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loved and beautifu' Blue Parlour, and there, sir, there-through that wa'-in the fantastic French Hunting Chaumer,—and yonner, sir, yonner in the shooperb-the shooblime Saloon,what whisper ever heard the walls-and walls 'tis said have ears of envy, or jealousy, or calumny, or of any evil thocht towards any one, high or humble, of the great family of Man? North. None, never!

Shepherd. Has a man great genius ?-you, sir, trumpettongued, hail his advent when "far off his coming shines," and the nations as yet know not what means the apparition on the weather-gleam, till you tell them 'tis a-Poet.

North. Spare my blushes. Yet I feel in all humility that it is the truth.

Shepherd. Has a man sma' genius, seeks Christopher to extinguish it? Na, na, na. He kens that the spark is frae heaven, and sooner than tread it out, would he put his fit on the adder-hole. Oh! weel ken you, sir, my auld wise freen, that genius yearns for glory mair passionately even than ever love yearned for beauty, and that to him disappointment is despair, and despair is death! A sneer, sir, on your face, micht drive some bricht-hoped laddie mad, while he was seekin, and findin, and losin his flowery way in the wilderness o' the imagination, day after day, and nicht after nicht, for years, and years, and years, mistakin dreams for realities, and believin a' things to be in natur verily as beautifu' as his ain thochts! North. Rather would I die, James.

Shepherd. Sir, ye ken, and I ken, but aiblins I better nor you, for I was born, as Burns says, in an "auld clay biggin," and had little or nae assistance and support to my sowl when it was beginnin to work like barm within me, or rather, if you'll no think the eemage ower gran' for the occasion, when it was beginnin to trummle and crummle, and sigh, and groan, and heave, and hotch, like what ane reads about the earlier stages o' the proceedings o' some earthquack,—I say, sir, that I was then left amaist entirely to my ain silly sel, wi' naebody to tell me what a' that disturbance within me micht mean, whether it was for gude or for evil, frae heaven or hell-ye maun pardon me, sir, for sic strong expressions, but aften and aften did I shudder to think that I had fa'n intil the power o' Satan-sae black, sir, at times were the thochts that suddenly assailed me in solitude, till, wad you believe me, they took the

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THE BIRTH OF GENIUS.-YAWNS.

shape o' great lang shadows lying threateningly on the sward afore me, when not a cloud was in heaven, and the sun shining like a god in his ain undivided sky. The neebours-nay, my verra faither and mother, and the lave o' our ain bairns, feared, when I was about the size or sae o' my wee Jamie-God bless him!

North. Amen!
Shepherd.

-that I was gettin mad-and sae for a while did I mysel—but I sune cam to ken that it was nae madness, but genie working in the dark, like a mole or a miner, till it fand its way up into the air, and then eagle-eyed beheld the beauty o' the heavens and the earth, in a trance that passes away, sir, as ye ken, aneath the presence and the pressure o' cares and anxieties, and duties-aften a weary wecht—but ever and anon returns, a renewed revelation by Natur, to them who keep holy the Covenant sworn at her altar amang the mysteries that haunted the world of eye and ear in the morn o' life.-Nae yawning, if you please, sir. Better that you should at ance coup ower in a dwaum o' sleep.

North. I could cut with a blunt knife the throat of any man who yawns while I am speaking to him-especially if he attempts to conceal his crime, by putting his hand to his mouth; yet, such a bundle of inconsistencies is man, that confound me if I could listen for five minutes to the angel Raphael himself-or Gabriel either-without experiencing that sensation about the jaws which precedes and produces that sin. The truth is, that admiration soon makes me yawn—and I fear that Sir Walter, and Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Bowles, and others, may sometimes have felt queer at the frequent, if not incessant, opening and shutting of the folding-doors of my mouth, during their most amusing or instructive reasoning or imaginative harangues. I wish I could find some way of letting them know, that so far from any offence being meant, or weariness experienced by me, I was in fact repaying them for the delight they gave me, by the most sincere, if not the most delicate tribute of applause, which it was in my power to render, or rather out of my power to withhold from genius and wisdom.

Shepherd. I never in a' my born days, and I'm noo just the age o' Sir Walter, and, had he been leevin, o' Bonnypratt, met a perfeckly pleasant-that is a'thegither enchantin man in a

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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party—and I have lang thocht there's nae sic thing in existence as poo'rs1 o' conversation. There's Sir Walter wi' his everlastin anecdotes, nine out o' ten meanin naething, and the tenth itsel as auld as the Eildon Hills, but not, like them, cleft in three, which would be a great relief to the listener, and aiblins alloo a nap atween-yet hoo the coofs o' a' ages, sexes, and ranks, belabour your lugs with their lauchter at every clause-and baser than ony slaves that ever swept the dust with their faces from the floors of Eastern despots, swallow his stalest stories as if they were manna dropping fresh frae the heaven o' imagination! Yet you see the crust aften sticks in their throats-and they narrowly escape chokin. Yet I love and venerate Sir Walter aboon a' ither leevin men except yoursel, sir, and for that reason try to thole his discourse. As to his ever hearin richt ae single syllable o' what ye may be sayin to him, wi' the maist freendly intent o' enlichtenin his weak mind, you maun never indulge ony howp o' that kind—for o' a' the absent men when anither's speakin, that ever glowered in a body's face, without seemin to ken even wha he's lookin at, Sir Walter is the foremost; and gin he behaves in that gate to a man o' original genius like me, you may conceive his treatment o' the sumphs and sumphesses that compose fashionable society.

