dure to see Campbell or Hogg held up to that broad absurd sort of ridicule. "Tis too base a paper.

ODOHERTY.

You have not put it in, then?

Pooh! I put it in without scruple. Why should you not say your say? -I can answer it, however.-'Tis your own affair, sir, not mine. Editoring is a mere humbug now-a-days. I must put in whatever you lads write, else I lose you. Heaven knows how often you go against my grain, all of you-but you, especially, ODoherty, ye're really a most reckless fellow when you take your pen in hand.

NORTH.

ODOHERTY.

Ay, a proper distinction. I am courtesy itself when my fingers are clean. So indeed is Gifford himself, I hear. So was Byron. So was Peter Pindar. All excellently well-bred, civil creatures over a tumbler.

TICKLER.

I don't understand your mixing me up with such company, North. For my part, I look on myself as a perfect Christian, compared to the like of ODoherty or Gifford.

NORTH.

Well, well, arrange your own precedence, Gents. So Gifford has at last laid aside the sceptre, ODoherty?

ODOHERTY.

Sceptre, indeed! Murray always held the sceptre himself. Would you have two kings of Brentford?

NORTH.

No, no, I agree with the Mæonian. In all cases—
̔Εις Κοιρανος ἐξω

Εις Βασιλευς ᾧ έδωκε Κρονο παῖς ἀγκολυμητέω
Σκηπτρον τηδε θημίςας ἵνα σφισιν ἐμβασιλευς.

ODOHERTY.

Do you know the successor in the Moravian prime ministry-Coleridge?

MULLION.

Is it the Barrister, or the Parson? Pooh! I was forgetting, the parson is made a bishop of—is he not?

ODOHERTY.

Yes, yes; the new Bishop of Botany Bay.

NORTH.

Of Barbadoes, if you please.

ODOHERTY.

Ay, ay. They should have sent out a black bishop, as you once said, North.

MULLION.

Clearly. So the barrister is to be editor? Will that mend his practice?

ODOHERTY.

Dish it, of course. 'Tis not everybody can play the Jeffrey.

NORTH.

I hear he is a sensible, worthy young man. I hope he will find his shoulders broad enough. Make another jug, Morgan.

TICKLER.

They tell me he's a wonderful churchman. Even higher than the old one: -Here, I'll make this jug. The last was too sweet.

NORTH.

Well, well. There are two or three first-rate articles in this last Number of Murray on ecclesiastical subjects-really first-rates-quite admirable; both the knowledge, and the sense, and the temper. This tone is the very thing to do good.-Ring for some boiling water.

TICKLER (Rings and gives his mandate.)

I wonder why they don't grapple like men with some of the real question s going. Who cares a fig about the old canting ass, Newton? Why don't they lay hand upon the Catholics? Why don't they treat the West Indies with something like vigour? Why have we nothing about the Greeks or the Spa

niards?

Or the Irish lads, my hearty?

MULLION.

TICKLER.

True, their mouths seem to be completely sealed up as to all the really stirring points. A cold-blooded, rancorous, cautious, cowardly pack! Give me the whisky bottle, North.

ODOHERTY.

There's Tickler himself for you! Why don't you grapple, as you call it, with some of those grand topics yourself, Mister Timotheus ?-Do you want the sugar?

TICKLER.

Me? I hate all bothering topics. old chords. Here, taste this, Baronet.

I

I never yet met with what assure you, is quite drinkable. pontets, that nothing appears bumper.

I like best to thrum away on my own

ODOHERTY.

Very fair indeed. A single slice of the lemon peel, if you please.

NORTH.

No acid in the jug. If you wish it, you may make a tumbler.

ODOHERTY.

Pooh! I don't care a straw about it. It will do as it is. I only thought we might take advantage of Hogg's slumbers, to give ourselves the variety of a single round of punch-demy.-Have you seen Hannah More's new book?

NORTH.

On Prayer?-Oh yes, 'tis far her best. A really excellent treatise. It will live. That water could not have been boiling, Timothy. A plague on that waiter! He thought the brass kettle would look better, and so he has half spoiled our jorum.

