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FRENCH REVOLUTION.

some folk in power the noo hear on the deafest side o' their head, gin you were to ask them where they were some thretty or fourty year sin' syne, in a great city ower the Channelbut

North. No more politics, my dear James, if you love me. Shepherd. Weel then, just ae observation mair, and I will indulge ye by speaking a' manner o' havers. In the French Revolution some thousans o' fiends gaed rampauging1 up and down Paris, lapping blood like butchers' dowgs in a great slaughter-house. Didn't they? Cursing God, singing hymns to the Deevil, and mony o' them condemmin to everlasting death their ain darkened souls. Weel then, in the French Revolution, some thousans o' angels kept praising God in cells and dungeons, walked like creturs in an awfu’ but happy dream to the scaffold, and lifted up their een to Heaven-bairns, virgins, wives, widows, young and auld, then alike supplicating pardon and salvation to the souls o' their murderers. Didn't they? Weel then, before the French Revolution brak out, was there ony difference, and if there was, what was't, between the nature o' thae Fiends and thae Angels? They were sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, and a' manner o' relations by blood and marriage-had been edicatted at the same schools-had said their prayers in the same kirks-assisted at the same baptisms, marriages, and funerals-a' things going on in peace! Till topsy-turvy went the haill structure o' society; and then to be sure the phenomena, which is mair than ever my soul will be able to understaun, and that has aften filled it with troubled thochts when the wind has been roaring at midnight amang the mountains, and things had been happening through the day that had darkened and distracted our ain Shepherdlife,—an elder o' peculiar sanctity seducing a servant lass, a minister fou in the pulpit, a bosom freen for whom ye had been caution rinnin aff to America, and leavin you bankrupt, or, mercy on us! a miller murderin a packman, and the body fund in a sack wi' stanes at the bottom o' the dam! For sma' events—that is, sma' in circumstance and localitydireck the soul that is meditating during the nicht-watches to the greatest that swoop ower the earth-because they a' alike hae their rise in the unfathomable wickedness o' our corrupt and fallen nature; and what signifies it to conscience, 1 Rampauging-raging and storming.

THE SHEPHERD AS M.P.

215

or to the Being who gied us conscience, whether the outward sign be a city wail, or but the sabbing o' ae orphan lassie's heart that has been broken by him who now loves her nae mair!

Tickler. James, we must put you into the General Assembly to squabash the highflyers."

Shepherd. Ye sumph, I'm a hee-fleer mysel-one o' the wild men o' a' things whatsomever, be it in sacred matters or profane, I detest moderation.

2

Tickler. I shall write to my friend Lord Radnor, suggesting that since Mr Southey refuses to be a member, he had better elect the Shepherd.

Shepherd. Ye may do so; but mind I make nae promisegie nae pledge.

North. Tickler, had James stood for Preston, instead of the Old Ruffian, he and Stanley would have been returned.

Shepherd. Me stand for Preston! Na-na-that would be too disgraceful, even for a dream after tough tripe.

North. Yes, my dear James, you would make a useful and appropriate representative of a nest of pastoral burghs—such as Peebles and the rest-(but they have the best of possible Members already.) As for Proud Preston

Tickler. Proud Preston, indeed-for in that epithet the place rejoiceth-of a surety thy "Pride has had a Fall." How pleasant, during a fortnight of dog-days, James, would it be to stand a contested election for Billingsgate? How delightful to kiss and canvass so many maids, wives, and widows, all redolent of the sea! How thrilling the squeeze of the scaly hand! How rich the perfume of the fishy sigh! Romantic tales of Mermaids in each embrace would be realised-and what pearl ever shone in oyster-shell so beautiful as the drop in those melting and maudling eyes!

North. Then, rising in Parliament, either on some great national question, or to support more especially the interests of your constituents, how encouraging to be saluted from all sides "Hear, hear the Member for Billingsgate !"

1 The extreme party in the Church of Scotland were called "highflyers." 2 In 1826 Mr Southey was returned M. P. for the borough of Downton, but declined to take his seat.

3 The "old ruffian" was William Cobbett. Preston, but the support which he received was interlocutors, to cover that town with obloquy.

Cobbett was not returned for sufficient, in the opinion of the

216

FOR THE GOOSE-DUBS OF GLASGOW.

Shepherd. I wad prefer sitting for the Guse-dubs' o' Glasgow. O, sirs! What a huddle o' houses, and what a hubbub o'

North. Gently, James, gently-Your love of alliteration allures you occasionally across the confines of coarseness, and

Shepherd. If you interrup me, Mr North, I'll no scruple to interrup you, in spite o' a' my respect for your age and endowments. But was ye ever in the Guse-dubs o' Glasgow ? Safe us a'! what clarty closses, narrowin awa' and darkenin doun-some stracht, and some serpentine-into green middens o' baith liquid and solid matter, soomin' wi' dead cats and auld shoon, and rags o' petticoats that had been worn till they fell aff and wad wear nae langer; and then ayont the midden, or say, rather surrounding the great central stagnant flood o' fulzie, the wundows o' a coort, for a coort they ca't, some wi' panes o' glass and panes o' paper time about, some wi' what had ance been a hat in this hole, and what had been a pair o' breeks in that hole, and some without lozens a'thegither; and then siccan fierce faces o' lads that had enlisted, and were keeping themselves drunk night and day on the bounty-money, before ordered to join the regiment in the Wast Indies, and die o' the yallow fever! And what fearsome faces o' limmers, like she-demons, dragging them down into debauchery, and hauding them there, as in a vice, when they hae gotten them down,-and, wad ye believe't, swearin and dammin ane anither's een, and then lauchin, and tryin to look lo'esome, and jeerin and leerin like Jezabels.

