Noctes Ambrosianac. No. XXXV. ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΟ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ [This is a distich by wise old Phocylides, Σ. Proc. ap. Ath. An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days; C. N. ap. Ambr. SCENE I-Picardy Place-South-East Drawing Room-The SHEPHERD Solus, SHEPHERD. Perfec' enchantment! Ae single material coal fire multiplied by mirrors into a score o' unsubstantial reflections, ilka image burnin' awa' as brichtly up its ain shadowy chimley, as the original Prototeep! Only, ye dinna hear the phantom-fires murmuring about the bars-their flickering tongues are a silent -they might seem to reek at a puff o' the Prototeep,-but sic seemin' wadna dim the atmosphere o' this splendid Saloon. The refraction and reflection o' light's a beautifu' mystery, and I wus I understood the sceence o' optics. And yet ablins it's better no-I michtna then wi' sic a shudder o' iustantawneous delicht, nacthing short o' religion, glower upon the rainbow, the Apparition o' the storm. Let Pheclosophers ken causes-Poets effecks. Ye canna ca' him an ignorawmus that kens effecks-and then in the moral world, which belangs to men o' genius like Me and Burns, there's for the maist part a confused but no an obscure notion o' causes accompanying the knowledge o' effecks-difficult to express formally, like a preacher in his poopit, or a professor in his chair, but colouring the poetry o' effecks wi' the tinge o' the pheelosophy o' causes, sae that the reader alloos that reason and imagination are ane, and that there's nae truth like fiction.-O, ye bit bonny bricht burning fires, there's only ane amang ye a' that gies ony heat! A' the rest's but delusion-just as when the evening star lets loose her locks to the dews high up in heaven, every pool amang the mountains has its ain Eidolon, sae that the earth seems strewn with stars, yet a' the while there's in reality but ae star, and her name is Venus, the delicht o' Gods and men and universal natur.-Ma faith, you're a maist magnificent time-piece, towerin' there on the mantel, mair like a palace wi' thae ivory pillars, or the verra temple o' Solomon! To what a heicht man has carried the mechanical airts-till they've become imaginative! There's poetry in that portal-mercy on us, twa figures comin' out, haun in haun, frae the interior of the building intill the open air, apparelled like wee bit Christians, yet nae bigger than fairies. Weel, that beats a'-first the tane and then the tither, wi' its tiny siller rod, seemin' to strike the chimes on a shect o' tinseland then aff and awa in amang the ticks o' the clock-wark! Puir creturs, wi’ a' their fantastic friskiness, they maun lead a slavish life, up and out to their wark, every hour o' the day and nicht, Sabbaths and a', sae that they haena time even to finish a dream. That's waur than human life itsell; for the wee midshipman in a man-o'-war is aye allooed four hours' sleep at a streatch, and mair than that is the lot o' the puirest herd callant, wha, haein' nae pawrents, is glad to sair a hard master, withouten ony wage-a plaid, parritch, and a cauff-bed.-Mony, certes, is the curious contrivance for notin' time? The hourglass to my mind, the maist impressive, perhaps, o' them a'-as ye see the sand perpetually dreep-dreepin' awa momently-and then a' dune just like life. Then, wi' a touch o' the haun, or whawmle in which there's aye something baith o' feelin' and o' thocht, there begins anither era, or epoch of an hour, during which ane o' your ain bairns, wha has been lang in a decline, and visited by the doctor only when he's been at ony rate passin' by, gies a groanlike sich, and ye ken in a moment that he's dead-or an earthquake tumbles down Lisbon, or some city in Calabria, while a' the folk, men, women, and children, fall down on their knees, or are crushed aiblins by falling churches. "The dial-stane aged and green,”—ane o' Cammel's fine lines! Houses change families, not only at Michaelmas, but often on a sudden summons frae death, there is a general flitting, awa a'thegither frae this side o' the kintra, nane o' the neebours ken whare; and sae, ye see, dial-stanes get green, for there are nae bairns' hauns to pick aff the moss, and it's no muckle that the Robin Redbreast taks for his nest or the Kitty-Wren. It's aften been a mournfu' thocht wi' me, that o' a' the dial-stanes I ever saw, staunin' in a sort o' circle in the middle o' a garden, or in a nyeuck o' grun that might ance hae been a garden, just as you gang in or out o' the village, or in a kirk-yard, there was aye something wrang wi' them, either wi' the finger or the face, sae that Time laughed at his ain altar, and gied it a kick in the by-gaun, till it begood to hang a' to the tae-side like a negleckit tomb-stane ower the banes o' some ane or ither buried lang afore the Covenant.