Admirable impersonations! The faculty of imitation always belongs, in excess, to original minds.

SHEPHERD.

Does't?

NORTH.

Mimicry is the farthest thing in the wide world from imitation.

SHEPHERD.

Na. No the farthest thing in the wide warld, sir; but I cheerfully grant that a man may be a mere mime and nae imitawtor. I'm baith.

And besides, an original.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

At Mister Muir again, sir, tooth and nail!

NORTH.

"The very habits of abstraction and self-study, to which the occupations

1831.]

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of men of genius lead, are in themselves necessarily of an unsocial and detaching tendency, and require a large portion of allowance and tolerance not to be set down as unamiable." So argueth Mr Moore, and that is another reason why men of genius are not fitted for the calm affections and comforts that form the cement of domestic life."

SHEPHERD.

I houp, sir, there's no muckle truth in that, although it souns like a sort o' vague pheelosophy. Demolish't.

NORTH.

The habits of abstraction and self-study, of which Mr Moore here speaks, are those of the poet. Now, so far from being, in themselves, necessarily of an unsocial and detaching tendency, they are pervaded by sympathy with all that breathes, and were that sympathy to die, so would the abstraction and self-study of the poet. True, that they seek and need seclusion from cark and care; and sometimes-say often-even from the common ongoings of domestic life. But what then? Do not all professions and pursuits in this life do the same?

SHEPHERD.

Aye, ye may weel ask that! A lawyer routin' hours every day at the bar, and then dictatin' papers or opinions a' afternoon, evening, and nicht, on "better fitted for the, to past his natural bed-time—are his habits, pray, cawm affections and comforts that form the cement of domestic life," than them that's natural to the poet?

NORTH.

I should think not, James. They are very different from those of the poet-but much more disagreeable, and requiring, again to use Mr Moore's words, a large "portion of allowance and tolerance not to be set down as unamiable."

SHEPHERD.

Yet amaist a' the lawyers I ken in the Parliament House are excellent domestic characters,-that is to say, far frae being the dour deevils you wad suppose aforehaun' frae hearin' them gullorin' at the bar, and flitin' on ane anither like sae mony randies. Gin they can fling aff the growl wi' the goun, and frae lawyers become men, mayna poets far mair easily and successfully do the same? ́

NORTH.

Undoubtedly, James. You might instance, in like manner, physicians and clergymen

SHEPHERD.

Aye, the classes that profess to tak especial care o' our twa pairts, the body and the sowle. Hoo profoun,' sir, oucht to be their self-study, and their study o' ither folk! Physicians, ane micht think, seein' folk dyin' nicht and day, in a' manner o'agonies, and being accustomed to pocket fees by the death-bed-side, would become, in the core o' their hearts, as callous as custocks; and I shall na say that some o' them do not

NORTH.

Most eminent physicians are good men ; and, what is better, pleasant

What? Is't better to be pleasant than good?

NORTH.

Yes, James, for our present argument. According to Mr Moore, they, too, ought "to require a larger portion of allowance and tolerance, not to be set down as unamiable."

SHEPHERD.

Then the clergy, again, were they to devote theirsells, tooth and nail, to their manifold duties, ane micht argue that they wou'd hae time neither to sleep nor eat, nor attend to the ither common comforts and affections that form the cement of domestic life. Yet the clergy are far frae being a very immoral, irreligious, or home-hating class of people; and manses are amazingly crowded wi' weans, sir, on the verra sma'est steepens→→→→

NORTH.

Why, certainly, according to Mr Moore's argument, a deep divine, engaged on some great theological work, would make but an indifferent husband. But look at him, James-yes, look at our Dr Wodrow

SHEPHERD.

And look, I beseech you, at his pew o' weans.

NORTH.

All the most distinguished poets of the age in Britain, are either middleaged, or elderly, or old gentlemen. They are, therefore, not at all dangerous, personally, to the fair sex-Cupid sneers at them-Venus jeers-and Hymen weeps, like a crocodile, with his hands in his breeches pockets.

