gouden ba's indeed, dropped frae trees in the Hesperides. Grapes and grozets gloriously glowin', "in linked sweetness lang drawn out," a' round the oval, and tastily interspersed wi' what can be naething else but peaches and nectrins, wi' here and there a bonny basket o' plooms and cherries, alternatin' wi' blushin' banks o' strawberries—and as if spring and owtumn had melted into ane, the entire table beautified wi' a boundless prodigality o' flowers! The hail Botanic and Experimental Gardens--baith-maun hae been roopit to furnish forth that unparalleled Yepergne. You micht dream that some angel had crushed the arc o' the rainbow thegither into a ba', and lettin't fa' doon, in the midst o' our festivities, frae the showery heavens!

Macdonald. Beautiful!

Shepherd. Chaplains-nae sic dessert was ever devoored in Paradise. Think you 'twas on the left or the richt bank o' the Euphrawtes? North. Milton says,

"Southward through Eden ran a river large.

Shepherd. And hoo got Adam and Eve across? There were Lae briggs in thae days-but aiblins they cou'd baith swoom and flee. For licht, licht, sir, maun their bodies as weel as their sowles hae been, before they were clogged wi' sin. They needed neither fins nor wings then their frames in specific gravity less dense nor the living elements. But the "taste o' that mortal frute brocht death into the warld, and a' our wo,"-although there's nae use in yawmmerin' about it noo-sae, Mr. De Qunshy, I'd thank ye, sir, to rax me ower an aipple.

Opium-Eater. In the juice of the apple, in rind equally with core, there is lodged, Mr. Hogg, a mysterious power of affecting the human tooth, so as to produce, if not a painful, yet an uneasy sensation, of a very peculiar and indescribable kind, vulgarly called

Shepherd. Settin' your teeth on edge. It's no sae bad's keeping a body's mooth waterin'. Fling me ower the great big muckle redchecked ane, that seems hotchin' half a dizzen lesser anes aff its gawcey shouthers. Weel booled and weel keppit! You and me, sir, wou'd mak twa gran' cricketers. Noo, freens, crack awa-for I'm no gaun till speak-till I've sookit the seeds.

Blackwood (to NORTH). My dear sir, should we not have toasts ? North. No, Bailie, if you please, not till the timepiece chimes-ten. Meanwhile, gentlemen, this is Liberty Hall. Mr. Blackwood and IPresident and Vice-President of the United States

Shepherd. Sittin' in your arm-chairs, wi' red, stuffed, leather backs and bottoms, when a' the lave o' us hae our hurdies on the hard timmer, nae support ava' for our spines, and nane ither for our elbows but the edge of the aik table! And that's leeberty and equality! But afore a's dune, pride may get a fa'. I hae an ee to Mr. North's chair

about cock-craw. There hae been some auld lines floatin' about the Forest-for some thoosan' years-that may be modarneezed thus— prophesying-gin my interpretation be richt-that I was born to be

an usurper.

Tickler. Hogg's head brought to the block for having dethroned our Sovereign Lord the King!

Shepherd. The Seabellin' leaves daurkly hint sae,-an' I wou'd wish to hear my old cronie Edward Irving*-mony a jug hae we twa drained thegither, though a' in a douce sober way, and never aneuch to produce either an apocalypse or an apoplexy-try his haun' at its interpretation. The close o't's no canny, like the wutches' warnin' to Macbeth.

"Much I long, yet fear to try,
The long-forgotten prophecy."

North. Sing out, James.
Shepherd.

paw,

When Bawdrons, wi' her mousin
Dechts her face, the rains wull fa'
As they wou'd ding down roof and wa',
Tour and turret, rocks and a',

In Yarrow droonin' Newark-ha'
An' when the Hoggie frae his stye,
Sees hoo the wund blaws in the sky,
Snoking wi' his snout on high,
Grunts to man, "'tis all my eye,"
Foreseeing some strange destiny.
When the Big Bore rushes forth,
Like a man o' war and worth,
Bearin' doon upo' THE NORTH,
Where rules the king o' a' the earth,
Whom a' the natives serve wi' mirth.
Then that Sovran frae his chair,
Prooder than the Prince o' Air
Aneath the deas, wi' lady fair,
Ane Mawga, proudly seated there,
By men yeclyped-Christopher,
At the wee sma' hour will snore,
And by that Beast be couped ower,
Senseless on the holy floor.