-Isna that a fiddle on the brace-piece? Let's hawnle her-Ay, just like a' the lave-ae string wantin'-and something or ither wrang wi' twa three o' the pegs-sae, that whan ye skrew up, they'll no haud the grip. Ne'ertheless, I'll play mysell a bit tune. Got, she's no an ill fiddle-but some folk can bring music out o' a boot-jack. O MOTHER, tell the laird o't, Or sair-ly it will grieve me, O, That I'm to wake the ewes the night, An' Annie's to gang wi' me, O. I'll wake the ewes my night about, But ne'er wi' ane sae sau-cy, O; Nor sit my lane the lee-lang night Wi' sic a scornfu' lassie, O. I'll no wake, I'll no wake, I'll no wake wi' Annie, O, Nor sit my lane o'er night wi' ane Sae thraward an' un --can-nie, O. Dear son be wise an' warie, VOL. XXIII. P The ewes ye wake are fair enough, Upon the brae sae bonny, O; But the laird himsell wad gie them a', I tauld ye ear', I tauld ye late, When left your lane wi' Annie, O. The night it was a simmer night, Neist morning at his mother's knee, I'm no in bad vice the nicht-and oh ! but the Saloon's a gran' ha' for singin'! the bed, blawin' awa the disturbin' rose-leaf wi' her breath, and then commanding, with her dewy eyne, her nymphs to replace the Shepherd midst the down, and sing him asleep with their choral vespers. Thochts gang by the rule o' contrairies-that's certain sure-or, what could mak me think the noo o' a hardbottomed kitchen-chayre, deep-worn, sliddery, ower wee, the crazy back bent in against the nape o' my neck, and a' the fower legs o' different staturs, ane o' the hint anes fit for a creepie, the tither a broken besom-stick, for a makshift, intil a hole far ower big: the fore anes like them o' a mawkin, unco short for sic lang hint anes, the tane stickin' out sturdily in a wrang direction, and for ever treddin' on folk's taes-the tither constantly craikin' frae some cause nae carpenter could ever fin' out, and if you sae muckle as mooved, disturbin' the reading o' the chapter. That chayre used aye to fa' to me, and it was so coggly that it couldna sit dooble, sae that nae lassie wud venture to drap down aside you on't, no, not even gin you were to take her ontil your verra knee. Wha cou'd hae foreseen, in thae days, that I, Jamie Hogg, would ever hae been sittin' on down cushions, covered wi' damask, waitin' for Christopher North, in Awmrose's Hotel, in Picardy, surrounded wi' mirrors a' ableeze, reflected fires, shintillating wi' gilt mouldins, and surmounted wi' eagles' beeks, seemin' to haud up the glitterin' glasses in the air by golden cords, while out o' the mouths o' leopards and lions depended chandeliers o' cut crystal, lustres indeed, dotted wi' wax caundles, as the galaxy wi' stars, and filling the perfumed Saloon wi' unwinkin' licht, frae the Turkey carpet to the Persian roof, a heicht that it would be fatal to fa' frae, and that a pridefu' poet couldna houp to strike wi' his head, even when lowpin' and dancin' in an Ode and Dream. Methinks I see my father and my mother! my brothers and sisters! We are a' sittin' thegither-the grown-up-the little and the less-the peat-fire, wi' an ash-root in't, is bright and vapourless as a new-risen star that ye come suddenly in sight o', and think it sae near, that you could maist grup it wi' your outstretched haun. What voices are these I hear ?-the well-known, wellbeloved tones of lips that have langsyne been in the clay! There is the bed on which I used to sleep beside my parents, when I was ca'd "Wee Jamie," and on the edge o' which mony a time, when I was a growin' callant, hae I sat with the lasses, in innocent daffin', a skirl noo and then half waukenin' the auld man asleep, or pretendin' to be sae, by the ingle-neuck. I see before me the coverlet patched with a million pawtrons, chance being the kaleedoscope, and the harmony of the colours perfect as that o' a bank o' flowers. As for mirrors, there was but ae single lookin'-glass in a' the house, gayan sair cracket, and the ising rubbed aff, sae that ye had a comical face and queer, when you shaved, and on the Sunday mornin', when the family were buskin' themsells for the kirk, it gaed glintin' like a sunbeam frae ane till anither, but aye rested langest afore the face o' bonnie Tibby Laidlaw. (Enter MR AMBROSE with some Rein-deer tongues.) MR AMBROSE. A present, Mr Hogg, from the Emperor of Russia to Mr North. The Emperor, you remember, sir, when Duke Nicholas, used to honour Gabriel's Road. Asleep, with his eyes open! SHEPHERD. [Exit retrogrediens. Puir Tibby! Mony a time hae I tied my neckcloth extendin' the knot intil twa white rose buds, in her een! stannin' sae close, in order that I might see my image, that the ruffles o' my Sabbath-sark just touched her breast-knot, and my breath amaist lifted up the love-lock that the light-hearted cretur used to let hang, as if through carelessness, on ae rosy cheek, just aboon and about the rim o' her wee, white, thin lug, that kent, I trow, a' the tunes ever sung in Scotland.