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Shepherd. Ae1 spoonfu'. What a layer she wad bae been. O but she's a prolific creature, Mr. North, your howtowdie! It's necessary to kill heaps o' yearocks,2 or the hail kintra wud be a-cackle frae John o' Groat's House to St. Michael's Mount.*

North. Sometimes I eat merely as an amusement or pastime-sometimes for recreation of my animal spirits-sometimes on the philosophical principle of sustenancesometimes for the mere sensual, but scarcely sinful, pleasure of eating, or, in common language, gormandizing-and occasionally, once a month or so, for all these several purposes united, as at this present blessed moment; so a few flakes, dear Shepherd, of that Westmoreland ham-lay the knife on it, and its own weight will sink it down through the soft sweet sappiness of fat and lean, undistinguishably blended as the colors of the rainbow, and out of all sight incomparably more beautiful.

Shepherd. As for me, I care nae mair about what I eat, than I do what kind o' bed I sleep upon, sir. I hate onything stinkin' or mooldy at board-or onything damp or musty in bed. But let the vivres be but fresh and wholesome-and if it's but scones and milk, I shut my een, say a grace, fa' to, and am thankfu';-let the bed be dry, and whether saft or hard, feathers, hair, caff,' straw, or heather, I'm fast in ten minutes, and my soul waverin' awa like a butterfly intil the land o' dreams.

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cretur but man can be a glutton. A' the rest are prevented by the definition.

North. Is there any test of gluttony, James?

Shepherd. Watch twa men eatin'. As lang's there's a power or capacity o'smilin' on their cheeks, and in and about their een,as lang's they keep lookin' at you, and round about the table, attendin' to or joinin' in the tauk, or the speakin' cawm,1-as lang's they every noo an' than lay doon their knife and fork, to ca' for yill,2 or ask a young leddy to tak wine, or tell an anecdote, -as lang's they keep frequently ca'in' on the servant lad or lass for a clean plate-as lang's they glower on the framed pictures or prents on the wa', and askin' if the tane's3 originals and the tither proofs, -as lang's they offer to carve the tongue or turkeydepend on 't they're no in a state o' gluttony, but are devourin' their soup, fish, flesh, and fowl, like men and Christians. But as sune's their chin gets creeshy5-their cheeks lank, sallow, and clunk-clunky-their nostrils wide-their een fixed-their faces close to their trencher-and themsel's dumbies?— then you may see a specimen "o' the immoral and unintellectual abandonment o' the sowl o' man to his gustative natur;" then is the fast, foul, fat feeder a glutton, the maist disgust fuest cretur that sits-and far aneath the level o' them that feed on a' fowers, out o' trochs on garbage.

North. Sensuality is the most shocking of all sins, and its name is Legion.

Shepherd. Ay, there may be as muckle gluttony on sowens as on turtle soup. A ploughman may be as greedy and as gutsy10 as an alderman. The sin lies not in the sense but in the sowl. Sir-a red-herring? North. Thank ye, James.

Shepherd. Are you drinkin' coffee? Let me toast you a shave o' bread, and butter it for you on baith sides, sir?

[The SHEPHERD kneels on the Tiger,11 and stretches out the Trident12 to Vulcan.13]

North. Heaven will reward ye, James, for your piety to the old man.

Shepherd. Dinna think, sir, that I care about your last wull and testament.

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I'm

woven the image of

12 fork (The Trident was a three-pronged spear carried by Neptune, god of the sea.)

13 the fire (Vulcan was the blacksmith of the gods.)

nae legacy-hunter-nae Post-obit.1 But hae ye added the codicil?

North. The man who has not made his will at forty is worse than a fool-almost a knave.

Shepherd. I ken nae better test o' wisdom-wisdom in its highest sense-than a just last wull and testament. It blesseth generations yet unborn. It guardeth and strengthneth domestic peace-and maketh brethren to dwell together in unity.2 Being dead, the wise testator yet liveth3-his spirit abideth invisible, but felt ower the roof-tree, and delighteth, morning and evening, in the thanksgiving Psalm.

North. One would think it were easy to act well in that matter.

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Shepherd. One would think it were easy to act weel, sir, in a' matters. Yet hoo difficult! The sowl seems, somehow or ither, to lose her simplicity, to keep restlessly glourin' round and round about wi' a thousan' artificial ogles up a' the cross and by-paths leadin' nae single body kens whither, unless it be into brakes, and thickets, and quag- 25 mires, and wildernesses o' moss-where ane may wander wearily and drearily up and doon for years, and never recover the richt road again, till death touches him on the shouther, and doon he fa's amang them that 30 were, leavin' a' that lucked up to him for his effecks in doubt and dismay and desolation, wi' sore and bitter hearts, uncertain whether to gie vent to their feelings in blessings or in curses, in execration or prayer.

