306 THE SCENE IS SHIFTED. Tickler. The moment the water touches its face, it falls into a fit o' fear and rage Shepherd. Sune stilled, ye callous carle, in the bosom o'ane o' the bonny lassies sittin on a furm in the transe, a' dressed in white, wha wi' mony a silent hushaby, lulls the lamb, noo ane o' the flock, into haly sleep. Tickler. Your hand, my dear James. Shepherd. There. Tak a gude grup, sir, for in spite o' that sneering, you've a real gude heart. North. This is the second or third time, my dear James, that we have been cheated by some chance or other out of your Seven Ages. But hark! the time-piece strikes nineand we must away to the Library. Two hours for dinner in the Saloon-two for wine and walnuts in the Snuggery-then two for tea-tea, and coffee-tea in the Library-and finally, two in the blue-parlour for supper. Such was the arrangement for the evening. So lend me your support, my dear boys-we shall leave our curricles behind us-and start pedestrians. I am the lad to show a toe. [Exeunt. Scene III.-The Library. Tea, coffee, chocolate, &c. Enter the Trio on foot-NORTH in medio tutissimus. SHEPHERD President of the Pots. Shepherd. Wha drinks tea, wha drinks coffee, and wha drinks chocklat? Tickler. I carena with which I commence-so that I end with a cup of congou and therein a caulker. North. I feel the influence of the Genius Loci, and long for some literary conversation. How quickly, James, is the character of a book known to Shepherd. Veterans like us in the fields o' literature. It's just the same to the experienced wi' the character o' a man or a woman. In five minutes the likes o' you and me see through their faces intil their hearts. Twa-three words, if they should be but about the weather, the sound o' the vice itsel, a certain look about the een, their way o' walkin, the mainner they draw in a chair, ony the meerest trifle in short, maks us acquented wi' the inner man, in ilka sex alike, as weel as if we had kent them for a thousand years. An' is't no preceesely ane and the same thing wi' byucks? Open a poem at ony A CANON OF CRITICISM. -FRIENDSHIP.-LOVE. 307 pairt, and let the ee rin doun the line o' prent atween the margins, and you haena glanced alang a page till ye ken whether or no the owther be a free and accepted mason amang the Muses. No that you may hae seen ony verra uncommon eemage, or extraordinar thocht, for the lad in that particular passage may hae been haudin the even tenor o' his way alang an easy level; but still you fin' as if your feet werena on the beaten road, but on the bonny greensward, wi' here and there a pretty unpresuming wild-flower, primrose, daisy, or violet, and that you're gettin in amang the mazes o' the pleasant sheep-paths on the braes. North. Or the sumph is seen in a single sentence Shepherd. And the amiable man o' mediocrity is apparent at the full pint o' the first paragraph. Tickler. A compendious canon in criticism. Shepherd. And ane that I never kent err. No but that ye may hate a man or woman at first sicht, and afterwards come to regard him wi' muckle amity, and gang mad for her in verra infatuation—but then in a' sic cases they hae been inconsistent and contradictory characters; fierce fallows ae day, sulky chiels anither-on a third, to your astonishment, free and familiar-on a fourth flatterin-freenly on a fifthcomical and wutty beyond a' endurance on a sixth-on the seventh, for that's the Sabbath, serious and solemn, as is fittin a' mortal beings to be on the haly day o' rest-and on Monday nicht, they break and burst out on ye diamonds o' the first water, some rouch, and some polished, as ye get glorious thegither in the feast o' reason and the flow o' sowl, ower a barrel o' eisters and a gallon o' Glenlivet. North. Heads of chapters for the Natural History of Friendship. Shepherd. Sic too is sometimes the origin and growth o' Love. The first time ye saw her, cockettin perhaps wi' some insignificant puppy, and either seemin no to ken that you're in the room, or geein you occasionally a supercilious glance frae the curled tail o' her ee, as if she thocht you had mistaken the parlour for the servants'-ha', ye pairtly pity, pairtly despise, and rather hate, and think her mair nor ordinary ugly; neist time ye forgather, she's sittin on a bunker1 by her lane, and drappin doun aside her, you attempt to talk, but she looks strecht-forrit, as if ex 1 Bunker-window-seat. pectin the door to open, and seems stane-deaf, at least on ae side o' the head, only she's no sulky, and about her mouth ye see a sort o' a struggle to haud in a smile, that makes her look, though somewhat prim, certainly-rather bonny; on the third meetin, at a freen's house, you sit aside her at denner, and try to fin' out the things she likes best, nor mind a rebuff or twa, till ye get first a sole on her plate, and syne a veal cutlet, and after that the breist o' a chicken, and feenally, an apple-tart wi' custard; and sae muckle the better, if afore that a jeely and a bit blamange, takin tent to ask her to drink wine wi' you, and even facetiously pretendin to gie her a caulker, wi' an expression that shows you're thinking o' far ither dew atween the openin o' her lips, that noo, for the first time can be fairly said to lauch alang wi' the licht that seems safter and safter in her heaven-blue een; the morning after of coorse you gie her a ca', and you fin' her at the work-table, in a gauze goun and braided hair, wi' her wee fit on a stool, peepin out like a moose-tak her on the whole, as she sits, as lovely-lookin a lassie as a Shepherd may see on a