the bed, blawin' awa the disturbin' rose-leaf wi' her breath, and then command. ing, with her dewy eyne, her nymphs to replace the Shepherd midst the down, and sing him asleep with their choral vespers. Thochts gang by the rule o contrairies-that's certain sure—or, what could mak me think the noo o' a hardbottomed kitchen-chayre, deep-worn, sliddery, ower wee, the crazy back bent in against the nape o' my neck, and a' the fower legs o' different staturs, ane o' the hint anes fit for a creepie, the tither a broken besom-stick, for a makshift, intil a hole far ower big; the fore anes like them o' a mawkin, unco short for sic lang hint anes, the tane stickin' out sturdily in a wrang direction, and for ever treddin' on folk's taes-the tither constantly craikin' frae some cause nae carpenter could ever fin' out, and if you sae muckle as mooved, disturbin' the reading o' the chapter. That chayre used aye to fa' to me, and it was so coggly that it couldna sit dooble, sae that nae lassie wud venture to drap down aside you on't, no, not even gin you were to take her ontil your verra knee. Wha cou'd hae foreseen, in thae days, that I, Jamie Hogg, would ever hae been sittin' on down cushions, covered wi' damask, waitin' for Christopher North, in Awmrose's Hotel, in Picardy, surrounded wi' mirrors a' ableeze, reflected fires, shintillating wi' gilt mouldins, and surmounted wi' eagles' beeks, seemin to haud up the glitterin' glasses in the air by golden cords, while out o' the mouths o' leopards and lions depended chandeliers o' cut crystal, lustres indeed, dotted wi' wax caundles, as the galaxy wi' stars, and filling the perfumed Saloon wi' unwinkin' licht, frae the Turkey carpet to the Persian roof, a heicht that it would be fatal to fa' frae, and that a pridefu' poet couldna houp to strike wi' his head, even when lowpin' and dancin' in an Ode and Dream. Methinks I see my father and my mother! my brothers and sisters! We are a' sittin' thegither-the grown-up-the little and the less-the peat-fire, wi' an ash-root in't, is bright and vapourless as a new-risen star that ye come suddenly in sight o', and think it sae near, that you could maist grup it wi' your outstretched haun. What voices are these I hear?-the well-known, wellbeloved tones of lips that have langsyne been in the clay! There is the bed on which I used to sleep beside my parents, when I was ca'd" Wee Jamie," and on the edge o' which mony a time, when I was a growin' callant, hae I sat with the lasses, in innocent daffin', a skirl noo and then half waukenin' the auld man asleep, or pretendin' to be sae, by the ingle-neuck. I see before me the coverlet patched with a million pawtrons, chance being the kaleedoscope, and the harmony of the colours perfect as that o' a bank o' flowers. As for mirrors, there was but ae single lookin'-glass in a' the house, gayan sair cracket, and the ising rubbed aff, sae that ye had a comical face and queer, when you shaved, and on the Sunday mornin', when the family were buskin' themsells for the kirk, it gaed glintin' like a sunbeam frae ane till anither, but aye rested langest afore the face o' bonnie Tibby Laidlaw.

(Enter MR AMBROSE with some Rein-deer tongues.)

MR AMBROSE.

A present, Mr Hogg, from the Emperor of Russia to Mr North. The Emperor, you remember, sir, when Duke Nicholas, used to honour Gabriel's Road. Asleep, with his eyes open!

SHEPHERD.

[Exit retrogrediens.

