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dure to see Campbell or Hogg held up to that broad absurd sort of ridicule. "Tis too base a paper.
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.
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.
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.
Well, well, arrange your own precedence, Gents. So Gifford has at last laid aside the sceptre, ODoherty?
Sceptre, indeed! Murray always held the sceptre himself. Would you have two kings of Brentford?
No, no, I agree with the Mæonian. In all cases—
Εις Βασιλευς ᾧ έδωκε Κρονο παῖς ἀγκολυμητέω
Do you know the successor in the Moravian prime ministry-Coleridge?
Is it the Barrister, or the Parson? Pooh! I was forgetting, the parson is made a bishop of—is he not?
Yes, yes; the new Bishop of Botany Bay.
Of Barbadoes, if you please.
Ay, ay. They should have sent out a black bishop, as you once said, North.
Clearly. So the barrister is to be editor? Will that mend his practice?
Dish it, of course. 'Tis not everybody can play the Jeffrey.
I hear he is a sensible, worthy young man. I hope he will find his shoulders broad enough. Make another jug, Morgan.
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.
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
Or the Irish lads, my hearty?
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.
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?
Me? I hate all bothering topics. old chords. Here, taste this, Baronet.
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
Very fair indeed. A single slice of the lemon peel, if you please.
No acid in the jug. If you wish it, you may make a tumbler.
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?
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.
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
Transeat.-Look at Clavers. He absolutely imitates the very snore of his
A fine old dog, really.-By the by, have you heard how Queen Hynde is doing?
Very well, I believe; and no wonder. 'Tis certainly his best poem.
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.
'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
Hand me the volume, Ensign.-That's it below Brewster's Journal. Thank
I thought it had been a quarto.
No, no, that humbug is clean gone at all events. No quarto poems now, Mr Tickler.
Just read the opening paragraph. By jingo, I could hear it a hundred times.
There, read it yourself. I never could spout poetry.
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?
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
"There was a time-but it is gone !-
Grim as the wolf that guards his young,
Were from that bourn expell'd.
His couch the heath on summer even,
Very beautiful indeed. There is a fine breadth and boldness of utterance about this.
And never was her heart so pleased
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
There was one maiden of the train
hat every youth, as she inclined,
Ruled o'er a people bold and free,
Whene'er a face she could espy
Or, with sharp fillip on the nose,
Saint Oran scarce the coil could
Till all his stupid face was blent
Wonderfully spirited, really. tive parts of the Queen's Wake.
Why, this is infinitely better than the narra-
To be sure he is-He has the true stuff in him, lads. Hear again (reads.)
No one perceived the elf's despight,
For all her freaks by night and day,
"Ere that time, Wene, full silently,
At first he tried with look severe
Low bow'd the imp with seemly grace,
He wist not what to do or say!
Why, it's quite capital all this. The rhythm is quite animating.
Perge. Another screed, Christopher. Shall I fill your glass?
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,
Be my indignant oath forgiven!
'Were God for trial here to throw
'O! if beside the walks of men,
Its strength shall waste, its vitals burn,
Go, get thee from our coast away,
'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.
And ere they won the Sound of Mull,
During the silent, eiry dream,
'Lachlan,' the Father cried with heat,
From that time forth, it doth appear,
Yield to the impulse of the time,
Say, may the meteor of the wild,
Alas, what woes her mischief drew
Sweet maiden, I thy verdict claim;
The tide was high, the wind was low;
Heyho! the jug, the jug!
Maid of Dunedin, thou may'st see,
Yes, I'll be querulous or boon,
For what am I, or what art thou,
The sea must flow, the cloud descend,
There why all this is quite the thing-the very thing. Is the poem equal, North?