296 TICKLER WITH MEASLES AND HOOPING-COUGH.

Tickler. I have heard my mother say that I was a remarkably mild child till about

Shepherd. Six-when it cost your faither an income for taws to skelp out o' you the innate ferocity that began to break upon you like a rash alang wi' the measles

Tickler. It is somewhat singular, James, that I never have had measles-nor smallpox-nor hooping-cough-nor scarletfever-nor

Shepherd. There's a braw time comin, for these are complents nane escape; and I shouldna be surprised to see you at next Noctes wi' them a' fowre-a' spotted and blotched, as red as an Indian, or a tile-roof, and crawin like a cock, in a fearsome manner-to which add the Asiatic cholera, and then, ma man, I wadna be in your shoon for the free gift o' the best o' the Duke's store-farms, wi' a' the plenishin-for the fifth comin on the ither fowre, lang as you are, wad cut you aff like a cucumber.

North.

“ "Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!"

Shepherd. That's Gray-and Gray was the best poet that ever belanged to a college-but

North. All great (except one) and most good poets have belonged to colleges.

Shepherd. Humph. But a line comes soon after that is the key to that stanza—

"My weary soul they seem to soothe !"

Gray wasna an auld man-far frae it-when he wrote that beautifu' Odd-but he was fu' o' sensibility and genius-and after a lapse o' years, when he beheld again the bits o' bricht and bauld leevin eemages glancin athwart the green-a' the Eton College callants in full cry-his heart amaist dee'd within him at the sicht and the soun'-for his pulse, as he pat his finger to his wrist, beat fent and intermittent, in comparison, and nae wunner that he should fa' intil a dooble delusion about their happiness and his ain meesery. And sae the poem's coloured throughout wi' a pensive spirit o' regret, in some places wi' the gloom o' melancholy, and in ane or twa

amaist black wi' despair. It's a fine picture o' passion, sir, and true to nature in every touch. Yet frae beginnin to

end, in the eye o' reason and faith, and religion, it's a' ae lee. Fause, surely, a' thae forebodings o' a fatal futurity. For love, joy, and bliss are not banished frae this life; and in writin that verra poem, maunna the state o' Gray's sowl hae been itsel divine?

North. Tickler?

Tickler. Good.

Shepherd. What are mony o' the pleasures o' memory, sirs, but the pains o' the past spiritualeezed ?

North. Tickler?

Tickler. True.

Shepherd. A' human feelings seem somehow or ither to partake o' the same character, when the objects that awake them have withdrawn far, far awa intil the dim distance, or disappeared for ever in the dust.

Tickler. North ?

North. The Philosophy of Nature.

Shepherd. And that Tam Cawmel maun hae felt, when he wrote that glorious line

"And teach impassion'd souls the joy of grief!"

North. The joy of grief! That is a joy known but to the happy, James. The soul that can dream of past sorrows till they touch it with a pensive delight can be suffering under no severe trouble

Shepherd. Perhaps no, sir. But may that no aften happen too, when the heart is amaist dead to a' pleasure in the present, and loves but to converse wi' phantoms? I've seen pale still-faces o' widow-women,- -ane sic is afore me the noo, whase husband was killed in the wars lang lang ago in a forgotten battle-she leeves on a sma' pension in a laigh and lonely house, that bespeak constant communion wi' the dead, and yet nae want either o' a meek and mournfu' sympathy wi' the leevin, provided only ye show them by the considerate gentleness o' your manner, when you chance to ca' on them on a week-day, or meet them at the kirk on Sabbath, that you ken something o' their history, and hae a Christian feelin for their uncomplainin affliction. Surely, sir, at times, when some tender gleam o' memory glides like moonlight across

their path, and reveals in the hush some ineffable eemage o' what was lovely and beloved o' yore, when they were, as they thocht, perfectly happy, although the heart kens weel that 'tis but an eemage, and nae mair-yet still it maun be blest, and let the tears drap as they will on the faded cheek, I should say the puir desolate cretur did in that strange fit o' passion suffer the joy o' grief.

North. You will forgive me, James, when I confess, that though I enjoyed just now the sound of your voice, which seemed to me more than usually pleasant, with a trembling tone of the pathetic, I did not catch the sense of your speech.

Shepherd. I wasna makin a speech, sir-only utterin a sort o' sentiment that has already evaporated clean out o' mind, or passed awa like an uncertain shadow.

North. Misery is selfish, James-and I have lost almost all sympathy with my fellow-creatures, alike in their joys and their sorrows.

Shepherd. Come, come, sir-cheer up, cheer up. thing but the blue devils.

It's nae

North. All dead-one after another-the friends in whom lay the light and might of my life-and memory's self is faithless now to the "old familiar faces." Eyes-brows-lips -smiles-voices-all-all forgotten! Pitiable, indeed, is old age, when love itself grows feeble in the heart, and yet the dotard is still conscious that he is day by day letting some sacred remembrance slip for ever from him that he once cherished devoutly in his heart's core, and feels that mental decay alone is fast delivering them all up to oblivion !

