SHEPHERD. Hae na ye observed that a' leddies that are Phrenologists are very impident, upsettin', bauld amang men, loud talkers, and lang as weel's loud-tak desperate strides when they walk-write a strang haun' o' write-grow red in the face gin you happen to contradick them-dinna behave ower reverently to their pawrents, nor yet to their husbands, gin they hae the good luck to hae gotten wed-hae nae slicht o' haun' in curlin' their hair toshly, and are naewise kenspeckle for white teeth-to say naething about the girth o' their ankles-nor MISS GENTLE. I know only one female Phrenologist, Mr Hogg--and I assure you she is a very sweet, simple, pretty girl. SHEPHERD. And does she let lecturers hawnle her head? MISS GENTLE. Pardon me for again interrupting you; but Lucy Callander SHEPHERD. Is nae Phrenologist. A sweet, simple, pretty girl, wi' sic an agreeable name as Lucy Callander, canna be a Phrenologist. She'll hae a sweetheart that pretends to be ane, that he may tak impertinent opportunities to weave her fair tresses roun' his fingers, and mak "the Sceeance," as the fules ca't, subservient to a little innocent flirtation, Mem. That's no uncommon, Mem. There's nae scarcity o' siccan disciples. MRS GENtle. Surely, sir, no gentleman would so far forget his natural respect for the de licacy and dignity of the sex as under any circumstances to act so insultingly, so vulgarly, and so coarsely SHEPHERD. Ony member o' the Phrenological Society, Mem, would do sae, without meaning ony insult, but just frae the obtuse insolence characteristic o' the seck. In matters o' sceeance, a' the ordinary decencies, and delicacies,_and proprieties o' life maun be laid aside; and sic an angelic head as the ane I see before me, glitterin' wi' sunbeams, and wi' the breathin' incense o' morn, submitted to be pawed upon, (the beasts ca't manipulated,) by fingers fetidly familiar wi' plaster o' Paris casts o' the skulls of murderous Jezebels, like Mrs Mackinnon, or aiblins wi' the verra skull itsel, and a comparison instituted, possibly to the advantage o' her that has been hanged and disseckit, and made an atomy o', between the character o' that dochter o' sin and perdition, and this your ain child o' innocence and bliss. MRS GENTLE. Arn't you pressing the point against the Phrenologists too far, Mr Hogg? SHEPHERD. No half far eneuch. They said that she-devil wha had brought sae mony a puir young lassie to destruction, and broken so mony a parental heart, had a great organ o' veneration; and how think ye they proved the correspondence o' her character wi' what they ca' her developement? Why, that she ance drap-' ped on her knees on the Calton-hill and imprecated furious curses on the vessel that was carryin' off an offisher, or some other profligate, with whom she had lived in sin and shame! I could show you the words. MRS GENTLE. Mr North, sir, I can assure you, regards Phrenology much more favourably than you seem SHEPHERD. What care I for Mr North, Mem, or indeed ony ither Man, in a maitter, no sae muckle o' pure philosophy, as common sense? Besides, Mr North only seems to humour sic folly, to see hoo far it 'll gang-and its gran' sport to hear him acquiescin' wi' a phrenologist, the silly creatur considerin' him a convert, till, in the pride o' his heart, the ass brays sae loud and lang, that the hail company is startled, and Lang-Lugs himsell percaves that he has been trottin' for their amusement, and had his nose a' the while tickled by Mr North, wi' the nemo-me-impune-lacesset thistle that grows on the back o' Blackwood's Magazine. MISS GENTLE. Have any of the gentlemen you allude to, sir, written any works of meritin prose or verse ?