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SELFISH INTERESTS VERSUS ETERNAL TRUTH. 339

Shepherd. And anither wee bit cretur o' a lordie, that can hardly speak aboon his breath, tellin the same seditious scrow o' scoonrels, that their cause and his would sune triumph ower "the whusper o' a faction." That's ae way o' strengthenin the Peerage.

North. All will be right again, James, I repeat it, about Candlemas. What pure delight and strong, James, in the study of Literature, Poetry, and Philosophy! And with what a sense o' hollowness at the heart of other things do we turn from such meditations to the stir and noise of the passing politics of the day!

Shepherd. It's like fa'in frae heaven to earth-frae a throne in the blue sky, amang the braided clouds, doun upon a heap o' glaur-frae the empyrean on a midden.

North. And why? Because selfish interests, often most mistaken, prevail over the principles of eternal truth, which are shoved aside or despised, or forgotten, or perverted, or desecrated, while people, possessed by the paltriest passions, proclaim themselves patriots, and liberty loathes to hear her name shouted by the basest of slaves.

Shepherd. Dinna froon sae fiercely, sir. I canna thole that face.

North. Now it is Parga-Parga-Parga! Now the Polesthe Poles-the Poles!

Shepherd. Noo daft about the glorious Three Days—and noo routin like a field o' disturbed stirks for Reform.

North. Speak to them about their hobby of the year before, and they have no recollection of ever having bestridden his back.

Shepherd. They're superficial shallow brawlers, sir, just like thae commonplace burns without ony character, that hae nae banks and nae scenery, and, as it would seem, nae soorce, but that every wat day contrive to get up a desperate brattle amang the lowse stanes, carryin awa perhaps some wee wooden brig, and neist mornin sae entirely dried up that you mistak the disconsolate channel for an unco coorse road, and pity the puir cattle.

North. But Poetry, which is the light of Passion and Imagination; and Philosophy, which is the resolution of the prismatic colours

Shepherd. Stop that eemage lest you spoil't-are holy and

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eternal—and only in holiness and in truth can they be worshipped.

Tickler. Hark!

Shepherd. The Timepiece! The Timepiece! I heard it gie warnin, but said naething. Noo it has dune chappin. Let's aff to the Blue Parlour-sooper-sooper-hurraw-hurraw— hurraw!

[They vanish.

(NOVEMBER 1832.)

The Library in the Lodge. Time,-Seven o' Clock.

NORTH and TICKLER.

North. No-I have not left the Lodge for ten miles, or two hours, during the whole summer.

Tickler. Domestic Devil!

North. Say rather, bird in a cage, that keeps perpetually hopping about, up and down, from turf to twig, now and then with loving bill nibbling the wires of its beloved imprisonment, occasionally picking a little seed, and not seldom on the spur of the moment drawing up its tiny bucket, and sipping a drop of the mountain dew, to clear its song and brighten its plumage.

Tickler. Liker a cock on his own

North. Hush! or Bird of Paradise, who

Tickler. Whew! or Bubbly-Jock erecting his tail in proud persuasion of his being a peacock; or

North. Woodlark, Scotia's Nightingale, who, unfatigued by day-songs, poured around the grassy nest, where sits his mate assiduous o'er callow brood or chirping shells, prolongs his ditties far into the night, and by the homeward shepherd on the hill is heard, not seen, sweet-singing midst the stars. Tickler. Blanks! by all that is musical. But "say, sweet warbling woodlark, say," what mysterious meaning lies enveloped in the image of "mate assiduous" sitting on eggs? I devoutly trust Mrs Gentle is not in the fam

North (rising up in great indignation). Sir, the honour of that lady is dearer to me than a million lives, nor shall the villain who dares to insinuate the remotest hint

342 MRS GENTLE.- -THE READING AND WRITING PUBLIC.

Tickler. Be not so furious, my dear sir; I insinuated no remote hint

North. She has been in Switzerland, sir, for more than nine months

Tickler. Not another word, North. Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory; but why did not you accompany her and her lovely daughter to Lake Constance?

North. For fear of a censorious world, that will not suffer even old age to escape its slanders, with one foot in the grave.

Tickler. She is indeed a sad gossip, old Madam Public; yet there are some good points about her; and let me whisper in your ear, North, you are a prodigious favourite with the Frow -in her eyes a perfect Dutchman.

North. Her affection for me, Tickler, is, I assure you, of the most spiritual sort.

Tickler. And yours for her, as becomes a philosopher, Platonic. Yet human nature is weak; and be advised by me, North, to trust yourself alone with her as seldom as possible; for what, were you some day to declare with the Public a private marriage?

North. The reading Public! I well remember the days when she could spell with difficulty a simple dissyllable-when she lost herself in a complicated Polly, like a benighted nymph wandering through a wood.

Tickler. A complicated Polly! What is that?

North. Nebuchadnezzar.

Tickler. Chrononhotonthologos.

North. Methinks I see her, Tickler, in her Little Primer! Tickler. Conning her "Reading made Easy."

North. Leaning her rosy cheek on a rosier arm with elbow rosier still

Tickler. Peony of Peonies!

North. Now, alas! like a yellow lily that seems, in lieu of dew, to be fed with lamp-oil!

Tickler. And she has become the writing Public too? North. That is the melancholy part of the concern, Tickler. She is now-to her shame and sorrow-a confirmed scribbler. Tickler. And appears, without a blush on her brazen face, in print.

North. Yes-with my own eyes have I seen her absolutely in capitals.

EDUCATION.-A GENERATION OF IDIOTS.

Tickler. Worse than in kilts.

343

North. Kilts! Kilts are but petticoats of a smaller size; but it goes well-nigh to the breaking of my heart to see the reading, writing, ranting Public (an old woman too) in wire-wove hot-pressed paper printed breeches-in shorts, Tickler.

Tickler. Nay, in tights, which show her shapes to the worst advantage; for, as you observed, she is well stricken in years, and time tells on the figure even of a Diana.

North. Let's be serious. 'Twould seem as if reading and writing were the chief occupation now, in this once happy island, of human life. The constant cry or croak is-Education, Education. The People will sink under this eternal tuition-the next age will be a generation of Idiots. The invention of printing is a blessing which, by "busy Meddling Intellect," has been abused into a curse.

Tickler. Among the lower orders reading has grown into a dull disease, that dries up the sap, and slackens the sinews of life.

poor

North. Ay, Tickler the man's fireside was, I verily believe, in general, far happier in former times than nowwith himself resting, after his day's darg, in an elbow-chair -if the house happened to hold one-his wife fistling1 about in eager preparation of supper-and the brats on stools forming perhaps an octagon, each with a horn-spoon in its hand expectant of the coming crowdy

Tickler. A pleasant picture. No boy or girl, from four to fourteen years of age, knows the extent of his or her mouth's capaciousness, till it gradually opens to its utmost width, in order to admit with unruffled surface, a huge horn spoonful

North. Of crowdy. True. Now, crowdy is crowdy still, though with more difficulty procured than in the days I speak of; and poor people are still happy in supping it, for sacred hunger is the solace of life.

Tickler. Ay-the Pigot Diamond would be a poor price for a good appetite from a palate-palsied king to a yaup2 beggar. North. But, nowadays, reading is placed on the list of necessaries before eating.

Tickler. A greasy

North. Say-creeshy.

1 Fistling-bustling.

2 Yaup-hungry.

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