ODOHERTY.

could call a really bad jug of toddy. This, I You have made your mouth so hot with these more than lukewarm to you. Try another

NORTH.

Transeat.-Look at Clavers. He absolutely imitates the very snore of his

master.

TICKLER.

A fine old dog, really.-By the by, have you heard how Queen Hynde is doing?

NORTH.

Very well, I believe; and no wonder. 'Tis certainly his best poem.

TICKLER.

I have not had time to look into it. What with dinners, and so forth, I never get reading anything at this time of the year.

NORTH.

ODOHERTY.

'Tis really a good, bold, manly sort of production. There's a vigour about him, even in the bad passages, that absolutely surprises one. On he goes, splash, splash-By Jupiter, there's a real thundering energy about the af

fair.

TICKLER.

Hand me the volume, Ensign.-That's it below Brewster's Journal. Thank

ye.

I thought it had been a quarto.

NORTH.

No, no, that humbug is clean gone at all events. No quarto poems now, Mr Tickler.

ODOHERTY.

Just read the opening paragraph. By jingo, I could hear it a hundred times.

NORTH.

There, read it yourself. I never could spout poetry.

ODOHERTY.

I flatter myself I have a good deal of Coleridge's style of enunciation about me when I choose. Shall I sport this in my most moving manner?

NORTH.

Pooh! don't be a fool. Read it as it ought to be read. anything more worthy of being treated with respect. and begin.

You have seldom read
Take off your tipple,

ODOHERTY (reads.)

"There was a time-but it is gone !-
When he that sat on Albyn's throne
Over his kindred Scots alone
Upheld a father's sway;
Unmix'd and unalloy'd they stood
With plodding Pict of Cimbrian brood,
Or sullen Saxon's pamper'd blood,
Their bane on future day.
Nations arose, and nations fell,
But still his sacred citadel
Of Grampian cliff and trackless dell
The Caledonian held.

Grim as the wolf that guards his young,
Above the dark defile he hung,
With targe and claymore forward flung;
The stoutest heart, the proudest tongue,
Of foemen there was quell'd!
The plumed chief, the plaided clan,
Mock'd at the might of mortal man,—
Even those the world who overran

Were from that bourn expell'd.
Then stood the Scot unmoved and free,
Wall'd by his hills and sounding sea;
Child of the ocean and the wood,
The frith, the forest, gave him food;

His couch the heath on summer even,
His coverlet the cloud of heaven,
While from the winter wind and sleet
The bothy was a shelter meet.
His home was in the desert rude,
His range the mountain solitude;
The sward beneath the forest tree
His revel-hall, his sanctuary;
His court of equity and right,
His tabernacle, was the height;
The field of fame his death-bed stern,
His cemetery the lonely cairn.
Such was the age, and such the day,
When young Queen Hynde, with gentle
sway,

.

TICKLER.

Very beautiful indeed. There is a fine breadth and boldness of utterance about this.

And never was her heart so pleased
As when a man she vex'd or teazed.
By few at court she was approved,
And yet by all too well beloved;
So dark, so powerful was her eye,
Her mien so witching and so sly,

NORTH.

Ay, indeed is there. Here, ODoherty, give me the book. You read the passage very well-very well indeed.-This Queen Hynde, you see, Tickler, is left in rather a difficult situation. The Norse King comes over the sea, to wed her, vi et armis, and her Majesty sets off for Icolmkill, to consult old Saint Columba, who was then and there in all his glory. She gets among all the old monks with her maids of honour about her, and pretty work there is of it. One impudent little cutty, of the name of Wicked Wene, is capitally touched off. Lythe and listen, lordlings free-(reads.)

"Come, view the barefoot group with
me,
Kneeling upon one bended knee,
In two long piles-a lane between,
Where pass the maidens and their queen,
Up to the sacred altar stone,
Where good Columba stands alone.

There was one maiden of the train
Known by the name of Wicked Wene;
A lovely thing, of slender make,
Who mischief wrought for mischief's
sake;

hat every youth, as she inclined,
Was mortified, reserved, or kind;
This day would curse her in disdain,
And next would sigh for Wicked Wene.
No sooner had this fairy eyed
The looks demure on either side,
Than all her spirits 'gan to play
With keen desire to work deray.