Puir Tibby! Mony a time hae I tied my neckcloth extendin' the knot intil twa white rose-buds, in her een! stannin' sae close, in order that I might see my image, that the ruffles o' my Sabbath-sark just touched her breast-knot, and my breath amaist lifted up the love-lock that the light-hearted cretur used to let hang, as if through carelessness, on ae rosy cheek, just aboon and about the rim o' her wee, white, thin lug, that kent, I trow, a' the tunes ever sung in Scotland.-But-oh! that lug listened to what it shouldna hae listened tilland awa' frae the Forest fled its Flower wi' an outlandish French prisoner on his parole at Selkirk, but set free by the short peace. He disappeared from her ae night in London, and she became a thing of shame, sin, and sorrow. Years afterwards she begged her way back to the hut in which she had been born-was forgiven by her father and mother, wha had never had any other child but her -and, ere the second Sabbath after her return, she was buried decently and quietly, and without many tears, in the kirk-yard, where she had for many

springs gathered the primroses; for, although her life had latterly been that of a great sinner, nobody that knew her attributed that sin to her, puir cretur, but thocht on her as ane o' thae victims that the Evil One is permitted, by an inscrutable Providence, to choose out frae amang the maist innocent o' the daugh ters o' men, to confound all that would put their trust in human virtue.Was Awmrose no in the room the noo? Preserve us! what a tot o' tongues! And it's me that used to fin' faut wi' Shakspeare for putting lang soliloquies into the mouths of his chief characters? Now, this seems to be the pheelosophy o 'the soliloquy :-either you are in the habit o' speaking to yoursell in real life or no-if you are, then it follows o' coorse, that you ought to lose no opportunity, if puttin' intil a Play, o' communicatin' your sentiments or opinions to yoursell in private, when there is none by to break the thread o' your discourse. If you are not, then you must never be left by yoursell in a scene; for nae actor, when he is manet solus, is allowed, by the laws o' the Drama, to say nor do naething-but just to walk about, or to sit down on a chayre in the middle o' the room, whirling his hat or counting his fingers. To soliloquize seems natural to a hantle o' folk-and that's reason aneuch to authoreeze the practice on the stage. Neither am I sure that soliloquies are aye short or shortish-for I ance keepit speakin' to mysell, I recolleck, a' the way frae the Gray Mare's Tail to Mount Benger. The fack is, that the Sowl, when up wi' ony strong passion, expresses a' it feels chiefly to itsell, even when it seems to be addressin' ithers that happen to be present at the hour o' trouble. The sumphs think it's poorin' itsell out to them, for the sake o' their sympathies, whereas it's in a manner beside itsell; and the tane talks till the tither, as if there were twa; but there's only ane-speaker and hearer being the same Sowl -and the triflin' creturs that are in the room at the time, being little mair than sae mony chairs-the tongs or the poker-or him that they ca' the Speaker o' the Hoose o' Commons. But I'm gettin' as hoarse as a craw-and had better ring the bell for a jug. Deevil tak the worsted bell-rape-see if it hasna bracken short aff, leaving the ring in my haun! Mercy on us, whatten a feet o' flunkeys in the trance!

(Door flies open-and enter TICKLER-NORTH, supported by Mr AMBROSE.)

SHEPHERD.

What a queer couple o' auld fallows, a' covered wi' cranreuch! Is't snawin', sirs?

TICKLER.

Snawin', my dear James!-Sleeting, hailing, raining, driving, and blasting, all in one unexpected coalition of parties, to the utter discomfort and dismay of all his Majesty's loyal subjects.

SHEPHERD.

And hae you wawked up, like twa fules, frae Bawhannan Lodge, in sic an eerie nicht, knee-deep in mire, glaur, and sludge?

TICKLER.

One of North's coach-horses is sick, and the other lame-and

SHEPHERD.

Catch me keepin' a cotch. It costs Mr North five guineas, every hurl—and him that's getting sae narrow, too-but Pride! hech, sirs, Pride gets the maister o' Avarice-and he'll no condescend to hire a haickney. Dinna melt in the Saloon, sirs-Gang intill the trance, and cast your outer skins, and then come back glitterin' like twa serpents as you are, twa Boa-Constrictors, or rather Rattlesnakes, wi' your forked tongues, and wee red piercin' een, growin' aye mair and mair venemous, as ye begin to bask and beek in the hearth-heat, and turn about the heads o' you to spy whom you may fasten on, lick a' ower wi' glue, and then draw them into your jaws by suction, crashin' their banes like egg-shells, and then hiss-hissin' to ane anither in weel-pleased fierceness, after your ain natur, which mony a puir tortirt cretur has kent to his cost to be without pity and without ruth-ye Sons o' Satan!

