Och! by my soul, this Irishman most sturdily attack would, 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; 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 look'd 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 Yankey, and he was very sage, Who 'gainst the foes of Christopher a bloody war did wage, 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. 99-I'll shew you THE PICTURE. SHEPHERD. I unnerstaun you, sir-Titian's Venus-or is't his Danaw yielding to her yellow Jupiter victorious in a shower o' gold? O the selfish hizzie! James, such subjects NORTH. 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 altho' ane o' the greatest o' the auld Maisters, sall ever hang on ma wa's-I should be ashamed to look the servant lasses in the face when they come in to 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. It has the face o' an angel. SHEPHERD. NORTH (sitting down with dignity.) - I was about to ask you, James, to come and see my last work-my master-piece-my chef-d'œuvre A noble soobjeck indeed, sir, and weel adapted for your high intellectual and moral genie. NORTH. My chief object, James, has been to represent the character of Socrates. I have conceived of that character, as one in which unshaken strength of high and clear Intellect—and a moral Will fortified against all earthly trials -sublime and pure-were both subordinate to the principle of Love. SHEPHERD. Gude, sir-gude. He was the Freen' o' Man. NORTH. I felt a great difficulty in my art, James-from the circumstances purely historical-that neither the figure nor the countenance of Socrates were naturally commanding SHEPHERD. An' hae ye conquered it to your satisfaction, sir? NORTH. I have. Another difficulty met me too, James, in this-that in his mind there was a cast of intellect-a play of comic wit-inseparable from his discourse-and which must not be forgotten in any representation of it, Profoond as true. SHEPHERD. NORTH. To give dignity and beauty to the expression of features, and a figure of which the form was neither dignified nor beautiful, was indeed a severe trial for the power of art. SHEPHERD. An' hae you conquered it too, sir? NORTH. Most successfully. In the countenance, therefore, my dear James, to answer to what I have assigned as the highest principle in the character, Love, there is a prevailing character of gentleness-the calm of that unalterable mind has taken the appearance of a celestial serenity-an expression caught, methinks, from the peaceful heart of the unclouded sky brooding in love over rejoicing nature. That's richt, sir. SHEPHERD. NORTH. Such expression I have breathed over the forehead, the lips, and the eyes; yet is there not wanting either the grandeur, nor the fire, nor the power of intellect, nor the boldness of conscious innocence. SHEPHERD. I'll come and see't, sir, the morn's mornin', afore breakfast. Fowre eggs. NORTH. That one purpose I have pursued and fulfilled by the expression of all the Groups in the piece. SHEPHERD. Naething in pentin' kitler than groopin'. NORTH. You behold a prevalent expression of Love in the countenance of his friends and followers-of love greater than even reverence, admiration, sorrow, anxiety, and fear! SHEPHERD. Though dootless a' thae emotions, too, will be expressed-and familiar hae thae been to you, sir, through the coorse o' a strangely checkquered though not unhappy life. NORTH. Then, too, James, have I had to express-and I have expressed it-the habitual character belonging to many there-besides the expression of the moment; countenances of generous, loving, open-souled youth; middleaged men of calm benign aspect, but not without earnest thought; and not unconspicuous, one aged man, James, almost the counterpart of Socrates himself, only without his high intellectual power, a face composed, I may almost say, of peace, the only one of all perfectly untroubled. SHEPHERD. That's an expressive thocht, sir-and it's original—that's to say, it never occurred to me afore you mentioned it. NORTH. He, like Socrates, reconciled to that certain death, familiar with the looks of the near term of life, and not without hopes beyond it. SHEPHERD. Believed thae sages, think ye, sir, in the immortality o' the sowle? NORTH. I think, James, that they did-assuredly Socrates. SHEPHERD. I'm glad o't for their sakes, though they hac a' been dead for thoosans o' years. In all their faces, with many expressions, there is one expression-answering to the predominant disposition assigned to the character of Socrates-the expression of Malignity towards Love. SHEPHERD. You've hit it, sir; you've hit it. Here's your health. NORTH. An expression of malignity in some almost lost on a face of timidity, fear, or awe, in others blended almost brutally with impenetrable ignorance. SHEPHERD. That comes o' studyin' the Passions. I think but little noo o' Collins's Odd. NORTH. Then, James, I have given the countenances of the people. SHEPHERD. A fickle people-ever ready to strike doon offensive Virtue-and ever as ready to shed tears o' overactin' remorse on her ashes! NORTH. In the countenances of the people, James, I have laboured long, but succeeded methinks at last, in personifying as it were the Vices which drove them on to sacrifice the father of the city-to dim the eye and silence the tongue of Athens, who was herself the soul of Greece. SHEPHERD. A gran' idea, sir,-and natural as gran'-ane that could only visit the sowle o' a great Maister. NORTH. There you see anger, wrath, rage, hatred, spite, envy, jealousy, exempli fied in many different natures. That Figure, prominent in the hardened pride of intellect, with his evil nature scowling through, eying Socrates with malignant, stern, and deadly revenge-is the King of the Sophists. SHEPHERD. About to re-erect his Throne, as he hopes, on the ruins o' that Natural Theology which Socrates taught the heathens. NORTH. You see then, James,—you feel that the purpose of the painter on the whole picture, has been to express, as