North. Of all the vices of old age, may gracious Heaven, my dearest James, forever shield me from avarice!

Shepherd. Nae fear o' that. There's either just ae enjoyment o' siller, or five hunder thousan' million. The rich maun either spend it thick and fast, as a nightingale scatters her notes on the happy airor sit upon his guineas, like a clockin' hen on a heap o' yellow addled eggs amang the nettles.

North. Picturesquely true.

Shepherd. Oh, sir! what delicht to a wise rich man in being lavish-in being prodigal! For these two words only carry blame alang wi' them according to the character o' the giver or. the receiver. Wha mair lavishwha mair prodigal than the Sun? Yet let him shower his beams forever and ever all

A post-obit is a bond given to secure a loan, and payable after death.

2 See Psalms, 133:1.

See Hebrews, 11:4.

one enjoyment of small change

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ower the Planetary System, frae Venus wi' her cestus1 to Saturn wi' his ring, and nane the poorer, either in licht or in heat, is heand nane the poorer will he ever be, till the hand that hung him on high shall cut the golden cord by which he liveth in the sky, and he falls, his duty done, into the bosom of Chaos and Old Night!3

North. My dear Shepherd!

Shepherd. But the Sun he shineth wi' unborrowed licht. There's the bonnie moon, God bless her mildest face, that loveth still to cheer the pensive nicht wi' a lustre lent her by the joyful day-to give to earth a' she receives frae heaven. Puir, senseless, ungratefu' creturs we! Eyeing her frae our ain narrow vales, we ca' her changefu' and inconstant! But is na she, sweet satellite, forever journeying on her gracious round, and why will we grudge her smiles to them far frae us, seein' we are a' children to ae Maker, and according to his perfect laws, a' partakers in the same impartial bounty! Here's a nice brown shave for you, sir.

[The SHEPHERD rises from his knees on the rug, takes the bread from the prongs of the Trident, and fresh butters it on both sides for MR. NORTH, who receives it with a benign bow.]

North. Uncommonly yellow this butter, James, for the season. The grass must be growing

Shepherd. Ay, you may hear 't growin'. What years for vegetation the last beautifu' and glorious Three! The ongoings o' natur are in the lang run regular and steady;but noo and then the mighty mother seems to obey some uncontrollable impulse far within her fair large bosom, and "wantons as in her prime,'' outdoing her very self in beneficence to earth, and that mysterious concave we ca' heaven.

North. In spite of gout, rheumatism, lumbago, corns, and chilblains, into the Forest shall I wend my way, James, before midsummer.

Shepherd. And young and auld will be but ower happy to see you, sir, frae the lanely Douglas Tower to those o' Newark. Would ye believe 't, an old ash stullion in the garden hedge of Mount Benger shot out six scions last year, the langest o' them nine, and the shortest seven feet lang? That was growin' for you, sir.

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North. There has been much planting of trees lately, in the Forest, James?

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Shepherd. To my taste, to tell the truth, rather ower muckle1-especially o' nurses.2 North. Nurses! wet or dry nurses, James? Shepherd. Baith. Larches and Scotch firs; or you may ca' them schoolmasters, that teach the young idea how to shoot. But thinnins in the Forest never can pay, I suspeck; and except on bleaky knows, the hard wood wad grow better, in my opinion, left to themsells, without either nurses or schoolmasters. The nurses are apt to overlay the weans, and the schoolmasters to forget, or what's waur, to flog their 15 pupils; and thus the rising is a stunted generation.

North. Forty-five years ago, my dear James, when you were too young to remember much, I loved the Forest for its solitary single trees, ancient yew or sycamore, black in the distance, but when near, how gloriously green. Tall, delicately-feathered ash, whose limbs were still visible in latest summer's leafiness- birch, in early spring, weeping and whispering in its pensive happiness by the perpetual din of its own waterfall-oak, yellow in the suns of JuneShepherd.

The grace of forest wood decayed,
And pastoral melancholy!s

North. What lovely lines! Who writes like Wordsworth!

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intil the crib that stauns at the side o' his mither's bed, after e'enin' prayers.

North. I feel not undelightfully, my dear James, that I must be waxing old-very old -for of the last ten years of my life I remember almost nothing except by an effortwhereas the first ten-commencing with that bright, clear, undying light that borders the edge of the oblivion of infancy-have been lately becoming more intensely distinct-so that often the past is with me as it were the present-and the sad gray-haired ancient is again a blest golden-headed boy, singing a chorus with the breeze, and the birds and the streams. Alas! and alack a day!