-for I confess that, if they have, I should feel the more posed to believe that their philosophy was true. SHEPHERD. I never heard tell o' ony. Let a phrenologist write ae beautifu' sang o' four stanzas-ae Prose Tale, however short, in which human nature is unfaulded and elucidated-ae Essay even in the common language o' men-on Metapheesics theirsells-let him pruve himself to hae genius o' ony kind, and in ony department, and then a body micht think wi' some temper on their blind and brutal abuse o' their betters, and their general denunciation o' a' the rest o' mankind as dunces or bigots. But what hae they got to shaw? No ae single scrawl fit for onything better than singin' poutry. MRS GENTLE. I understand, sir, there are some very clever men among the Phrenologists. SHEPHERD. There are some very clever men, Mem, in every craal o' Hottentots, I'se warrant, in Caffrawria, as there are in every tent o' tinklers frae Yetholm. Tawlents o' a tolerable size you stumble on now-a-days at the corner o' every street; and it would be a singular phenomenon if you cou'd na put your haun on the shouther o' a decent Phrenologist. But oh, Mem! but the creturs mak' the maist o' ony moderate tawlents they may possess, or poor o' writin' doon statements o' what they ca' facks-and sure eneuch in conversation in company after denner-maist unhappy haverers are they over tumbler or jug-sae serious whan every body else is jokin'-sae close in their reasonin' whan ither folk's minds are like bows unbent-sae argumentative on mere wunnle-straws flung up to see how the wund blaws-sae fairce gif you but gie a wee bit short good-natured grunt o' a lauch-sae tenawcious like grim death o' a syllogism o' ratiocination that you hae rugged out o' their nieve-sae fond o' damnable iteration, as Shakspeare says, for I never swear nane-sae dreigh and sae dour in a' they look, think, say, or do-sae bauld and bristly when they think they are beating you in logic, and sae crest-fallen and like cawves wi' their heads hanging ower the sides o' carts, when they find that ye are yerking it into them, and see that a' the company is kecklin',-in short, oh, dear me! Mem, Mrs Gentle! and you, my dear Miss Mary! the Phrnologists are indeed a peculiar people, jealous o' good works, and wi' about as muckle sense amang them as micht furnish some half dozen commissioners o' police per annum, twa three droggists, an advocate callant no verra sair on the fees, and a couple o' stickit ministers. You'll hear them takin' a sweepin' view o' the History o' Metapheesics frae Thawles tae Tam Broon, establishin' for themselves nae fewer than twa-andthretty faculties, mainteenin' that the knowledge o' human nature on the sceeance o' Mind is yet in its infancy-that a' the millions on millions o' men that thocht about their ain sowls since Noah, went blindfolded and ram-stam on the wrang road, with their backs towards the rising Sun o' Truth-and to mak a lang story short, that Dr Gall, Dr Spurzheim, Mr George Combe, and Mr James Simpson, do now possess, within the circumference of their skulls, shallow and empty as they are deemed to be by a weak and wicked generation, mair sense, knowledge, sceeance, truth, than all the other skulls belonging to the eight hundred and fifty million o' Christians, Pagans, Heathens, Jews, Turks, and the lave, on continent or isle, a' ower the face, breast, and back o' the habitable yirth! Whoo-I am out o' breath-I wuss I had a drink. Did Tickler stir the noo? I houp he's no waukenin'. MRS GENTLE. Well, Mr Hogg, this is the first time in my life I ever saw Mr Tickler asleep. I fear he has been overpowered by the sun. SHEPHERD. No, Mem-by soomin'. He and I, and Bronte there, took a soom nearly out to Inchkeith-and no being accustomed to it for some years, he's unco comatose. There's no ae single thing in a' this warld that he's sae severe on in other folk as fa'in' asleep in company-let them even hae sat up the hail nicht afore, ower bowl or book,--but that trance is like a judgment on him, and he'll be real wud at me for no waukenin' him, when he opens his een as the wheels stop, and he fin's that I've had baith the leddies a' the way up to mysell. But you can see him at ony time-whereas a sicht o' me in Awmrose's is gude for sair een, on an average only but ance a season. Mrs Gentle, did you ever see ony person sleep mair like a gentleman? MRS GENTLE. Everything Mr Tickler does, Mr Hogg, is like a gentleman. SHEPHERD. When he's dead he'll look like a gentleman. Even if ane could for a moment mak sic a supposition, he would look like a gentleman, if he were hanged. O shocking!