You!!! SHEPHERD. TICKLER. Come, come, gentlemen, remember where you are, and in whose presence you are sitting; but look here-here is the APOLLO BELVidere. SHEPHERD. I wadna counsel him to shoot for the Guse Medal. Henry Watson wou'd ding him till sticks. NORTH. I remember, James, once hearing an outrageous dispute between two impassioned connoisseurs, amateurs, men of vertu, cognoscenti, dilettanti, about this very Apollo Belvidere. SHEPHERD. Confoun' me, gin he's no monstrous like marble! His verra claes seem to hae drapped aff him-and I'se no pit on my specs, for fear he should pruve to be naked.-What was the natur o' the dispoot? NORTH. Simply whether Apollo advanced his right or left foot SHEPHERD. Ane o' the disputants maun hae been a great fule. Shou'dna Apollo pit his best fit foremost, that is the right ane, on such an occasion as shootin' a Peethon? Hut-tut-Stop a wee-let's consider. Na, it maun be the left fit foremost-unless he was kerr-haun'd. Let's try't. (The SHEPHERD rises, and puts himself into the attitude of the Apollo Belvidere-insensibly transforming himself into another TICKLER of a shorter and stouter size. NORTH. I could believe myself in the Louvre, before Mrs Hemans wrote her beautiful poem on the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy. Were the two brought to the hammer, an auctioneer might knock them down for ten thousand pounds each. SHEPHERD. Whilk of us is the maist Appollonic, sir? NORTH. Why, James, you have the advantage of Tickler, in being, as it were, in the prime of youth-for though by the parish register you have passed the sixtieth year-stone on the road of life, you look as fresh as if you had not finished the first stage. Do you hear that, Mr Tickler? SHEPHERD. NORTH. You have also most conspicuously the better of Mr Tickler in the article of hair. Yours are locks-his leeks. SHEPHERD. Mr Tickler, are you as deaf and dumb's a statute, as weel's as stiff? NORTH. As to features, the bridge of Tickler's nose-begging his pardon-is of too prominent a build. The arch reminds me of the old bridge across the Esk, at Musselburgh. Mr Tickler? SHEPHERD, NORTH. But neither is the nose of the gentle Shepherd pure Grecian. Why, there, I must say, gentlemen, there's a wide opening for Of Tickler's attitude I should say generally-that is (Here TICKLER reassumes SOUTHSIDE, and taking the Snuggery at a stride, usurps THE CHAIR, and outstretches himself to his extremest length, with head leaning on the ridge, and his feet some yards off on the fender. SHEPHERD (leaping about.) Huzzaw-huzzaw-huzzaw !-I've beaten him at Apollo! Noo for Pan. (The SHEPHERD performs Pan in a style that would have seduced Pomona. SHEPHERD. Keep your een on me-keep your een on me -and you'll soon see a change that will strike you wi' astonishment. But rax me owre the poker, Mr North-rax me owre the poker. (NORTH puts the poker into Pan's paws, and instanter he is Her cules. Bravo Bravissimo! TICKLER (clapping his hands.) NORTH. I had better remove the crystal. (Wheels the circular closer to the hearth.) James, remember the mirror. TICKLER. At that blow dies the Nemean lion. (The SHEPHERD, flinging down the poker-club, seems to drag up the carcass of the Monster with a prodigious display of muscularity, and then stooping his neck, heaves it over his head, as into some profound abyss. Ducrow's Double! NORTH. SHEPHERD (proudly.) Say rather the Dooble, that's Twa, o' Ducraw. Ducraw's nae mair fit to ack Hercules wi' me, than he is to ack Sampson. I believe it. TICKLER. SHEPHERD. I cou'd tell ye a droll story about me and Mr Ducraw. Ae nicht I got intil an argument wi' him at the Caffée, about the true scriptral gate o' ackin' the Fear o' the Philistines, and I was pressin' him gaen hard aboot his method o' puin' doon the pillars, when he turns aboot upon me-and bein' putten o' his metal-says, " Mr Hogg, why did not you object to my representing in one scene-and at one time-Sampson carrying away the gates of Gaza, and also pullin' down the pillars ?" NORTH. There he had you on the hip, James. SHEPHERD. I hadna a word to say for't-but confessed at aince that it's just the way o' a' critics wha stumble ower molehills, and yet mak naething o' mountains. The truth is, that a' us that are maisters in the fine arts, kens ilka ane respectively about his ain art a thoosan' times mair nor ony possible body else-and I thocht on the pedant lecturin' Hannibal on war, or ony ither pedant me on poetry, or St Cecilia on music, or Christopher North on literatur, or Sir Isaac Newton on the stars, or NORTH. Now, James, that you may not say that I ever sulkily or sullenly refuse to contribute my quota of "weel-timed daffin" to the Noctes-behold me in HERCULES FUrens. (NORTH off with coat and waistcoat in a jiffy, and goes to work. SHEPHERD. That's fearsome! Dinna tear your shirt to rags-dinna tear your shirt to rags, sir! Linens is cheap the noo, to be sure-dinna tear your shirt, sir-dinna tear your shirt. What pains maun a' that shuin' on the breest and collar hae cost Mrs Gentle! TICKLER. O Dejanira! Dejanira! Dejanira! SHEPHERD. That out-hercules's Hercules! Foamin' at the mooth like a mad-dowg! The Epilepsy! The quiverin' o' his hauns! The whites o' his een, noo flickerin' and noo fixed! Oh! dire mishapen lauchter, drawin' his mooth awa up alang the tae side o' his face, owtowre till ane o' his lugs! Puir Son o' Alknomook! Alemena, James. TICKLER. SHEPHERD. A' his labours are near an end noo! A' the fifety, 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' aboot-roun' aboot-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 thoosan' 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 tyeuck 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 even-doon poor o' sweet! A perspiration-fa'! The same wi' your breest! What? You cou'dna hae been watter had you stood after a thunner-plump for an hoor unner 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 intil the fire. (The Three are again seated at " the wee bit ingle blinking bonnily.” Where were we? NORTH. SHEPHERD. Ou aye. 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. SHEPHERD. Ac 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. tion 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 doon like the haunle o' a well-pump. What reasnin'! What imagination! Fancy free and fertile as an auld green flowery lea! Pathos pure as dew-and 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 doon 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 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' sowles were a' waitin' to break oot 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 aince wankenin' 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" tillHE 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 possibilityFiction is falsehood, fun folly, mirth mere maundering, humour forsooth! idiotcy, would-be wit "wersh as parritch without saut," James a merryAndrew, 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 theirsells 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 towmount I ventur to ca' him Kit. Oh! my dear freen, Mr North, do you ken, sir, that in lookin' owre some sax-year auld accoonts Paid? TICKLER. SHEPHERD. No by you at least-for a bill o' butter for smearin', what shou'd come till haun but a sort o' droll attempt at a sang by that dead facetious fallow, the late Bishop o' Bristol. 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, |