Ruled o'er a people bold and free,
From vale of Clyde to Orcady.
The tale is old, but the event
Confirm'd by dreadful monument.
Her sire had eastern vales laid waste, -
The Pict subdued, the Saxon chased,
And dying old and loved, resign'd
The sceptre to his lovely Hynde."

Whene'er a face she could espy
Of more than meet solemnity,
Then would she tramp his crumpled

toes,

Or, with sharp fillip on the nose,
Make the poor brother start and stare,
With watery eyes and bristling hair.
And yet this wayward elf the while
Inflicted all with such a smile,
That every monk, for all his pain,
Look'd as he wish'd it done again.

Saint Oran scarce the coil could
brook;

Till all his stupid face was blent
With smile of awkward languishment.
Saint Oran saw-in trumpet tone,
He cried Satan, avoid !—begone!
Hence! all away! for, by the rood,
Ye're fiends in form of flesh and blood!'
Columba beckon'd; all was still.
Hynde knew the mover of the ill,
And, instant turning, look'd for Wene:
'I told thee, girl, and tell again,
For once remember where thou art,
And be due reverence thy part.'-

Wonderfully spirited, really. tive parts of the Queen's Wake.

TICKLER.

Why, this is infinitely better than the narra-
Hogg is improving, sirs.

NORTH.

To be sure he is-He has the true stuff in him, lads. Hear again (reads.)

No one perceived the elf's despight,
Nor good Saint Oran's awkward plight.
So quick the motion of her eye,
All things at once she seem'd to spy;
For Hynde, who loved her, wont to
say,

For all her freaks by night and day,
Though mischief was her hourly meed,
She ne'er could catch her in the deed.
So instantly she wrought the harm,
Then, as by momentary charm,
Stood all composed, with simplest grace,
With look demure and thoughtful face,
As if unconscious of offence,
The statue of meek innocence !
Of Oran's wrath none saw the root,
The queen went on, and all were mute."

"Ere that time, Wene, full silently,
Had slid up to Saint Oran's knee,
And ogled him with look so bland,
That all his efforts could not stand;
Such language hung on every glance;
Such sweet provoking impudence.

At first he tried with look severe
That silent eloquence to sear,
But little ween'd the fairy's skill,
He tried what was impossible!
His flush of wrath, and glance unkind,
Were anodynes unto her mind.
Then she would look demure, and sigh,
And sink in graceful courtesy ;
Press both her hands on her fair breast,
And look what could not be exprest!
When o'er his frame her glance would

Low bow'd the imp with seemly grace,
And humbly shew'd to acquiesce;
But mischief on that lip did lie,
And sly dissemblage in the eye.
Scarce had her mistress ceased to speak,
When form'd the dimple on her cheek,
And her keen glance did well bewray
Who next should fall the jackall's prey.
Saint Oran, woe be to the time
She mark'd thy purity sublime!"

stray,

He wist not what to do or say!

Why, it's quite capital all this. The rhythm is quite animating.

TICKLER.

Perge. Another screed, Christopher. Shall I fill your glass?

NORTH.

Yes. Stir the fire, ODoherty. But softly, don't waken Clavers." Gently stir." That will do, sir. Here goes the Bard again.

Had, by that maiden's fond intent,
Been wholly by the roots uprent.-
The path of truth!-O God of hea-
ven !

Be my indignant oath forgiven!
For, by thy vales of light I swear,
And all the saints that sojourn there,
If ever again a female eye,
That pole-star of iniquity,
Shed its dire influence through our fane,
In it no longer I remain.

'Were God for trial here to throw
Man's ruthless and eternal foe,
And ask with which I would contend,
I'd drive thee hence, and take the fiend!
The devil, man may hold at bay,
With book, and bead, and holy lay;
But from the snare of woman's wile,
Her breath, and sin-uplifted smile-
No power of man may 'scape that gin,
His foe is in the soul within.

'O! if beside the walks of men,
In green-wood glade, and mountain-glen,
Rise weeds so fair to look upon,
Woe to the land of Caledon !