Haw! haw! haw!

SHEPHERD,

NORTH.

Breathe the tender passion as they may, not a young lady in the land who would not prefer to the best of them, any undeformed ensign in a marching regiment, either of the foot or the dragoons.

SHEPHERD.

The sex has been aye desperate fond o' the army.

NORTH.

It is fortunate for some of the old bards that they have wives. Crabbe, Bowles, Wordsworth, Southey, Moore, and others-fourscore-threescoreand-ten-and threescore-have long been happily provided with that leading article. So are Milman and Barry Cornwall, and most of "the rest" between forty and fifty; two or three are widowers-and the remainder likely to remain bachelors for life. Not a female bosom beats, with a pulsation worthy the name of beating, at this moment, for any British bard.

SHEPHERD.

I'm no sae sure o' that, sir. But prate awa'.

NORTH.

The sex regard all the bachelors as so many old foggies-as so many uncles; and the idea would be too much for the gravity of any of the dear creatures, of the celebration of her marriage rites with the prettiest and most popular poet, seeing that he is aged, either by a bishop or a blacksmith.

Prate awa' sir-prate awa'.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

The truth is, that, in modern times at least, poets, whatever their time of life, have been held rather cheap by the fair sex. I suspect it was the same in the ancient world-and in the days of chivalry and romance, singing certainly was less esteemed by young ladies, than fighting, and a poet with his pen had no chance whatever against a knight with his lance.

Lying deep in human nature! Doun wi' the bucket, and then roun' wi' the windlass, and up wi't again fu' o' the clear waters frae the well o' truth.

NORTH.

Making love, and making love-verses, are two of the most different things in the world; and I doubt if both accomplishments were ever found highly united in the same gifted individual. Few Irishmen, in the first, excel Tom Moore; in the second, millions. Lord Byron, in lyrical measures, was a formidable wooer; but in plain matter-of-fact courtship, he had to stoop his anointed head to Corporal Casey.

Wha was he?

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Apollo himself, god though he was of light, and music, and medicine, setting aside two or three trivial amours, was a harmless sort of a body; while

there were other deities who could not have tagged together two rhymes, before whom goddesses and nymphs fell flat as flounders.

Prate awa', sir-prate awa'.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Inspiration, in short, is of little avail either to gods or men in the most interesting affairs of life-those of the heart. To push your way in them, there is nothing, in the long run, like good plain prose. Now, though it must be granted, that, in much that passes for poetry, there is no inconsiderable mixture of that useful commodity, yet it is so diluted as no longer to be strong drink; and repeated doses of it administered to a maiden in the shade, fail to produce the desired effect-the intoxication of love. The pretty dear seems to sip the philtre kindly; and the poet doubts not that she is about to fall into his arms. But she merely

"Kisses the cup, and passes it to the rest,"

and next morning, perhaps, is off before breakfast in a chaise-and-four to Gretna Green, with an aid-de-camp of Wellington, as destitute of imagination as his master.

Prate awa', sir-prate awa'.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

If such have been often the fate even of young bards-and Sir Walter, with his usual knowledge of human nature, has charmingly illustrated it in the story of Wilford-how much more to be pitied must they be, who have served the Muses, till the crow-feet are blackening below their eyes, and who are labouring under symptoms, not to be concealed, of incipient potbellies!

SHEPHERD.

Let's return to the smashin' o' Mister Muir.

NORTH.

There is no need to knock the nail on the head any longer with our sledgehammers, James. Yet I cannot help expressing my wonder at the confusion of Mr Moore's ideas, as well as at the weakness of his argument. He wishes to prove, that "men of the higher order of genius" are seldom good domestic characters; and yet he huddles and jumbles them all together,poets, philosophers, and so forth,-making his reasoning the most miscellaneous and heterogeneous hotch-potch that ever was set down on a table.

SHEPHERD.

Are you dune wi' cuttin' him up, or only gaun to begin?

NORTH.

I am somewhere about the middle, James.