-But-oh! that lug listened to what it shouldna hae listened tilland awa' frae the Forest fled its Flower wi' an outlandish French prisoner on his parole at Selkirk, but set free by the short peace. He disappeared from her ae night in London, and she became a thing of shame, sin, and sorrow. Years afterwards she begged her way back to the hut in which she had been born-was forgiven by her father and mother, wha had never had any other child but her --and, ere the second Sabbath after her return, she was buried decently and quietly, and without many tears, in the kirk-yard, where she had for many springs gathered the primroses; for, although her life had latterly been that of a great sinner, nobody that knew her attributed that sin to her, puir cretur, but thocht on her as ane o' thae victims that the Evil One is permitted, by an inscrutable Providence, to choose out frae amang the maist innocent o' the daughters o' men, to confound all that would put their trust in human virtue.Was Awmrose no in the room the noo? Preserve us! what a tot o' tongues ! And it's me that used to fin' faut wi' Shakspeare for putting lang soliloquies into the mouths of his chief characters! Now, this seems to be the pheelosophy o' the soliloquy :-either you are in the habit o' speaking to yoursell in real life or no-if you are, then it follows o' coorse, that you ought to lose no opportunity, if puttin' intil a Play, o' communicatin' your sentiments or opinions to yoursell in private, when there is none by to break the thread o' your discourse. If you are not, then you must never be left by yoursell in a scene; for nae actor, when he is manet solus, is allowed, by the laws o' the Drama, to say nor do naething-but just to walk about, or to sit down on a chayre in the middle o' the room, whirling his hat or counting his fingers. To soliloquize seems natural to a hantle o' folk-and that's reason aneuch to authoreeze the practice on the stage. Neither am I sure that soliloquies are aye short or shortish-for I ance keepit speakin' to mysell, I recolleck, a' the way frae the Gray Mare's Tail to Mount Benger. The fack is, that the Sowl, when up wi' ony strong passion, expresses a' it feels chiefly to itsell, even when it seems to be addressin' ithers that happen to be present at the hour o' trouble. The sumphs think it's poorin' itsell out to them, for the sake o' their sympathies, whereas it's in a manner beside itsell; and the tane talks till the tither, as if there were twa; but there's only ane-speaker and hearer being the same Sowl --and the triflin' creturs that are in the room at the time, being little mair than sae mony chairs-the tongs or the poker-or him that they ca' the Speaker o' the Hoose o' Commons. But I'm gettin' as hoarse as a craw-and had better ring the bell for a jug. Deevil tak the worsted bell-rape-see if it hasna bracken short aff, leaving the ring in my haun! Mercy on us, whatten a feet o' flunkeys in the trance! (Door flies open-and enter TICKLER-NORTH, supported by Mr AMBROSE.) SHEPHERD. What a queer couple o' auld fallows, a' covered wi cranreuch! Is't snawin', sirs ? TICKLER. Snawin', my dear James !-Sleeting, hailing, raining, driving, and blasting, all in one unexpected coalition of parties, to the utter discomfort and dismay of all his Majesty's loyal subjects. 1 SHEPHERD. And hae you wawked up, like twa fules, frae Bawhannan Lodge, in sic an eerie nicht, knee-deep in mire, glaur, and sludge ? TICKLER. One of North's coach-horses is sick, and the other lame― and SHEPHERD. Catch me keepin' a cotch. It costs Mr North five guineas, every hurl-and him that's getting sae narrow, too-but Pride! hech, sirs, Pride gets the maister o' Avarice-and he'll no condescend to hire a haickney. Dinna melt in the Saloon, sirs-Gang intill the trance, and cast your outer skins, and then come back glitterin' like twa serpents as you are, twa Boa-Constrictors, or rather Rattlesnakes, wi' your forked tongues, and wee red piercin' een, growin' aye mair and mair venemous, as ye begin to bask and beek in the hearth-heat, and turn about the heads o' you to spy whom you may fasten on, lick a' ower wi' glue, and then draw them into your jaws by suction, crashin' their banes like egg-shells, and then hiss-hissin' to ane anither in weel-pleased fierceness, after your ain natur, which mony a puir tortirt cretur has kent to his cost to be without pity and without ruth-ye Sons o' Satan! NORTH. Thank ye, my dear James, for all your kind inquiries.-Quite well, except being even deafer than usual, or SHEPHERD. Ne'er mind, sir; I'll mak you hear on the deafest side o' your head. But whare's the siller ear-trumpet? |