Swinkum Sanctum-Swiggamore'

The Rev. Edward Irving was assistant to Dr. Chalmers, at St. John's Church, Glasgow, an thence went as preacher in the Caledonian Asylum, London, where his peculiar appearance florid eloquence, violent gesticulation, and strong attacks upon all opposed to his own opinions, drew such large congregations that admission could be obtained only by tickets. "The meteor

of a season," he became minister of the Scotch Church in Hatton Garden, to which nobles, statesmen, lawyers, clergymen, fashionable ladies, and even Princes of the Blood-Royal went to hear him. A new and spacious church was erected for him in Regent Square. But his popularity dwindled away. He joined a sect called "the prophets," was tried by the presbytery, deposed and ejected from the church where he had officiated, became a believer in the unknown tongues," and died, aged 42, in December 1834.-In person he was tall and slight, dark complexioned, wore his black locks divided on his head, and in long curls over his shoulders, and has a strong cast in his eyes, which made Theodore Hook lampoon him, in John Bull, as "Dr. Squintem," a name, by the way, which Hook had previously applied to the Rev. George Whitfield.

The Big Boar then his body busks
Wi' bristles, and his snout wi' tusks.
And scornin' mair to feed on husks
Fearsomely his pig-tail whusks!
Trummlin' to be torn lith and limb,
The Leddy Mawga looks at him;
The Gracefu' gazin' on the Grim,
Wi' dewy een in smiles that swim,
On misty nights like starnies dim,
And sings a sang that's like a hymn,
Frae ane o' heaven's ain seraphim!
Then a' at aince, the Big Boar grows
Intil a man wi' bauld brent brows,
A Shepherd singing sweet verse vows,
Wha in his plaid the Leddy rows!
People! sure 'tis strange to see
The twa seated on that settee-
Where the Cross-Bearer used to be,
Conspicuous far owre land and sea,
The steadfast pole-star o' the free!
Set him up to rug him doon
What think ye o't, my bonny moon!
Shinin' abune the heech Auld Toune,
To see a lord in mortal swoon,
Aneath a limmer and a loun?
Set him up to rug him doon!
But be it late or be it soon,
The timmer turns to siller spoon,
The leather brogue to velvet shoon.
Sure sign the times are out o' tune,
When an August dry as June,
(Foretold by him who reads the lune,
In seasons a', bricht, black or broon,
That Gaelic seer, baith blythe and boon,
Though deaf as ony auld deer-houn,)
At Forty-Five, in gran' Saloon,

Shall see a Shepherd wear a croon,
Thus endeth the prophetic crune!

Tickler. Copies must be sent to Coleridge, Irving, Frere, Cuninghame, Faber, Stone, and all the other great interpreters of prophecy— that we may sleep in peace. Oh! North grows pale,

Uneasy sit the brows that wear a crown."

North. "Lights-lights-lights!"

J. Ballantyne. "You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting with most admired disorder ?”

Opium-Eater. 'Tis a Saloon of singularly simple elegance-nay, grandeur. Except in some of Piranesi's dreamy designs, I remember to have seen nothing, in the whole range of architecture, within the same bounds, so magnificent. Said I the same bounds? Yet, I feel

THE MODERN ATHENS.

89

how difficult-nay, impossible it would be--to pronounce its dimensions: For so exquisite are the proportions, that it seems to grow upon the eye, the longer you gaze on walls and roof, still expanding around and above, till this table, though of no insignificant size (witness the perfect freedom afforded to the elbows of this multitudinous assemblage) finally seems in the centre, even like a gorgeous flower-plot in the green lawn of some fairy garden. Of whose genius is it the creation?

Blackwood. The gentleman at your left hand, sir. Allow me to introduce you to ane another. Mr. Hamilton-Mr. De Quincey. (They bow and shake hands.)