North. James-be civil.

Shepherd. Yet tak up ony trash o' travels by ony outlandish foreigner through our kintra, and turn to the chapter, "Visit to Abbotsford," and be he frog-eatin Frenchman, sneevlin through his nose

North. Or gross guttural German, groaning about Goethe

Shepherd.or girnin and grimacin Italian, wi' his music and his macaroni, fiddlin and fumblin his way aiblins into marriage wi' some deluded lassie o' condition wi' the best o' Scottish bluid in her veins

North. Sarcastic dog!

Shepherd. and one and all alike—each with the peculiar loathsomeness belonging to the mode of adulation practised in his ain kintra-begin slabberin and slimin the illustrious baronet frae head to feet, till he is all over slaver. Hoo he maun scunner!

1 Poors--powers.

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SCOTT AND SHAKESPEARE.

North. Perhaps not.

Shepherd. He maun. Then each Tramp begins to ring the same changes on his fool's bells about Sir Walter's poo'rs o' conversation, his endless stores o' information, his inexhaustible mines o' intellectual treasures

North. Stop, James-lay your hand on your heart, and tell me-we are quite alone, and you need not look at the screen, for there is nobody behind it—are you not jealous?

Shepherd. Me jealous! and o' Sir Walter! As I shall answer to God at the great day of judgment, I am not! I glory in my country for his sake. But say-sir-unseal your lips and speak-should he, who of all men I ever kent is the least o' a tyrant, be thus served by slaves?

North. No great man of any age, James, during his mortal lifetime, ever so lived, by the peaceful power of genius, in the world's eye, and in the world's minds, and the world's heart, as Sir Walter Scott.

Shepherd. None whatsoever.

North. Why? Because never before had genius such as his dealt with subjects of such universal and instant interest. Shepherd. What! No Shakspeer?

North. No; not Shakespeare.

Shepherd. But wull he leeve as lang's Shakspeer?

North. Why the devil should he not? Why, you and I will live as long as Shakespeare-but it is not mere length of life, James, but intensity and universality of life, that constitutes the immortality of the soul.

Shepherd. Gude-gude. In ae sense, a' that's prented may live for ever; in anither sense, amaist a' that's prented dies. Common owthers leeve but in their byucks,-and every time ye shut his byuck, it may be said that ye put a common owther to death, or imprison him in a cell. He is in oblivion. But ance in ages an owther is born-Homer, Shakspeer, Scott-wha leeve na in their byucks alone-though edition after edition keeps perpetually pourin out o' the press—but omnipresent in the regions o' Thocht and Feelin, as sunshine fills the day.

North. Gude-gude. But when, James, was there ever religion without superstition? worship without idolatry? Shepherd. Never in the history o' man. I see your drift, sir. Therefore it is-would the auld cunning carle say—that

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while the wise, the good, and the free unveil their foreheads in manly admiration afore the genius o' Sir Walter,-preserving a' the while the erect attitude o' that being, to whom alone the Latin poet said God gave 66 a sublime face," that he might behold the heavens and all their stars, the wiseacres, the fules, and the slaves, fall down brutishly before him, and lick the dust aff his feet.

North. James, a peg lower, if you please. Let Sir Walter produce any sort of stuff he chooses, and that set of worshippers swear it is beaten gold. There is his Demonology and Witchcraft-a poor book

Shepherd. What say ye? a puir byuck on Demonology and Witchcraft by Sir Walter Scott?

North. Poor in matter and in manner-in substance and in style. And yet the paid paltry press are at this moment all pawing it with their praise. Two years ago I spake of PUFFING. One year ago, the Edinburgh Review-following in my wake-did the same; but it scarified and seared the skin of the small sinners, and left that of the great sleek and without a seam. But " a braw time's comin"-and not many months shall go by, James, till I flay the Trade.

Shepherd (rising from his seat). Ha! Mr Tickler, hoo are you-and hoo cam you intil the room?

North. Tickler! James. I see no Tickler.

Shepherd (somewhat agitated). Mr Tickler, speak-smilelauch! Olauch-lauch-lauch, sir; I'll thank ye frae the bottom o' my sowl to lauch!

North. Nay-this is like midsummer madness at the end of October. Don't stare so, I beseech you, my dear Shepherd.

Shepherd. Luk-luk-luk! Fixed een-white cheeks-blue lips-drippin hair-a ghastly coontenance, an' a spectral shape-It's his wraith-his wraith-and ere midnicht, we shall be hearin a sugh gaun through the city that our freen has been drooned!

North (alarmed). I see nothing.

Shepherd (coming round to NORTH). There-there-richt opposite to us on the wa'!

North. Shall I ring the bell?

Shepherd. What said ye? See, it lifts its corpse-like hauns! Oh! that it would but speak!