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Shepherd. 'Tis only sae that we ever renew our youth. Oh, sir! I hinna1 forgotten the color o' the plumage o' ae single dove that ever sat cooin' of old on the growin' turf-riggin' o' my father's hut! Ae great muckle, big, beautifu' ane in particular, blue as if it had dropt doon frae the skyI see the noo, a' neck and bosom, cooin' and cooin' deep as distant thunder, round and round his mate, wha was whiter than the white sae-faem, makin' love to the snawy creture-wha cowered doon in fear afore her imperious and impassioned lord-yet in love stronger than fear-showing hoo in 30 a' leevin' natur passions seemingly the maist remote frae ane anither, coalesce into mysterious union by means o' ae pervading and interfusing speerit, that quickens the pulses o' that inscrutable secret-life!

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Shepherd. Tuts! Me ower young to remember muckle forty-five years ago! You're speakin' havers." I was then twal-and I remember everything I ever heard or saw since I was three year auld. I recolleck the mornin' I was pitten intil breeks1o as distinckly as if it was this verra day. They hurt me sair atween the fork and the inside o' the knees-but oh! I was a prood manand the lamb that I chased all the way frae my father's hut to Ettrick Manse, round 45 about the kirk, till I caught it on a gowany11 grave, and lay doon wi't in my arms on the sunny heap, had nae need to be ashamed o' itsel', for I hunted it like a colley-although when I grupped it at last, I held it to my beatin' bosom as tenderly as ever I hae since done wee Jamie, when pitten the dear cretur

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North. All linnets have died, Jamesthat race of loveliest lilters" is extinct.

Shepherd. No thae. Broom and bracken are tenanted by the glad, meek creturs stillbut the chords o' music in our hearts are sair unstrung-the harp o' our heart has lost its melody. But come out to the Forest, my dear, my honored sir, and fear not then when we twa are walking thegither without speakin' among the hills, you

Will feel the airs that from them blow
A momentary bliss bestow."

and the wild, uncertain, waverin' music o'
the Eolian harp that natur plays upon in
the solitude, will again echo far, far awa'
amang the recesses o' your heart, and the
lintys will sing as sweetly as ever amang
the blossoms o' the milk-white thorn. Or,
if you canna be brocht to feel sae, you'll

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North. I cannot bear, James, to receive such attention paid to my bodily weakness -I had almost said, my decrepitude-by any living soul but yourself. How is that, my dear Shepherd?

Shepherd. Because I treat you wi' tenderness, but no wi' pity-wi' sympathy, but no wi' compassion

North. My dear James, ye must give us a book on synonyms. What delicacy of distinction!

Shepherd. I suspeck, sir, that mother wut and mother feelin' hae mair to do wi' the truth o' metaphysical etymology and grammar, than either lair or labor. Ken the meanin', by self-experience, o' a' the nicest shades o' thoughts and feelings, and devil the fears but you'll ken the meanin's o' the nicest shades o' syllables and words. North. Good, James. Language flows from two great sources-the head and the heart. Each feeds ten thousand rills—

Shepherd. Reflectin' different imagerybut no sae very different either-for-you

see

North. I see nothing, James, little or nothing, till you blow away the intervening mist by the breath of genius, and then the whole world outshines, like a panorama with a central sun.

Shepherd. Ah! sir, you had seen the hale world afore ever I kent you-a perfect wandering Ulysses.

North. Yes, James, I have circumnavigated the globe, and intersected it through all its zones, and, by Jupiter, there is not a climate comparable to that of Scotland.

Shepherd. I believ't. Blest be Providence for having saved my life frae the curse o' stagnant sky-a monotonous heaven. On flat land, and aneath an ever blue lift," I should soon hae been a perfeck idiwit.

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North. Are negroes, gentlemen, to sit in both Houses of Parliament ?3

Shepherd. Nae politics the nicht-nae politics. I'm sick o' politics. Let's speak about the weather. This has been a fine day, sirs.

North. A first-rate day, indeed, James. Commend me to a Day who does not stand shilly-shallying during the whole morning and forenoon, with hands in his breeches' pockets, or bitin' his nails, and scratching his head, unable to make up his mind in what fancy character he is to appear from meridian to sunset-but who

Shepherd. Breaks out o' the arms o' the dark-haired bricht-eed night, with the power and pomp o' a Titan, and frightnin' that bit puir timid lassie the Dawn out o' her seven senses, in thunder and lightning a' at ance storms the sky, till creation is drenched in flood, bathed in fire, and rocked by earthquake. That's the day for a poet, sirsthat's a picture for the ee, and that's music for the lug o' imagination, sirs, till ane's 35 verra speerit cums to creawte the war it trummles at, and to be composed o' the self-same yelements, gloomin' and boomin', blackenin' and brightenin', pourin' and roarin', and awsomely confusin' and confoundin' heaven and earth, and this life and the life that is to come, and a' the passions that loup up at sichts and souns, joy, hope, fear, terror, exultation, and that mysterious up-risin' and downfa 'in' o' our mortal hearts, connected some hoo or ither wi' the fleein' cluds, and the tossin' trees, and the red rivers in spate, and the sullen looks o' black bits o' sky like faces, together wi' ane and a' o' thaes restless shows o' uneasy natur appertainin', God knows hoo, but maist certain sure it is so, to the region, the rueful region o' man's entailed inheritance -the grave!

