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chacun-Il etoit dans cette grande bataille sous les murs de Moscow!" I wonder at nothing that these men did.

TICKLER.

"Up, Guards, and at them"-served the turn.

NORTH.

Yes, truly-what a fine story is that Sir Walter tells us in some of his notes about the grim old Douglas at Ancrum Moor! He was just about to charge, when a heron sprung up between and the English van. "Aha!" he cried, "would to God my gude grey hawk were here, that we might a’ yoke thegither!”

TICKLER.

Well said, old Bell-the-Cat!-Ay, ay, 'tis that kind of allocutio that will always do the trick with us. None of your flowers of flummery here!

NORTH.

I trust our own old Plain Speaker has a campaign or two in him yet.

TICKLER.

Ay, barring accidents, a round dozen of them, if need be. He had been pulled down a little with the grippe when I saw him first; but before I left town, his cheeks had plumped out again, and he looked fit for any thing. His eye has lost nothing of its eagle brightness; he walks to this hour as straight as a ramrod; and his leg is as perfect as it could have been at thirty. He is to the fore yet, thank God-heart, soul, bone, and bloodbut if it were otherwise, we have pretty cards in the pack.

NORTH.

Combermere-Hill-Kemp-all fine fellows, and in full vigour.

TICKLER.

Ay, and Murray and Hardinge, either of them well worth your three.

NORTH.

What a beautiful picture of the old cavalier is Sir George Murray. I know nothing like it in that style.

TICKLER.

Nor I, and Pickersgill's portrait, in this year's exhibition, does him as much justice, by Jupiter, as either Lawrence, or Vandyke, or Velasquez could have done. But somehow, Sir George appears to me to carry a certain tinge of languor about him-his eye is so gentle, calm, melancholy, pensive-I should doubt of there being quite enough stimulus.

NORTH.

No fears, the first "clarion-clarion wild and shrill" would send the blood tumbling through him like another Garry. We have always had Platoffs and Bluchers among us enow, I warrant ye-but we have sometimes felt the want of a Gneisenau-and this soft-eyed hero appears to stand second to Wellington in the opinion of most of his compeers.

TICKLER.

He is a cock of the right feather to be sure, and speaks, by the by, as well as if he had never had another trade.

NORTH.

Peradventure better.

TICKLER.

However I am no judge of such concerns, of course-but I strongly suspect if there were a war either at home or abroad, the army would expect to see Hardinge as far forward as any body but the Duke.

NORTH.

We shall have work for Murray here among ourselves. Scotland will look to him in the first instance.

"There are hills beyond Pentland and streams beyond Forth,
If there's lords in the Lowlands there's chiefs in the North.
There are wild Dunniewassels three thousand times three,
Will cry, Hoich! for the bonnet of bonny Dundee !'"
What a grand ballad that is! It haunts me like a spirit.

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NORTH.

You heard Sir Henry Hardinge too?

TICKLER.

Several times; but never a set speech. He may not, perhaps, be exactly an orator, which, among other and better things, Nature certainly meant Murray to be; but he has complete command of clear, terse, nervous language is quick as lightning at retort-has a full, masculine, sonorous voice-considerable dignity of action, too-and, above all, carries with him such an air of upright, manly single-mindedness, high noble feeling, and unaffected modesty, that, judging from the little I saw, I am not sure if any body in the House produces altogether a more powerful effect. His defence of Philpotts was a first-rate thing, and did that job as well as any Cicero could have come up to.

NORTH.

Why, that could not have been a difficult job-for the Bishop's justification of facts was clear as day. Sir Henry lost an arm, didn't he, at Waterloo ?

TICKLER.

I don't know where it happened, but that, you know, is a mutilation which takes grace from no man. He is the perfect model of a soldier-a short, compact, firm, handsome figure, all buttoned up to the chin in blue and black, and a countenance which, though without the statuesque elegance of Bonaparte's, reminded me more of that in the extraordinary mass of brow, the large, deep-cut, grey, fiery eye, the solid contour of the jaw, the fall of the hair, and the whole style of complexion, than any other head I remember to have met with. This is one of our very first cards. If things go well, he must be a Secretary of State in the next Cabinet-if darkly, he must come down and raise the standard in Yorkshire-for that, I believe, is his calfcountry.