Tickler. Hear! hear! hear!

Shepherd. Dive down anither close, and you hear a man murderin his wife, up-stairs in a garret. A' at ance flees open the door at the stair-head, and the mutchless mawsey, a' dreepin wi' bluid, flings herself frae the tap step o' the flicht to the causeway, and into the nearest change-house, roaring in rage and terror-twa emotions that are no canny when they chance to forgather-and ca'in for a constable to tak haud o' her gudeman, who has threatened to ding out her brains wi' a hammer, or cut her throat wi' a razor.

North. What painting, Tickler! What a Salvator is our Shepherd!

Shepherd. Down anither close, and a battle o' dowgs! A 1 A low locality in Glasgow.

HE DESCRIBES HIS CONSTITUENCY.

217

bull-dowg and a mastiff! The great big brown mastiff mouthin the bull-dowg by the verra hainches, as if to crunch his back, and the wee white bull-dowg never seemin to fash his thoomb, but stickin by the regular set teeth o' his under-hung jaw to the throat o' the mastiff, close to the jugular, and no to be drawn aff the grip by twa strong baker-boys pu'in at the tail o' the tane, and twa strong butcher-boys pu'in at the tail o' the tither for the mastiff's maister begins to fear that the veeper at his throat will kill him outright, and offers to pay a' betts and confess his dowg has lost the battle. But the crood wush to see the fecht out-and harl the dowgs that are noo worryin ither without ony growlin-baith silent, except a sort o' snortin through the nostrils, and a kind o' guller in their gullets-I say, the crood harl them out o' the midden, ontil the stanes again-and "Weel dune, Cæsar."-" Better dune, Veeper."-"A mutchkin to a gill on whitey."-"The muckle ane canna fecht."- "See how the wee bick is worryin him now, by a new spat on the thrapple.”. "He wud rin awa gin she wad let him loose."—"She's just like her mither that belanged to the caravan o' wild beasts.". "Oh man, Davie, but I wud like to get a breed out o' her, by the watch-dowg at Bell-meadow bleachfield, that killed, ye ken, the Kilmarnock carrier's Help in twunty minutes, at Kingswell "

North. I never heard you speak in such kind before, James

Shepherd. I'm describing the character o' my constituents, you ken, and should be eloquent, for you wull recollec that I sat out wi' imagining mysel Member o' Parliament, that is representative o' the Guse-dubs. But, as Horace says,

"Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines."

I crave a bumper. Faith claret's no that strong, so I'll drink the toast this time in a tummler, “Baith sides o' the Tweed!" Hip-hip-hip-hurraw! After a,' I maun confess that I like the Englishers, if they wadna be sae pernicketty' about what they eat.

North. Minds like ours, my dear James, must always be above national prejudices, and in all companies it gives me true pleasure to declare, that, as a people, the English are very little indeed inferior to the Scotch.

1 Pernicketty-particular.

218

PEASANT-POETS OF SCOTLAND.

Shepherd. I canna gang sae far as that, Mr North. Indeed, I've often observed that when ye praise an individual or a nation, you are apt to transcend a' bounds o' panegyric, juist out o' the natural goodness o' your heart, that gets the better of the greatness of your understanding. To put an end to the argument a'thegither, you see, or rather to prevent it frae getting a beginning, let me simply ask, Where wull you find in a' England siccan Poets o' the People, the Peasantry, that is, the Children o' the Soil, the Bairns o' Bank and Brae, as Robert Burns, Allan Kinningham, and Me? North. Why, James, there is Bloomfield.

Shepherd. O man, Mr North, sometimes after you've ta'en a drap, you do really, indeed, my dear sir-believe me when I say't -speak maist awfu' nonsense! Burns and Bloomfield indeed! North. Why, James, there's Clare.

Shepherd. I howp, sir, you'll no think me ower impertinent, gin I juist ask how auld you are? You see the drift o' my question, so I'll no press't. But really, sir, you should be cautious -for at your time o' life- -Kinningham and Clare indeed! North. Then, James-there is-then, James, there is-Let me remember why, James, there is-there is

Shepherd. Aha! my man, ye were in howps o' findin a parallel likewise to me? But familiar as you are with the haill range o' original poetry, and deeply as you feel, and weel's you understand it, you were out o' your reckoning there, my lad-when you thocht to selec some southern swain to shouther the Shepherd out o' the first rank o' genius-or even to staun by his side! Havena ye, my dear sir-just confess?

Tickler. What think you of Stephen Duck?1

Shepherd. That he was a duck-that ye are a guse—and that I am a swan. Ha, ha, ha! that's no a bad pun, Mr Tickler, though I made it mysel. It is at least extempore, and no like some o' your ain apothegems, a month auld at the newest.

North. Hogg, did you recollect old Parr ? 2

Shepherd. How could I recollec him? I never lived in the reign of Charles the Second; at least if I did, I do not

1 A forgotten poetaster, who died in 1756.

2 There were two "old Parrs," Pill-Parr and Wig-Parr. Pill-Parr was born in 1483, and died, it is said, at the age of one hundred and fifty-two years and nine months. Wig-Parr born in 1751, died in 1825.