THE BRITISH CLIMATE.

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will live for ever. Alfred! the mighty Warrior, who quelled and drove afar from him the terrible enemy that had baffled the prowess of all his predecessors-the Father of his people, who listened to all complaints, and redressed all wrongs-the Philosopher, who raised up a barbarous age towards the height of his own mind, and founded the civilization of England-the Legislator, whose laws, after a thousand years, make part of the liberty of his country!

Shepherd. Better than I expected. Tak breath, and at it again, tooth and nail, lip and nostril.

Tickler. Our imagination cannot dream of a greater man than this, or of one happier in his greatness. Yet, we do not, I opine, Mr. De Quincy, think of Alfred as strongly possessed by a Love of Fame. We think of him as conscious of his own high thoughts, and living in the elevation of his nature. But he seems to us too profoundly affected by his great designs, to care for the applauses of the race for whose benefit his mighty mind was in constant meditation. He seems to us rather absorbed in the philosophic dream of the wide change which his wisdom was to produce on the character of his country; and in all that he did for man, to have desired the reflection, not of his own glory, but of their happiness. The thoughtful moral spirit of Alfred did not make him insensible to the sympathies of men; but it was self-satisfied, and therefore sought them not; and, accordingly, in our conception of his character, the Love of Glory makes no part, but would, I think, be felt at once to be inconsistent with its simple and sedate grandeur.

Shepherd. You've acquitted yourself weel, Mr. Tickler, and had better haud your tongue for the rest o' the nicht

North. "Lest aught less great should stamp you mortal.”

Shepherd. O man! Timothy, what for are you sae severe, and satirical, and sardonic, in your natur? A girn*-or a toss o' your heador a grumph 's a' you aften condescend to gie in answer to a remark made in the natural order o' discourse-but it's no richt o' you-for folk doesna like the superceelious in society-though it may pass current wi' a tall man on the streets. I'm thinkin' you've forgotten your

face?

Tickler. I vote we change the Arbor for the Lodge. 'Tis coldpositively chill-curse the climate!

Opium-Eater. Our sensations are the sole

Shepherd. If you're cauld, sir, you may gang and warm yoursell at the kitchen-fire. But we's no stir

Tickler. Curse the climate!

Shepherd. Cleemat! Where's the cleemat like it, I wou'd wush to ken? Greece? Italy? Persia? Hindostan? Poo-poo-ooo! Wha

• Girn, to grin like an ill-natured dog.-M.

cou'd thole months after months o' ae kind o' weather, were the sky a' the while lovely as an angel's ce? Commend me to the bold, bright, blue, black, boisterous, and blusterin' beauty o' the British heavens.

Tickler. But what think ye, James, of a tropic tornado, a hurricano? Shepherd. I wou'dna gie a doit for a dizzen. Swoopin' awa' a town o' wooden cages, wi' ane bigger than the lave, ca'd the governor's house, and aiblins a truly contemptible kirk, floatin' awa' into rottenness sae muckle colonial produce, rice, rum, or sugar, and frichtenin' a gang o' neeggers! It may na roar sae loud nor sae lang, perhaps, our ain indigenous Scottish thunner; but it rairs loud and lang eneuch too, to satisfy ony reasonable Christian that has the least regard for his lugs. Nae patriot, Mr. Tickler, wou'd undervalue his native kintra's thunner. Hear It spangin'-hap, step, and loup-frae Cruachan to Ben Nevis ! The red-deer-you micht think them a' dead-and that their antlers were rotten branches-sae stanelike do they couch atween the claps— without ae rustle in the heather. Black is the sky as pitch-but every here and there, shootin' up through the purple gloom, for whan the lichtnin' darts out its fiery serpents it is purple,-lo! bricht pillars and pinnacles illuminated in the growlin' darkness, and then gone in a moment in all their glory, as the day-nicht descends denser doon upon the heart o' the glens, and you only hear the mountain-tap; for wha can see the thousand-year-auld cairn up by yonder, when a' the haill heaven is ae coal-cloud-takin' fire every noo and then as if it were a furnace--and then indeed by that flash may you see the cairn like a giant's ghost. Up goes the sable veil-for an eddy has been churnin' the red river into spray, and noo is a whirlwind-and at that updriving see ye not a hundred snaw-white torrents tumblin' frae the tarns, and every cliff rejoicin' in its new-born cataract? There is the van o' anither cloud-army frae the sea. What'll become o' the puir ships! A dismal word to think on in a tempest-lee-shore! There's nae wund noo-only a sort o' sugh. Yet the cloud army comes on in the deadmarch-and that is the muffled drum. Na-that flash gaed through my head, and I fear I'm stricken blin'! Rattle-rattle-rattle-as if