NORTH.

Thank ye, my dear James, for all your kind inquiries.-Quite well, except being even deafer than usual, or—

SHEPHERD.

Ne'er mind, sir; I'll mak you hear on the deafest side o' your head. But whare's the siller ear-trumpet?

TICKLER.

Buchanan Lodge, James, was stealthily entered a few nights ago by some rejected contributors, in a mere jeu d'esprit,—and a Shabby-genteel was observed by one of the police, this very afternoon, driving South in what appeared to be a hired gig, and attempting to make North's ear-trumpet perform the part of a bugle. He immediately gave chase, and has, doubtless, overtaken the depredator at Fushèe Bridge or Torsonce.

SHEPHERD.

The neist article my gentleman sends, maun be on the Tread Mill. But what's North fummlin' at yonner? Odd, he's just, for a' the warld, like a wee bit corn-stack, frosted and poothered ower wi' rime. Noo Mr Aumrose has gotten him out o' the theikin',-and oh! but he looks genteel, and like a verra nobleman in that speck and span new blue coat, wi' big yellow buttons; nor wad that breast ill become a star. Reel roun' his throne, Mr Aumrose.

(MR AMBROSE wheels MR NORTH in the Patent Chair to the off-door side of the Fire, setting his Foot-stool, and depositing the Crutch in its own niche, leaning on the pedestal of Apollo.)

TICKLER.

Heaven and earth, James, are you well, my dear friend?—you seem reduced to a mere shadow.

SHEPHERD.

Reduced to a mere shadow !-I'm thinkin', sir, you'll hae been mistakin' your nain figure in the glass for me the noo

NORTH.

Thank ye, Mr Ambrose.-Family all well? That's right-that's right. Where's the Shepherd? Lord bless me, James, are you ill?

SHEPHERD.

Me ill? What the deevil's to mak me ill?-But you're baith jokin, noo, sirs.

TICKLER.

Pardon my weakness, James, but I had a very ugly dream about you-and your appearance.

SHEPHERD.

Ma appearance? What the deevil's the matter wi' ma appearance? Mr North, am I luckin' ony way out o' health ?—(Aside)—Aye-aye, my lads, I see what you're ettlin' at noo-but I'm no sae saft and simple's I look like(Aloud). You had an ugly dream, Mr Tickler,-what was't about? Let's hear't.

TICKLER.

That you were dead, James,-laid out-coffined—biered-buried-superscribed-and

SHEPHERD.

Houkit up by half a dizzen resurrection-men-driven by nicht in a gig to Embro', and selt for three pounds ten shillings to a lecturin' surgeon, for a subject o' demonstration afore a schule o' young doctors; and after that, an atomy in Surgeon's Ha'. Do ye ken, Mr Tickler, that I wud like gran' to see you disseckit. That is, after you was dead-for I'm no wishin' you dead yet, although you plague me sairly sometimes; and are aye tryin', I winna say wi' what success, to be witty at my expense. I wish you a' happiness, sir, and a lang life-but I houp I may add without offence, that gin ye was fairly and bonny feedy dead-I wud like to see the corp disseckit, no on a public table, afore hunners o' glowering gawpuses, but in a parlour afore a few chosen peers, sic as Mr North, there, and ODoherty; and ▲ who, by the way, would be happy, I dinna doubt, to perform the operation himsell, and I could answer for his doin't wi' a haun at ance firm and tender, resolute and respeckfu', for ae man o' genius is aye kind to anither on a' sic occasions; and ▲ would cut you up, sir, as delicately as you were his ain faither.