simmer's day—and what's your delicht, when layin aside her work, a purple silk-purse interwoven wi' gold, she rises a' at ance like some bricht bird frae the grund, and comes floating towards ye wi' an outstretched arm, terminating in a haun o' which the back and the fingers are white as the driven snaw! And as for the pawm-if a sweet shock o' electricity gangs na to your heart as you touch it, then either are your nerves non-conductors, or you're a chiel chiseled out o' the whinstane rock. Your fifth meetin, we shall say, is a' by chance, though in a lane a mile ayont the sooburbs, that was ance the avenue to a ha' noo dilapidated, and that is shaded in its solitariness wi' a hummin arch o' umbrawgeous auld lime-trees. Hoo sweet the unex pected recognition! For there was nae tryst-for, believe me, there was nae tryst-I was takin a poetical dauner awa frae the smoky city's stir, and she, like an angel o' charity, was returnin frae a puir widow's hovel, where she had been drappin, as if frae heaven, her weekly alms. The sixth time you see her -for you hae keepit count o' every ane, and they're a' written on your heart-is on the Saturday nicht in the house o' her ain parents, nane at hame but themsels-a family party-and the front-door locked again' a' intruders, that may ring the bell as they like; for entrance is there nane, except through ACCEPTANCE. the keyhole to the domestic fairies. 309 What'n a wife, thinks your heart, would be sic a dochter! the weans! The sweet thocht, but half-suppressed, accompanies her, as she moves about through the room, in footsteps Fine-ear himsel could hardly hear; and showerin aroun' her the cheerfu' beauty o' her innocence, "Sic as virtue ever wears When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles!" Hark! at a look frae her father the virgin sings! An auld Scottish sang-and then a hymn-but whilk is the maist haly it would be hard to tell, for if the hymn be fu' o' a humble and a contrite heart, sae is the sang o' a heart overflowing wi' ruth and pity, and in its ain happiness tenderly alive to a' human grief! The seventh meetin's at the kirk on the Sabbath—and we sit thegither in the same pew, havin walked a' by our lanes across the silent braes; and never never in this warld can love be love, until the twa mortal creatures, wha may hae pledged their troth in voiceless promises, hae assurance gien them, as they join in prayer within the House o' God, that it is hallowed by Religion. North. My dear James! happy for ever be your hearth. Shepherd. Bless you, sir. But let's be crouse as weel's canty. That's rich chocklat. North. "And thus I won my Genevieve, Tickler. And call you that, James, literary conversation! Shepherd. Hoots-I'm no sure, gentlemen, if an age is the better o' bein' especially charactereesed by an inclination for literatur. North. Nor am I. Among the pleasures and pursuits of our ordinary life, there are none which take stronger hold on minds of intelligence and sensibility than those of literature; nor is it possible to look without pleasure and approbation upon the application of a young ingenuous mind to such avocations. Yet a suspicion will often steal in among such reflections, that there is some secret peril lurking in this path 1 Canty-bold, as well as cheerful. 310 THE DANGERS OF LITERATURE. of flowers, which may make it necessary for the mind in the midst of its delights to be jealous of its safety. Shepherd. You're no gaun to thraw cauld water, sir, on Poetry? North. Hear me out, my dear James. Literature brings back to the mind, in a kind of softened reflection, those emotions which belong in nature to the agitating scenes of reality. From the storms of society-from the agony of forlorn hope-from the might of heroism-from the transport of all passions-there is brought to us in our own still seclusion the image of life; our intelligence and sensibility are awakened, and with delight and admiration, with a shadowy representation to ourselves of that which has been absolutely acted, we consider the imaginary world. Shepherd. Nae harm sure in that, sir. North. Love, and hope, and fear, and sorrow, shadowy resemblances of great passions, pass through our hearts; and in the secret haunts of imagination we indulge in contemplating for our mere pleasure that which has consumed the strength and the whole being of our kind. We sever ourselves for a moment from the world to become sympathising and applauding spectators of that very drama in which our own part awaits us. We turn the dread reality of existence into a show for indolent delight. Shepherd. That's beautifu' langage, sir. North. Indeed we can scarcely describe, James, the pleasures which our imagination seeks in works of literature, without indicating the twofold and various tendency of its pleasures. As the image of our condition warms our heart towards our kind, as it enlarges our conception of our own or their nature, it tends, by raising our minds, to fit us more nobly for the discharge of its duties. But as it gives us without reality the emotions we need, as it indulges the sensibility which it is flattering to ourselves to feel, as it separates for our gratification the grandeur of heroic strength from its endurance,—and gives us the consciousness of all that is good in our own nature, without the pain or peril which puts its strength to the proof, it tends to soothe and beguile us with illusory complacency in our own virtue,—to sever our spirits from that hard and fearful strife, in which alone we ought to think that we can rightly know ourselves— |