great granite stanes were shot out o' the sky doon an invisible airn-roof, and plungin' sillenly intill the sea. The eagles daurna scream-but that demon the raven, croaks-croaks—croaks,—is it out o' the earth, or out o' the air, cave, or cloud? My being is cowed in the insane solitude. But pity me-bless me-is that a wee bit Hieland lassie sittin' in her plaid aneath a stane, a' by hersell, far frae hame, haein' been sent to look after the kids-for I declare there is ane lyin' on her bosom, and its mither maun be dead! Dinna be frichtened, my sweet Mhairi, for the lichtnin' shall na be allowed by God to touch the bonny blue riband round thy yellow hair!-There's a bit o' Scottish thunner and lichtnin' for you, Mr. Tickler, and gin it doesna satisfy you, aff to the tropics for a tornawdoe!

Opium-Eater. You paint in words, my admirable Shepherd, Nature in all her moods and aspects

Shepherd. Few poets are fonder o' the face o' Natur than mysell, sirs; yet a man shouldna let ony thing like the chief pairt o' his happiness in this warld be at the mercy o' its Beauty-the slave o' the ear and ee-which that man must be wha habitually draws his veetal bliss frae the bonny colours or souns o' the mere earth. The human sowle ought to be at last totally independent o' the ooter creation, except for meat, drink, house, and claes. I say at last; for at first, and for a lang, lang time, we maun hang, like sookin' babbies, at the breast o' mother Natur, or gang stacherin' at her knees while she is actin' in the capacity and character o' a great big, muckle dry nurse.

Tickler. Skelping your doup, James, with storm, sleet, snow, and rain, and, by one and the same benign but severe process, invigorating at once head, heart, and hurdies.

Shepherd. Fie, fie-that's coorse! What I mean's this. A man, wha aiblins thinks himsell a poet, and wha we shall alloo has poetical propensities, has, by the goodness o' Providence, been set down in a house on a gentle eminence, commandin' a beautifu' bend o' the blue braided sky overhead, hills and mountains piling theirsells in regular gradation up, up, up-and far, far, far-aff and awa,' till you kenna whilk are their rosy summits, and whilk the rosy clouds-and, beyond a foreground o' woods, groves, halls, and cottages, exquisitely interspersed wi' fields and meadows, which, in the dimmest days, still seem spots of sunshine, a loch! or, supposin' the scene in England, a lake, a day's journey round about, always blue or bricht, or if at ony time black, yet then streaked gloriously wi' bars o' sunburst, sae that in the midst o the foamy gloom o' Purgatory are seen serenely rising the Isles o' Paradise

North. Poussin !

Shepherd. -Deil mean him to be cheerfu', and crouse, and talkative, and eloquent on the poetical and the picturesque-and, to croon a', proud as Lucifer! But only observe, sirs, the cross delusion into which the cretur has cowped over head and ears, sae lang syne that there's nae chance o' his recovery in this life. He absolutely, sirs, thinks that glorious scene- -Himsell; Loch Lomond or WindermereHimsell;-forgettin', that if either o' them were struck out o' being the beauty o' the earth would be shorn of its beams—or at least all England and all Scotland-Cockneydom excluded-be desolate : whereas you ken, sir, that were the bit triflin' cretur himsell killed by a cherry-stane stickin' in the throat o' him, or a sour-cider colic, in nine days he wou'd be nae mair missed in his ain parish--I had amaist saic on his ain estate-than a defunck cock- sparrow.

Tickler. And what, pray, James, is your drift?