TICKLER.

Is it to give a flavour to the oysters, James, that you talk so? Suppose we change the subject.

SHEPHERD.

We shall leave that to A, sir.

There's nae need for changin' the subject

yet; besides, didna ye introduce't yoursell, by offerin' to receet your ugly dream about my decease? But

NORTH.

My dear James, I have left you, by my last will and testament, my Skull.

SHEPHERD.

Oh! my dear sir, but I take that verra verra kind. I'll hae't siller munted -the tap o't-that is, the organ o' veneration, which in you is enormoussawn aff like that o' a cocko-nit, and then fastened on for a lid by a hingeand I'll keep a' ma manuscripps in't—and also that wee stereoteep Bible you gied me that beautiful Sunday simmer night we spak sae seriously about religion, when the sun was settin' sae gloriously, and the profound hush o' nature seemed o' itsell an assurance o' immortality. Mr Tickler, will ye no leave me your skull, too, as weel's the cremona that I ken's in a codicil, to staun cheek by jowl wi' Mr North's, on the tap o' my mahogany leebrary ?

TICKLER.

Be it so, James-but the bequest must be mutual.

SHEPHERD.

I hae nae objections-there's my thumb I'll ne'er beguile you. Oh, sir! but I wad look unco gash on a bit pedestal in the parlour o' Southside, when you were enterteenin' your sma' snug pairties wi' anecdots o' the Shepherd. There's something pleasant in the thocht, sir, for I'm sure ye wad tell nae ill o' me-and that you wud every Saturday nicht wipe the dust frae my skull wi' a towel, mutterin' perhaps at a time, Alas, poor Yorick!”

66

TICKLER.

James, you affect me-you do indeed

SHEPHERD.

Silly fules, noo, were they to owerhear us jockin' and jeerin' in this gate about ane anither's skulls, wud ca' us Atheists, and deny our richt to Christian burial. But what signifies a skull? The shell of the flown bird, said Simonides, a pensive poet of old-for whose sake would that I could read Greek -though I fancy there are o' him but some sma' and uncertain remains.

NORTH.

Religion, James, follows the bird in her flight, and beholds her alight in heaven.

SHEPHERD.

Yet that's nae reason for treatin' a skull irreverently-playin' tricks wi'tpittin' a cigaur in its teeth-or a wig on't-or tryin' to stick spectacles afore the howes o' what was ance its een-without ony brig o' a nose for them to rest on-or whisperin' intill its wide-open but deaf, deaf lugs, some amusin' maiter frae ane o' the Noctes Ambrosianæ! There's nae reason for haudin' up a caulker o' Glenlivet to its gab, and askin' the silent skull for a sentiment or to join, as it used to do, till its very sutures were like to split, in a Three times Three! There's nae reason for ca'in' upon't for a sang, true as its ear aince was, and its tongue like silver-for a sang either tragic or comic-ony mair than there is for playin' at bowls wi't on the green, or at fit-ba'-or giein' it even to the bairns, if they hae courage to accepp o't, instead o' a turnip, to frighten folk wi' a cawnle low within its banes by the side o' a kirk-yard wa' on Hallow-E'en. In short, there's nae need either for despair or daffin', when a man takes the skull o' a freen into his haun, or looks at it on the mantelpiece. Its a mementy mori o' friendship—and at a' yevents, isna't far better think ye, sirs, for a skull to be stannin' decently as a relic or bequest, in a warm cozy parlour like that at Mount Benger, Southside, or Bawhannan Lodge, than deep down within the clayey cauldness-the rotten corruption o' a great city kirk-yard, o' which the hail sile is a decomposition o' flesh and banes, as if ae vast corp filled a' the burial-grund—and ye canna stick in a pick without hittin' the splinter o' the coffin?

NORTH.

James, many a merry Christmas to us all. What a jug!

SHEPHERD.