-My dear sir MRS GENTLE. SHEPHERD. My admiration o' Mr Tickler has nae bounds, Mem. He would look like a gentleman in the stocks-or the jougs or the present Ministry——— MRS GENTLE. I certainly never saw any person enter a drawing-room with an air of more courteous dignity, more heartfelt politeness, more urbanity, sir, a word, I believe, derived SHEPHERD. It's no ae man in fifty thousan' that's entitled to hae what's ca'd a mainner. Maist men, on entering a room, do weel just to sit doon on the first chair they lay their haun on-or to gang intil the window-or lean against the wa'-or keep lookin' at picturs on a table-till the denner-bell rings. But Mr Tickler there-sax feet four-threescore and ten-we heigh feturs-white hairruddy cheeks-paircin een-naturally eloquent-fu' o' anecdote o' the olden time-independent in sowl, body, and estate,-gayen proud-a wee madrather deafish on the side of his head that happens to be niest a ninny-He Mem, is entitled by nature and art to hae a mainner, and an extraordinar mainner sometimes it is, MRS GENTLE. I think Mr Tickler is about to shake off his drowsiness. TICKLER. Has that lazy fellow of a coachman not got all his parcels and passengers collected yet? Is he never going to set off? Ay, there we go at last. This Portobello, Mrs Gentle, is really a wonderful place. That building reminds me of the Edinburgh Post Office. SHEPHERD. We're in Embro', sir, we're in Embro', and you've been snorin' like a bittern or a frog in Tarrass moss. TICKLER. Ladies-can I hope ever to be pardoned for having fallen asleep in such presence? Yet, could I think that the guilt of sleep had been aggravated by being habit and repute a snorer,-suicide alone could MRS GENTLE. During your slumber, sir, you drew your breath as softly as a sleeping child. SHEPHERD. I am muckle obliged to you, sir, for sleepin'-and I drew up the window on your side, that you micht na catch cauld; for, sir, though you draw your breath as saftly as a sleepin' child, you hae nae notion how wide open you haud your mouth. You'll do the same for me another time. (The coach stops, and the SHEPHERD hands out MISS GENTLE.-MR TICKLER gallantly performing the same office to the Lady Mother.) BRONTE. Bow-wow-wow,-bow-wow-wow. (Scene closes.) SCENE III. MR AMBROSE'S Hotel, Picardy Place-Pitt Parlour.-MR NORTH lying on a sofa, and MR AMBROSE funning him with a Peacock's Tail. NORTH. These window-ventilators, Mr Ambrose, are indeed admirable contrivances, and I must get them adopted at the Lodge. No wind that blows suits this room so well as the south-east. Do you think I might venture on another water-ice before dinner? The pine-apple we shall reserve. Thank you, Ambrose-that fan almost makes me melancholy. Demetrius was truly a splendid -a gorgeous-a glorious bird-and methinks I see him now affronting Phoebus with his thousand lidless eyes intensely bright within the emerald haze by which they were all encircled and overshadowed. Poor, dear, good old Lady Diana Le Fleming gave him to me, that parricide might not be perpetrated in the Rydal woods. For the Prince had rebelled against the King his father, and driven old Poliorcetes into the gloom of the forest. There, in some remote glade, accompanied in his dethroned exile but by one single Sultana, would he dare, as the echo of his ungrateful heir-apparent's triumphant cry was faint among the ancient oaks, to unfurl that Tail, Mr Ambrose, glorious even in the gloom, till sick of tenderness, his pensive paramour stooped her crested head, and pressed her bosom to the mossy greensward before her enamoured lord, who, had he been more of a philosopher than I fear he was, would have been happy in the thought of "All for Love, or the World well Lost." No spectator there of such caresses but the wild-bee, too busy amidst the sylvan blooms to behold even the birds of Juno-or the squirrel leaping among the mossy branches of that endless canopy-or the lovely adder trailing his burnished undulations along the forest flowers-or snow-white coney all intent on his own loves, the happy father he of monthly families all the year long, retiring at the far-off rustle of footstep into his old hereditary palace, beneath the roots of elm or ash five centuries old! Solemn woods they were indeed, my good Ambrose, in those days-but oh! that the axe should ever be laid to the root of the Bright, the Beautiful, the Bold, the Free, the Great, the Young or the Old! Let hurricanes level lanes through forests, as plagues do through the families of men, for Nature may work at will with her own clements among her own creations, but why must man for ever destroy? nor, child of a day, fear to murder the Tree that stands green yet gloomy in its strength, beside the mouldering mausoleum it has for ages overshadowed, and that is now but a heap of dust and ashes? Hark! the time-piece sweetly strikes, as with a silver bell, the hour of five!