I said, his conception of the character of Socrates-a various and manifold reflection of one image; but the image itself, giving the same due proportion,-where Love sits on the height of moral and intellectual power, and Intellect in their triple union, though strong in its own character, is yet subordinate to Both. SHEPHERD. What a pictur it maun be, if the execution be equal to the design! NORTH. Many conceptions, my dear James, troubled my imagination, before, in the steadfastness of my delight in Love, I finally fixed upon this-which I humbly hope the world" will not willingly let die." SHEPHERD. It's the same way wi' poems. They aye turn oot at last something seemingly quite different frae the origination form-but it's no sae-for a spirit o' the same divine sameness breathes throughout, though ye nae langer ken the bit bonny bud in " the bricht consummate flower." NORTH. In one sketch-I will make you a present of it, my dear James SHEPHERD. Thank ye, sir-thank ye;—you're really owre kind-owre good to your Shepherd-but dinna forget, sir-see that you dinna forget-for you'll pardon me for hintin' that sometimes promises o' that sort slip your memory NORTH. In one sketch, James, I have represented Socrates speaking-and I found it more difficult to give the character of the principal figure-because the fire of discourse, of necessity, gave a disproportionate force to the intellectual expression-while again, I found it easier to give the character of all the rest, who looked upon Socrates, under the power of his eloquence, simply commanding, with almost an undivided expression, in which individual character was either lost or subdued. SHEPHERD. Never mind-send me the Sketch. NORTH. I will-and another. For, again, I chose that moment, when having closed his defence, Socrates stands looking upon the consulting judges, and awaiting their decision. SHEPHERD. Oh! sir! and that was a time when his ain character, methinks, micht wi' mair ease be most beautifully expressed! NORTH. Most true. But then, the divided and conflicting expression of all the other figures, some turned on the judges with scrutinizing eagerness, to read the decision before it was on their lips-some certain of the resultlooking on Socrates-or on the judges-with what different states of soul! These, James, I found difficult indeed to manage, and to bring them all under the one expression, which in that sketch too, as in my large picture, it was my aim to breathe over the canvass. SHEPHERD. You maun try, sir, to mak a feenish'd pictur frae that sketch, sir-you maun indeed, sir. I'll lend it to you for that purpose-and no grudge't though ye keep it in your ain possession till next year. NORTH. I have not only made a sketch of another design, James, but worked in some of the colours. The dead colours? SHEPHERD. NORTH. No-colours already instinct with life. I have chosen that calmer time, when after the pronouncing of the sentence, Socrates resumes his discourse -you may read it, James, in that divine dialogue of Plato SHEPHERD. But I'm no great haun' at the Greek. NORTH. Use Floyer Sydenham's translation, or-let me see-has he done that dialogue? Take then that noble old man's, Taylor of Norwich. Socrates resumes his discourse, and declares his satisfaction in death, and his trust in immortality. A moment, indeed, for the sublime in art; but affording to the painter opportunity for a different purpose from that which was mine in my great picture. For in this sketch, instead of intending, as my principal and paramount object, the representation of individual historical character-I have designed to express-rather-the Power among men of the sublime Spirit of their being-exemplified among a people dark with idolatry-using the historical subject as subservient to this my purposeinasmuch as it shews a single mind raised up by the force of this feeling above nature-yea, shews the power of that feeling within that_one_mind, resting in awe upon a great multitude of men. For, surely, my dear James, it is not to be believed that at that moment, one countenance would preserve unchanged its bitter hostility, when revenge was in part defeated by seeing triumph arise out of doom-when malignant hate had got its victim-and when murder, that had struck its blow, might begin to feel its heart open to the terror of remorse. SHEPHERD. My dear Mr North, gie me baith your twa hauns. That's richt. Noo that I hae shucken, and noo that I hae squozen them in ma ain twa neives no unlike a vice, though you're no the king upon the throne, wi' a golden croon on his head, and a sceptre in his haund-that's King William the IVth, God bless him-yet you are a king; and, as a loyal subject, loyal but no servile, for never was a slave born i' the Forest, here do I, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, kneel doon on ae knee-thus-and kiss the richt haun o' King Kit. (The SHEPHERD drops on his knee-does as he says, in spite of NORTH's struggles to hinder him-rises-wipes the dust from his pans-and resumes his seat. NORTH. "How many of my poorest subjects," James," are now asleep!" Look at Tickler. TICKLER. Asleep! Broad-awake as the Baltic in a blast. But when under the power of Eloquence, I always sit with my eyes shut. SHEPHERD. But what for snore? Hae ye nae mercy on the sick man through the partition? NORTH. After Painting, let us have some Politics. SHEPHERD. Na-na-na-na-na! Come, Mr Tickler, gie's a sang-to the fiddle. See hoo your Cremona is smilin' on you to haunle her frae her peg. (The SHEPHERD takes down the celebrated Cremona from the wall, and, after tuning it, gives it to TICKLER. TICKLER (attempting a prelude.) Shade of Stabilini! heard'st thou ever grated such harsh discord as this? 'Tis like a litter of pigs. (TICKLER tunes his instrument. SHEPHERD. Oh, for Geordie Cruckshanks!" TICKLER AT THE TUNING!" What for, Mr North, dinna ye get Geordie to invent a Series o' Illustrations o' the Noctes, and pooblish a Selection in four vollumms octawvo? |