NORTH.

A fine fellow you describe. Come, the bowl's near out-God save the King, and let's to bed.

TICKLER.

God save the King, say ye? Well, I'll try my hand.

AIR-National Anthem.

Whate'er thy creed may be,
Party, or pedigree,

I ask not what

So heart and blood be free,
Each pulse confirms to thee
High honour's first decree,

THOU SHALT not rat.

Perish the caitiff base,

Who dares desert the place
Whereon he sat.

Why was't the old serpent fell,
But that he did rebel

'Gainst this grand oracle

THOU SHALT NOT RAT?

Calcraft's mean soul also,
Shall hiss and stink below,
Be sure of that-

Wherefore the FIEND defy!
Turn not a walking lie!
Commit no Whiggery!

THOU SHALT not rat. :

NORTH.

Not bad.-Come, Timotheus, 'tis well on to one o'clock, and this is a

decent house, and we must e'en turn in.

Tip me just one touch of the fiddle ere we go-you have never yet even attempted to give me a notion of this murderous Paganini.

TICKLER.

To hear is to obey. The violin is behind you there, in the corner.
GRAND OVERTURE-(with the Pizzicato Movement.)

SONATA MAESTOSA SENTIMENTALE.

NORTH.

Wonderful, incredible, sublime !-Worth twenty uxorcides!

TICKLER.

Now for a stave of the old order, with an accompaniment on the fourth string. Fill my glass with brandy-Here's to Douglas Cheape, George Joseph Bell, George Brodie, and all good fellows-Tory, Whig, and Radical! Attend (sings.)

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Till he of the stuff,

In a pair of old hose,

Had put by Quantum Suff.

As we may suppose.

When halt and give o'er,
Let the single-roll drop,
Took the plate frae the door,
And shut up the shop.

After which, at full leisure,
With cool cutting digs,
He consulted his pleasure
In whanging at Whigs,

Whom considering as puts
Ever bent on what's ill,
He so poked in the guts
With the point of his quill,

That their whole generation,
With trembling and fear,
And most rueful vexation,
Eyed this Volunteer,

Where tall as a Steeple,
And thin as a Shadow,
He towered o'er the people
On the Links or The Meadow.

Yet among Tory lads

Of the God-fearing breed,
Though as grey as their dads,
He was welcome indeed;

Still maund'ring and hav'ring
And refreshing the body
At Ambrose's Tavern
With tumblers o' toddy ;

Frae June to December,
Frae December to June,
A more regular Member
Was not in the toun;

For his powers peristaltic
Were sure as a gun,
And though full as the Baltic,
He headach had none.

This respectable course
Did our Elder pursue,
Till the Raffs rose in force
In the year thirty-two;

When, just after the King

And his innocent Queen,
I'm assured the next thing

For their damn'd Guillotine

Was the neckbone to smite
Of this sober old sage,
Putting out the first light
Of that scoundrelly age;

But, his years by that time
Being eighty and three,
He, though still in the prime
O' his punch-bibbing glee,

Not a word exclamavit
At so hasty a call,
But off wi' his gravat,
Long pigtail, and all-

And calmly submitting,
Awaited the thud,
Which his occiput splitting,
Brain, marrow, and blood,

Furnished ocular nuts,

And moreover auricular,

To those sons of Whig-sluts
Who thus tickled the Tickler;

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Well, now, I'm wound up for once. Good landlord, you may desire your old woman up stairs, like Miladi Macbeth—

to ring upon the bell, When that my drink is ready.

NORTH.

That's true-I had forgot the egg-wine; and, by the by, 'tis a pity I forgot to order Gurney this evening, for old Ebony is constantly bothering me about that confounded Monthly of his, and half his talk for the last three days might be summed up in the words of your fat favourite of Bilboa"HI LIBELLI,

TANQUAM CONJUGIBUS SUIS MARITI,

NON POSSUNT SINE NOCTIBUS PLACERE.”

[Curtain drops.

Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Paul's Work, Canongate.

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