-Cease your fanning, mine host most worthy -and let the dinner appear-for ere a man, with moderate haste, might count a hundred, Tickler and the Shepherd will be in the presence. Ay, God bless his honest soul, there is my dear James's laugh in the lobby. Enter SHEPHERD and TICKLER and BRONTE. SHEPHERD. Here I am, sir, gloriously hungry. My stamach, Mr North, as weel's my heart's, in the richt place. I'm nae glutton-nae gormandeezer-but a man o'a gude a great appeteet-and for the next half hour I shall be as perfectly happy as ony man in a' Scotland. Take a few biscuits, James, till TICKLER. SHEPHERD, Biskits! I could crunch the hail tot o' then like sae mony wafers. Rax me ower ane o' thae cabin-biskits o' a man-o'-war-there-smash into flinders fles it at ae stroke o' my elbow-but here comes the ROOND! NORTH. Mr Ambrose, I ordered a cold dinner VOL. XXII. Q SHEPHERD. A cauld denner! Wha the deevil in his seven senses wud condescend to sit doon till a cauld denner? Hail, Hotch-potch! What a Cut o' Sawmon! That maun hae been a noble fish! Come forrit, my wee chiel, wi' the chickens, and you bigger callant, wi' the tongue and ham. Tak' tent, ye auld dominee, and no scale the sass o' the sweet-breads! Curry's a gran' thing, gayen late on in a denner, when the edge o' the appeteet's a wee turned, and you're rather beginnin" to be stawed. Mr Awmrose, I'll thank ye to lend me a pock y-haundkershief, for I've forgotten mine in my wallise, and my mouth's waterin'. There, Mr North, there-set in his fit-stule aneath the table. I ca' this, sir, a tastefu' and judicions denner for three. Whisht, sirs. "God bless us in these mercies, and make us truly thankful. Hodge-podge, Hogg? TICKLER. SHEPHERD. Amen!" Only three ladle-fa's.-Mair peas. Dip deeper.-That's it. NORTH. Boiling broth, with the thermometer at eighty! SHEPHERD. I'll eat I carena if the fermometer war at aught hunder and aughty. het hotch-potch against Mosshy Shaubert-only I'll no gae intil the oven, neither will I eat arsenick or phosphorus. NORTH. I should like, James, to introduce my friend Dr Dodds to M. Chabert. Wha's he? SHEPHERD. NORTH. The ingenious gentleman who was packed in ice below an avalanche in Switzerland for some century and a half, and who, on being dug out and restored to animation before a rousing wood-fire, merely complained of a slight numb"ness in his knees, and a tingling at the points of his fingers. SHEPHERD. Oh, man! hoo he must hae enjoyed the first het denner! I think I see him ower his arst jug o' het toddy. They tell me he has gotten himsell married-has he ony family? Mr Hogg, a glass of wine? TICKLER. SHEPHERD. No the noo. I am for some mair o' the hotch-potch. Mr Awmrose, gie me a deeper ashet.—I wunner to see ye, Mr North, fiddle-faddlin' awa' at cauld lamb and mint sass.-I just perfectly abhor mint sass. NORTH. My dear James, you must have had the shower-bath to-day. SHEPHERD. Confound your shower-baths, and your vapour-baths, and your slipper◄ baths, and your marble-coffin-baths, and your Bath-baths" give me," as my ingenious freen', the author o' the Cigar and Life after Dark, spiritedly says, "give me the broad bosom of the blue sea, with five fathom of water beneath me;" the Frith o' Forth to frisk in, sir-the lips o' the wiile mouth o' the German ocean to play with-where, as Tennant says, Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began. Noo, Mr Tickler, my hotch-potch's due, and I'll drink a pint o' porter wi' you frae the tap. NORTH. (Mr Ambrose places the pewter.) The "Cigar," James, and "Every Night Book, or Life after Dark," are extremely clever and amusing. Who? The same. SHEPHERD. He's a wutty fallow. I wush he was here. NORTH. Is the "Age Reviewed," James, any shakes o' a satire ? |