Opium-Eater. The names of Hamilton, Burn, and Playfair, have long been familiar to fame. No wonder Edinburgh is such a city. There is something sublime, Mr. North, to my imagination, in its midsummer solitude. Still almost as a city of the dead, yet serene as a city of the living. The great stream of human existence, one feels is not dried up, but only diverted into other channels. One hears a thousand rills, rivulets, and rivers, cheerfully flowing along rural valleys, and the heart is touched to think how, far remote though they be, they all owe their being to this matchless metropolis. In shade or sunshine alike, it seemeth to me, that the whole week is a Sabbath. Gentlemen, I envy the stranger within your gates. The dullest wight-as Cole ridge says of commonplace people reading Shakspeare, or in dreams -must become a poet beneath your Castle Rock-sublimer, sir-believe me than the Acropolis: though pardon me for hinting, that I am scarcely sensible of the propriety of the term-when self-applied to the ingenious and learned inhabitants-Modern Athenians.

Shepherd. Nor me either—my aipple's dune—and its hanged nonsense. Whare's Pericles? No the Provost-perfek gentleman though in a' things he be—and I houp sune to return frae Lonnun a baronet. Whare's Eskluss, Yourippidays, and Suffoclaes? No surely Sir Walter himsell, wi' bis Doom o' Devorgoil, greatest o' a' Scotsmen though he be, that ever leev'd, or ever wull leeve-nor yet Wullison Glass, though he sings Prince Charlie, and some folk sillily swear he wrote it—but that's a' ma ee-nor yet-nane o' your lauchin', you cunnin' chiel wi' the mild een-no, nor you either, Mr. Triangular Delta, though for truth and tenderness o' natural feelin', and purity and brichtness o' diction, when describin' the beauties o' natur either on sea or shore, but mair particularly the sweet sadness o' spring, when first she walks outower the braes wi' a garland o' primroses round her sunny hair, and is playing like a wean amang the lambs, I ken na amang our poets the match o' my freen Mr. Moir o' Musselburgh, surgeon though he be, and fearsome to think o'! in the way o' his profession, during his college days dootless a dissector o' dead bodies!

North. Yes, James. But not of him- "gentle lover of nature,"

--could it be said, as of some that shall now be nameless, in the language of Wordsworth,

Shepherd. Na, faith, he wou'd na, gin he could help it, brush the gold or silver dust aff the wings o' a butterflee,-accep, maybe, gin it were an unco rare ane,—an unique in the red and broon mottledness o' its striped and starry beauty, sic as that Prince o' the Air, the Emperor o' Morocco. And then, aiblins, Delta might bring his heart to shy his beaver at it, for the sake o' sceence, Jamie Wulson,* and the College Museum. An' there's just sic another, the very likes o' him in genius and humanity, the Modern Pythagorean, owre by yonner-dinna blush, sirs-take a lesson frae me, and no be sae blate-wha wou'dna grudge gettin' out o' his warm bed at the mirkest hour o' a snawdrivin' midnicht-and thinkin' nae mair o' the fees than the flakesto dive doon into the cellar, or munt up to the garret o' some lane wi' a laigh vulgar name, to prolong, if possible, the wee bit peepin' life o' a span-lang bairn, or that o' some auld bed-ridden granny, wi' a crinklin' cough, in the last stage o' natur's consumption. And mind ma words, sirs; the doctors that's no deaf to the cry o' the pair, when wrastlin' wi' death in an auld clay biggin, will be amang the verra first to be ca'd in till the rich man's best bedrooms, in houses in fashionable squares, for does nae ae God reign over all, but whare's the difference in the heart's pulsations atween that o' any twa meeserable mortal creatures?-But the wine's stannin' wi' me-there-that's garrin't spin!--(The Shepherd with great vehemence sends one of the cutcrystals off a spinning, and there is a smash, as if of icebergs clashing in the North Sea.)-Mercy me! I'm dumbfounder'd-what a stramash!

Blackwood. Never mind, my dearest James, that sentiment was worth a shiver.

(Enter PICARDY, in consternation, with his Tail, and the fragments are removed, the table swept, and decanters replaced, as if by magic.)

Shepherd. I'm blin'. But what's this? Wasna there a split bombshell the noo blawn to flinders on the table? I surely hae na been sleepin' already; sae it caunna hae been a dream.

North. You really ought, James, at your time of life, to keep a tighter rein on your imagination.

Shepherd. What? would you daur to tell me to my face, that there was nae broken bottles?

James Wilson, the Professor's brother, author of The Loch and the Moor, &c. He is an excellent naturalist, and was one of the earliest contributors to Black wood. One of his first papers, as far back as 1818, was an "Account of the Kraken, Colossal Cuttle-fish, and Great SeaSerpent," in all of which he affected to believe.-M.