MORE SMASHING OF MR MOORE. 113 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. 66 Shepherd. Ony mair bear-paws in the house, think ye, sir? North. To prove that men of the higher order of geniusno 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 soun's sae sonorous, that the words droon 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 itsel intil the belief that there's a meanin in the murmur-as if the stream soleeloqueezed and the insects deealogueezed 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 o' 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. North. Picture drawn from the life. Shepherd. Aiblins. But "men o' the higher order o' genius," sir, I mainteen, 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 themsels," would think and feel that they were in a worse condition than that VOL. III. H 114 THE CENTRAL SHRINE OF GENIUS. o' the maist abjeck poverty and powperism, gin they werena 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, out in great glitterin heaps afore the astonished, startled, and dazed een o' their fellowcreatures 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!" North. Did what? 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! 66 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 talk on a laigh key? It's at the tap o' the gawmut. 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 talk 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 THE DOMESTIC SQUALLS OF GENIUS. 115 Shepherd. Ca' ye that pitchin your talk 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 Shepherd. Storm-lover North. Glorying in the storm, and enamoured of the tempest Shepherd. Yet is happy to sink doun frae heaven, and fauld up his magnificent wings at the edge o' his eyry, fond o' the twa unfledged cannibals sleepin wi' fu' stammacks there, cosy in the middle o' a mighty nest, twenty feet in circumference, and covering the haill platform o' the tap o' the cliff, ay, as fond, sir, though I alloo a hantle fiercer, as ony cushie-doo on her slight and slender "procreant cradle," you can see through't, ye ken, sir, frae below, and discern whether she hae eggs or young anes,-in the green gloom o' some auld pine central in the forest. North. Yes, James, all great poets are great talkers Ou ay, Shepherd. Tiresome aften to a degree-though sometimes, I grant to Mr Muir, that they are a sulky set, and as gruffly and grimly silent as if they had the toothache, or something the matter wi' their inside. Far be it frae me to deny, that "men o' the higher order o' genius" are aften disagreeable deevils. They maun aften be a sair fash1 to their wives and their weans—and calm as the poet's cottage looks, upon the hill or in the dell, mony a rippet is there, sir, beyond the power o' the imagination o' ony mere proser to conceive. sir! mony a fearfu' rippet, in which, whether appellant or respondent, defender or pursuer, the "man o' the higher order o' genius" wishes, wi' tears in the red een o' him, no that his wife and weans were a' dead and buried-for nae provocation in their power can drive the distrackit fallow to that but that he himsel had never been kittled, or, if kittled, instead o' ha'in been laid in the cradle by Apollo, and tended on by the Muses—nine nurses, and nae less-which o' them wat and which o' them dry it's no easy for me at this distance o' time to remember-he had been sookled like ither honest men's bairns, at the breist o' his nain3 mither, had shown nae precocious genius in his leading-strings,-but, blessed lot! had died booby o' the lowest form, and been buried amang 2 Rippet-disturbance. 1 Fash-trouble. 3 Nain-own. 116 SHEPHERD SINGS "KING WILLIE." the sabs o' a' that ever saw him, a wee senseless sumph, as stupid as a piggie, yet as happy as a lamb! North. Hee! hee! hee! James! Shepherd. But what then? North. Yes, James, what then? North. Hem! Shepherd. Ay, clear your throttle. You've gotten a vile crinklin cough, sir,—a short, kirkyard cough, sir-a wheezy host, sir-an asthmatic North. Poo! It has teazed me a little for these last fifty years Shepherd. What? Hae ye carried a spale-box o' lozenges since the auchty? Recover your wund, sir-while I chant a stave. KING WILLIE. O, Willie was a wanton wag, 2 The blithest lad that e'er I saw ; Wha hasna heard o' Willie's fame, Nor turned his back on friend or foe. An' he could chant a cheery strain, An' he could kiss a bonny lass, An' aye be welcome back again. Though now he wears the British crown- An' fill it reaming to the brim, 2 Gree--prize. FURTHER EXPOSURE OF MOORE'S HERESIES. I've ae advice to gie my King, An' that I'll gie wi' right good-will, North. Spirited. Who is Adie Laidlaw? 117 Shepherd. Queen Adelaide-a familiar title o' endearment the Queen enjoys in the Forest. North. But what say you to the last stanza-now, James? Shepherd. Wait a while-sir. North. I am delighted to hear that Mr Blackwood is about to publish a volume of your inimitable Songs.' 'Twill be universally popular, my dear James-and must be followed by a second in spring. The wing of your lyrical muse never flags, whether she skim the gowans or brush the clouds. The shade of Burns himself might say to the Shepherd, "Then gie's your haund, my trusty feer," for, of all the songwriters of Scotland, you two are the best-though Allan Cunningham treads close upon your heels-and often is privileged to form a trio-such a trio of peasant bards as may challenge the whole world. Shepherd. Your haun, sir. I could amaist greet. North. But it is the "cultivation and exercise of the imaginative faculty," quoth Mr Moore, "that, more than anything else, tends to wean the man of genius from actual life, and by substituting the sensibilities of the imagination for those of the heart, to render, at last, the medium through which he feels no less unreal than that through which he thinks. Those images of ideal good and beauty that surround him in his musings, soon accustom him to consider all that is beneath this high standard unworthy of his care; till, at length, the heart becoming chilled, in proportion as he has refined and elevated his theory of all the social affections, he has unfitted himself for the practice of them." Such are the ipsissima verba of Mr Moore, James. Shepherd. I'm nae great reader o' byucks, sir, as you weel 1 Hogg's songs were published in 1831, and very admirable many of them are. |