Shepherd. Sittin wi' rheumy een, mumblin wi' his mouth on his breist, and no kennin frae ither weans his grandchildren wha have come to visit him wi' their mother, his ain bricht and beautifu' dauchter, wha seems to him a stranger passing alang the street.

North. What said you, James?

Shepherd. Naething, sir, naething. I wasna speakin o' you -but o' anither man.

North. They who knew me—and loved me—and honoured me-and admired me- -for why fear to use that word, now to me charmless?—all dust! What are a thousand kind acquaintances, James, to him who has buried all the few friends of

TICKLER'S HONEYMOON.

299

his soul-all the few-one-two-three-but powerful as a whole army to guard the holiest recesses of life!

Shepherd. An' am I accounted but a kind acquaintance and nae mair! I wha

North. What have I said to hurt you, my dear James ? Shepherd. Never mind, sir-never mind. I'll try to forget it-but

North. Stir the fire, James-and give a slight touch to that lamp.

Shepherd. There's a bleeze, sir, at ae blast. An' there's the Orrery, bricht as the nicht in Homer's Iliad, about which you wrote sic eloquent havers. And there's your bumperglass. Noo, sir, be candid and tell me, gif you dinna think that you've been a verra great fule?

North. I believe I have, my dear James. But, by all that is ludicrous here below, look at Tickler!

Shepherd. O for Cruckshank! You see what he's dreaming about in his sleep, sir, lyin on the ae side, wi' that big black sofa-pillow in his arms! He is evidently on his marriage jaunt to the Lakes, and passing the hinnymoon amang the mountains. She's indeed a fearsome dear, the bride. She has gotten nae feturs—and as for feegur, she's the same thickness a' the way doun, as if she was stuffed. But there's nae accountin for taste; and mony a queer cretur gets a husband. Sleep on-sleep on-ye bony pair! for noo you're leadin your lives in Elysium.

North. I hope, James, that neither you nor I have such open countenances in our sleep, as our friend before us.

Shepherd. I canna charge ma memory wi' sic a mouth. What's the maitter? What's the maitter? Lo! Mrs Tickler has either fa'en or loupen out o' the bed, an's tumblin alang the floor! What'n an exposé! In decency, sir, really we twa should retire.

North. The blushing bride has absolutely hidden herself under the table.

Shepherd. Oh! but this is gran' sport. Let's blacken his ee-brees, and gie him mistashes.

[The SHEPHERD, with burnt cork, dexterously makes TICKLER a Hussar.

There you're noo ane o' the Third, at Jock's Lodge. Gie

300

A SALMON HOOKED.

Mrs Tickler, sir, a touch wi' the crutch, under the table, and send her ower this way, that I may restore her to the bridegroom's longing arms. It's a shame to see her sleepin at the stock'—the wife should aye lie neist the wa'. Sae I'll tak the liberty to place her atween her husband's back and that o' the settee. When he waukens he'll hae mony apologies to mak for his bad mainners. But the twa 'ill sune mak it up, and naething in this life's half so sweet as the reconciliation o' lovers' quarrels.

North. By the by, James, who won the salmon medal this season on the Tweed?

Shepherd. Wha, think ye, could it be, ye coof, but mysel? I beat them a' by twa stane wecht. Oh, Mr North, but it wad hae done your heart gude to hae daunered alang the banks wi' me on the 25th, and seen the slauchter. At the third thraw the snout o' a famous fish sookit in ma flee-and for some seconds keepit steadfast in a sort o' eddy that gaed sullenly swirlin at the tail o' yon pool-I needna name't-for the river had risen just to the proper pint, and was black as ink, except when noo and then the sun struggled out frae atween the clud-chinks, and then the water was purple as heather-moss in the season of blaeberries. But that verra instant the flee began to bite him on the tongue, for by a jerk o' the wrist I had slichtly gien him the butt-and sunbeam never swifter shot frae Heaven, than shot that saumon-beam doun intil and out o' the pool below, and alang the saughshallows or you come to Juniper Bank. Clap-clap-clap― at the same instant played a couple o' cushats frae an aik aboon my head, at the purr o' the pirn, that let out, in a twinkling, a hunner yards o' Mr Phin's best, strang aneuch to haud a bill or a rhinoceros.

North. Incomparable tackle!

Shepherd. For, far awa doun the flood, see till him, sir— see till him,-loup-loup-loupin intil the air, describin in the spray the rinnin rainbows! Scarcely could I believe, at sic a distance, that he was the same fish. He seemed a saumon divertin himsel, without ony connection in this warld wi' the Shepherd. But we were linked thegither, sir, by the inveesible gut o' destiny—and I chasteesed him in his pastime wi' the rod o' affliction. Windin up-windin up, faster than ever ye grunded coffee-I keepit closin in upon him, till the whale1 Stock-forepart of a bed.