Its strength shall waste, its vitals burn,
And all its honours overturn.

Go, get thee from our coast away,
Thou floweret of a scorching day?
Thou art, if mien not thee belies,
A demon in an angel's guise.'-

'Angels indeed!' said Lachlan Dhu, As from the strand the boat withdrew. Lachlan was he whom Wene address'd, Whose temple her soft hand had press'd; Whose beard she caught with flippant grace,

And smiled upon his sluggish face.
A burning sigh his bosom drew!
'Angels indeed!' said Lachlan Dhu.-

And ere they won the Sound of Mull,
The beauteous group grew mute and dull.
Silent they lean'd against the prow,
And heard the gurgling waves below,
Playing so near with chuckling freak,
They almost ween'd it wet the cheek;
One single inch 'twixt them and death,
They wonder'd at their cordial faith!

During the silent, eiry dream,
This tedious sailing with the stream,
Old Ila Glas his harp-strings rung,
With hand elate, and puled and sung
A direful tale of woe and weir,
Of bold unearthly mountaineer;
A lay full tiresome, stale, and bare,
As most of northern ditties are:
I learn'd it from a bard of Mull,
Who deem'd it high and wonderful;
'Tis poor and vacant as the man;
I scorn to say it though I can.

'Lachlan,' the Father cried with heat,
'Thou art a man of thoughts unmeet!
For that same sigh, and utterance too,
Thou shalt a grievous penance do.
Angels, forsooth!-O God, I pray,
Such blooming angels keep away !'—
Lachlan turn'd round in seeming pain,
Look'd up to heaven, and sigh'd again!

From that time forth, it doth appear,
Saint Oran's penance was severe;
He fasted, pray'd, and wept outright,
Slept on the cold stone all the night:
And then, as if for error gross,
He caused them bind him to the cross,
Unclothe his back, and, man by man,
To lash him till the red blood ran,
But then-or yet in after time,
No one could ever learn his crime;
Each keen inquiry proved in vain,
Though all supposed he dream'd of The sportive vagrant of a day;

Wene.

Yield to the impulse of the time,
Be it a toy, or theme sublime;
Wing the thin air or starry sheen,
Sport with the child upon the green;
Dive to the sea-maid's coral dome,
Or fairy's visionary home;
Sail on the whirlwind or the storm,
Or trifle with the maiden's form,
Or raise up spirits of the hill,
But only if, and when I will.

Say, may the meteor of the wild,
Nature's unstaid, erratic child,
That glimmers o'er the forest fen,
Or twinkles in the darksome glen-
Can that be bound? can that be rein'd?
By cold ungenial rules restrain'd?
No!-leave it o'er its ample home,
The boundless wilderness, to roam!
To gleam, to tremble, and to die,
'Tis Nature's error, so am I!"

Alas, what woes her mischief drew
On Oran and on Lachlan Dhu!

Sweet maiden, I thy verdict claim;
Was not Saint Oran sore to blame
For so inflicting pains condign?
O think, if such a doom were thine!
Of thy day-thoughts I nothing know,
Nor of thy dreams-and were it so,
They would but speak thy guileless core,
And I should love thee still the more.
But ah! if I were scourged to be
For every time I dream of thee,
Full hardly would thy poet thrive!
Harsh is his song that's flay'd alive!
Then let us breathe the grateful vow,
That stern Saint Oran lives not now.
The sun went down, the bark went
slow,

The tide was high, the wind was low;

Heyho! the jug, the jug!

Maid of Dunedin, thou may'st see,
Though long I strove to pleasure thee,
That now I've changed my timid tone,
And sing to please myself alone;
And thou wilt read, when, well I wot,
I care not whether you do or not.

Yes, I'll be querulous or boon,
Flow with the tide, change with the

moon;

For what am I, or what art thou,
Or what the cloud and radiant bow,
Or what are waters, winds, and seas,
But elemental energies?

The sea must flow, the cloud descend,
The thunder burst, the rainbow bend,
Not when they would, but when they can,
Fit emblems of the soul of man!
Then let me frolic while I may,

TICKLER.

There why all this is quite the thing-the very thing. Is the poem equal, North?