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Turn up your little finger. Pale! nay, now
they are more of the color of my hat-as if
In the scowl of heaven, his face
Grew black as he was speaking.

The shadow of the thunder-cloud threatening the eyes of his imagination, has absolutely darkened his face of clay. He seems at a funeral, James!

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walk alone by myself for half a mile, without thochts sae calm and sae serene, and sae humble and sae grateful, that I houp I'm no deceivin' myself noo when I venture to 5 ca' them-religious.

Shepherd. Whare's the moral? What's the use of thunder, except in a free country? There's nae grandeur in the terror o' slaves flingin' themsells doon on their faces amang the sugar-canes, in a tornawdo. But the low quick beatin' at the heart o' a free- 15 man, a bauld-faced son o' liberty, when simultawneous flash and crash rends Natur to her core, why that flutter, sir, that does homage to a Power aboon us, exalts the dreadful magnificence o' the instruments that Power employs to subjugate our sowls to his sway, and makes thunder and lichtnin', in sic a country as England and Scotland, sublime.

North. The short and long of the matter seems to be, James, that when it thunders you funk.1

Shepherd. Yes, sir, thunders frighten me into my senses.

North. Well said, James-well said. Shepherd. Heaven forgive me, but ten out of the eighteen wakin' hours, I am an atheist.

North. And I.

Shepherd. And a' men. Puir, pitifu', ungratefu', and meeserable wretches that we are-waur than worms. An atheist's a godless man. Sweep a' thoughts o' his Maker out o' ony man's heart-and what better is he, as lang's the floor o' his being continues bare, than an atheist?

North. Little better indeed.

Shepherd. I envy-I honor-I venerate -I love-I bless the man, who, like the patriarchs of old, ere sin drowned the world, ever walks with God.

North. James, here we must not get too solemn

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Shepherd. That's true; and let me hope that I'm no sae forgetfu' as I fear. In this season o' the year, especially when the flowers are a' seen again in lauchin'2 flocks ower the braes,3 like children returnin' to school after a lang snaw, I can wi' truth avoo, that the sight of a primrose is to me 55 like the soun'o' a prayer, and that I seldom

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North. No, James, you are not selfdeceived. Poetry melts into religion.

Shepherd. It is religion, sir, for what is religion but a clear-often a sudden-insicht, accompanied wi' emotion, into the dependence o' a' beauty and a' glory on the Divine Mind? A wee bit dew-wat gowany, as it makes a scarcely perceptible sound and stir, which it often does, amang the grass that loves to shelter but not hide the bonnie earth-born star, glintin' up sae kindly wi' its face into mine, while by good fortune my feet touched it not, has hundreds o' times affected me as profoundly as ever did the Sun himsell setting in a his glory-as profoundly-and, oh! far mair tenderly, for a thing that grows and grows, and becomes every hour mair and mair beautifu', and then hangs fixed for a season in the perfection o' its lovely delicht, and then-wae is me-begins to be a little dimand then dimmer and dimmer, till we feel that it is indeed-in very truth, there's nae denyin't fading-fading-faded-gonedead-buried. Oh! sir, sic an existence as that has an overwhelmin' analogy to our ain life-and that I hae felt-nor doubt I that you, my dear sir, hae felt it too-when on some saft, sweet, silent incense-breathing morning o' spring-far awa, perhaps, frae the smoke o' ony human dwellin', and walkin' ye cared na, kent na whither-sae early that the ground-bees were but beginnin' to hum out o' their bikes3-when, I say, some flower suddenly attracted the licht within your ee, wi' a power like that o' the loadstone, and though, perhaps, the commonest the flowers that beautify the braes o' Scotland-only, as I said, a bit ordinary gowan-yet, what a sudden rush o' thochts and feelings overflowed your soul at the simple sicht! while a' nature becam for a moment overspread wi' a tender haze belongin' not to hersell, for there was naething there to bedim her brightness, but existin only in your ain two silly een, sheddin' in the solitude a few holy tears!

North. James, I will trouble you for the red-herrings.

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