SHEPHERD.

Ony mair bear-paws in the house, think ye, sir?

NORTH.

To prove that men of the higher order of genius-no matter what kind -are unfitted for the calm affections and comforts that form the cement of domestic life, Mr Moore observes, that "one of the chief causes of sympathy and society between ordinary mortals being their dependence on each other's intellectual resources, the operation of this social principle must naturally be weakened in those whose own mental stores are most abundant and self-sufficing, and who, rich in such materials for thinking within themselves, are rendered so far independent of the external world."

SHEPHERD.

Would you repeat that again, sir, for it souus sae sonorous, that the words droun the ideas? 'Tis like the murmur o' a bit waterfa', or a hive o' bees, which the indolent mind loves to listen to, and at times amaist deludes itsell intil the belief that there's a meanin' in the murmur-as if the stream soleeloqueezed and the insects decalogueezed wisdom in the desert. Would you repeat that again, sir?

NORTH.

Be shot if I do. Why, James, all that is-

SHEPHERD.

Drivel. Dungeons o' learning there are-leevin' dungeons o' dead learning-in wham the operation of the social principle is weak indeed-less than the life that's in a mussel. The servant lass has to gang in upon him in his study, and rug him aff his chair by the cuff o' the neck, when the kail's on the table, and the family hae gien the first preliminary flourish o' the horn-spoons.

Picture drawn from the life.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Aiblins. But "men o' the higher order o' genius," sir, I manteen, are in general impatient o' solitude, though dearly do they love it; and sae far frae their mental stores being abundant and self-sufficing, why, the mair abundant they are, the less are they self-sufficing; for the owners, "rich in such materials for thinking within themsells," would think and feel that they were in a worse condition than that o' the maist abjeck poverty and powperism, gin they werna driven by a sense and an instinck, fierce and furious aften as a fivver, to pour their pearls, and their jewels, and their diamonds, and their gold and silver, oot in great glitterin' heaps afore the astonished, startled, and dazed een o' their fellow-creatures less prodigally endowed by nature, and then wi' a strange mixture o' pride and humbleness, to mark the sudden effeck on the gazers,-inwardly exclaiming, "I did it!"

Did what?

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Why, by inspiring them with a sense of beauty, elevated their haill moral and intellectual being, and enabled their fellow-creatures to see farther into their ain hearts, and into the heart o' the haill creation!

NORTH.

Good, James, good. But to pitch our conversation on a lower key, allow me to say, that "thinking within themselves," when too long pursued, is of all employments the most wearisome and barren to which men can have recourse and that "men of the higher order of genius," knowing that well, so far from feeling that they "are independent of the external world," draw thence their daily bread, and their daily water, without which their souls would speedily perish of inanition.

SHEPHERD.

Ca' ye that pitchin' your tawk on a laigh key? It's at the tap o' the gaw

mut.

NORTH.

The materials for thinking within ourselves are gathered from without; in the gathering, we have enjoyed all varieties of delight; and is it to be thought that the gardens where these flowers grew, and still are growing, are to be forsaken by us, after we have, during a certain number of seasons, culled garlands wherewith to adorn our foreheads, or plucked fruit wherewith to sustain and refresh our souls?

SHEPHERD.

Ca' ye that pitchin' your tawk on a laigh key, sir? It's at the tap o' the gawmut.

NORTH.

No, James-Men of the higher order of genius never long forsake the Life-Region, and is not its great Central Shrine, James, the Hearth? The soul that worships not there, my dear Shepherd-and true worship cannot be unfrequent, but is perennial, because from a source that the dews of heaven will not let run dry-will falter, fail, and faint in the midst of its song, and will know, ere that truth invades, one after another, its many chambers, that the wing that soareth highest in the sun must have slowly waxed in the shade

SHEPHERD.

Ca' ye that pitchin' your tawk on a laigh key? It's at the tap o' the gawmut.

NORTH.

That the Bird of Jove, sun-starer and cloud-cleaver though he be—