made the haill civileezed warld your enemy by that tongue and that pen o' yours, that spares neither age nor sect? I??? NORTH. |