It's an instinck wi' me noo, makin' het whisky toddy. A' the time o' our silly discourse about our skulls, was I steerin' about the liquid, plumpin' in the bits o' sugar, and garrin' the green bottle gurgle-unconscious o' what I was about-yet, as ye observe, sir, wi' your usual sagacity, "What a jug!"

TICKLER.

There is no such school of temperance as Ambrose's in the world-a skreed in any room of his house clears my head for a month, and re-strings my stomach to such a pitch of power, that, like an ostrich, I can digest a nail or a

cork-screw.

NORTH.

Sobriety is the strength of our physical, moral, and intellectual life. But how can any man hope to continue long sober, who calumniates cordial conviviality-misnames fun folly, and mirth malignity-turns up the whites of his eyes at humour, because it is broad, broad as the sea in sunshine-who in his false wisdom knows not what real wit is, or, half knowing it, turns away, abashed and detected, from its corruscations, that are ever harmless to the truly good, and wither only the weak or the wicked-who

SHEPHERD.

Stap, sir-stap-for you'll never be able to fin' your way, at this time o' nicht, out o' sic a sentence. It's o' a perplexin' and bewilderin' kind o❜ construction, and I'll defy mortal man to make his escape out o't without breakin' through, in perfect desperation, a' the rules o' grammar, and upsettin' Dr Syntax at the door o' a parenthesis.

NORTH.

Never shall Sot be suffered to sit at our Symposium, James. Not even the genius of a Sheridan

SHEPHERD.

Pshewwhoohoo-the genius o' Sheridan! O, sir, but his comedies are cauld-rife compositions; and the hail tot of them's no worth the warst Noctes Ambrosianæ that ever Maister Gurney, that gentleman o' the press, extended frae out o' short haun. His mind had baith pint and glitter-but sae has a preen. Sheridan had but a sma' sowl-and even his oratory was feeble, false, and fushionless; and ane o' the auld Covenanters wad hae rowted him doon intill a silent ceepher on the hillside, makin' him fin' what eloquence is, no made up o' patches frae ither men's pamphlets, and o' lang accounts and statements, interlarded wi' rancid rant, and faded figures new dyed like auld claes, that do weel aneuch by caunle-light, but look desperate shabby in the day-time-wi' remarks, forsooth, on human life and the principles of Eternal Justice-nae less-o' which the unhappy neerdoweel kent muckle, nae doubt -having never read a good and great book a' his days, and associated chiefly with the vilest o' the vile

NORTH.

James-What's the meaning of all this? These sudden bursts

SHEPHERD.

I canna thole to hear sic a sot as Sherry aye classed wi' Pitt and Burke.

TICKLER.

Nor I. A couple of clever comedies-a few elegant epilogues-a so-so opera -some spirited speechifyings-a few fitful flashes-some composed corruscations of conversational wit-will these make a great man? Bah! As to his faults and failings, on their ashes we must tread tenderly—————

NORTH.

Yes; but we must not collect them in an urn, and weep over them in maudlin worship. He was but a town-wit after all, and of a very superficial fancy. He had no imagination.

SHEPHERD.

No a grain. He could say sharp things upon blunt people-turn a common thocht wi' a certain neatness, that gied it, at first hearin', an air o' novelty; and an image bein' to him rather a rare occurrence, he polished it aff till the pebble seemed a diamond; but after a' it couldna write on glass, and was barely worth settin' in the warst goold. He wanted copiousness, ferteelity, richness, vareeity, feelin', truth o' natur, sudden inspiration, poor o' thocht; and as for either beauty or sublimity, he had a fause notion o' them in words, and naenotion o' them at a' in things, and never drew a tear or garr'd the reader grue in a' his days. Peezarro alone pruves him to hae had nae real sowl; for though the subject be patriotism, and liberty, and independence, it's a' nacthing but flummery, and a fritter o' gran' soundin' senseless words, that gang