Shepherd. My drift! Truthwards on the sea of philosophy. The

delusion's the same wi' a kinds o' wealth--bonds, bills, bankstoct, or what not,--the man mistakes them for himsell; but the looker-on is free frae that delusion--and sees that in truth he is as poor as Lazarus. Therefore, rug the ane awa' frae Loch Lomond or Windermere, I say, and crib, cabin, and confine him in a back parlour in some dingy town, commanding a view o' a score o' smoky chumleys, and then look into his eyes, and listen unto his voice for his poetry. He is seen and heard to be a Sumph. Rug, in like manner, the man o' money frae his bags, --let the feet o' some great Panic trample out his Ploom, as you or me wou'd squas a sour Ploom-damass wi' the heel o' our shae, and in sowle as in body behold a-Powper! But bring the POET frae his dwelling amang the licht o' risin' and settin' suns, and amang the darkness o' thunderous clouds, sae grim that they seem to threaten earthquake,-frae amang the pearlins, and jewels, and diamonds o' mornin', wha adorns the bleakest heath she loves wi' gossamery dewdraps, finer, and fairer, and richer far than all the gems that ever swarthy miners dug out o' the subterranean galleries o' Golconda or Peru,--frae amang the meridian magnificence o' lights and shadows, smiling like angels, or a-frown like demons, shiftin' or stationary on the inany-coloured mountain's breast, till the earth seems the sea-frae amang the one-star-y-crowned gloaming pensive wi' the woodlark's sang, or mair than pensive, profoundly melancholy, wi' the far-aff croonin' o' the cushat hidden somewhere or ither in the heart o' some auld wood,--frae amang the moonlicht that, after it has steeped a' the heavens, has a still serene flood o' lustre to pour down on the taps o' trees, and ancient ruins, and lakes that seem to burn wi' fire, and a' ower the dreamy slumber o' the toil-forgettin' Earth!

Opium-Eater. Exquisite !

Tickler. It beats cock-fighting.

North. Go on, James-keep moving.

Shepherd. Clap him in a garret in Grub Street, and yet shall he, like a fixed star, hang on the bosom o' infinitude, or like a planet pursue his flight, in music, round the Sun.

Omnes. Hurra-hurra-hurra! The Shepherd for ever! Hurraburra-hurra!

Shepherd. Sear his een wi' red-het plates o' irn, or pierce their iris wi' fire-tipped skewers, and soon as the agony has grown dull in his brain nerves, he will see the Panorama o' Natur still, Mont Blanc and his eagles, Palmyra in the desert, the river o' Amazons, and the sailswept Ocean wi' all his isles!

Opium-Eater. Author of Kilmeny! that is IMAGINATION To the sumph (an admirable word), every thing is nothing-to the man of genius, nothing is every thing.

Shepherd. Eh?

Opium-Eater. See how genius throws all that arises within itself,

BEAUTY, LOVE, AND POETRY.

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out of itself, making that which in respect of the reality is subjective, in respect of the effect or apprehension, objective.

Shepherd. Eh?

Opium-Eater. The joy and the love spring in itself, and remain in itself; but it flings them forth into the object, scattering light as from the golden urn. That joy and that love, now poured upon the object, appears to genius as a property or nature residing therein, which property or nature, gloriously self-deceived by the divinity it bears, it thenceforth acknowledges as-Beauty. In the same way, or a similar, the mind has before given colour to the grass, and light to the sun. Only, that in the attribution of these merely physical properties, it appears to do no more than remove that which is present to it in the eye, to a greater distance from it, out of the eye. Whereas in beauty, you find a union of your soul with the object that is Love. Develope love infinitely, and you develope beauty.

Shepherd. I believe that, sir, to be indeed God's truth.

Opium-Eater. Both beauty and sublimity-you may remember we touched on these subjects at the last Noctes, and indeed an hour ago -appear to be visible in visible objects. When we begin to think, we cannot believe that they are otherwise; and we abhor the metaphysical attempt to take the qualities out of the objects, to make them alien to the eye. Why! Because that attempt dissolves the world. It makes that wherein our love, our soul has rested as on rock-strung reality, unreal-mere figured air.

Shepherd. It would seem, indeed, my dear sir, that our verra life is ta'en frae us by sic speculations.

Opium-Eater. Be it so. The great question is, will we know, or will we have ignorant bliss? Know we must. We very soon become convinced by divers reflections, that our first natural and inevitable idea is not strictly true, that the Beauty and the Sublimity are not so imbedded and inherent in the objects as they once appeared to be. Wo must give up more and more, and shall find no rest till we recognise that they are totally of the mind. Then, indeed, we obtain a support -a life of a different and more sufficient kind than that which was at first taken away, in the clear consciousness of the creative and illimitable power of the mind. We can rest well in either extreme-but between them rest is there none.

Shepherd. What for do you no write poetry, Mr. De Quishyseein' that ye are a poet? But you're prouder o' bein' a pheelosopher.

Opium-Eater. There are two principal ways, Mr. Hogg, in which every object can be considered-two chief aspects under which they present themselves to us--the philosophical and the poetical-as they are to reason, as they seem to imagination.

Shepherd. Can you, sir, make that great distinction good?

VOL. IV.-7