QUAKER POETS. THE HOWITTS. 243 on to ease himsel on the tram-a dangerous practice, that has made many an honest woman a widow, and many weans orphans. North. Your head, my dear James, is now touching Howitt's Book of the Seasons. Prig and pocket it. 'Tis a jewel. 2 For I Thae [The SHEPHERD seizes it from the shelf, and acts as per order. Shepherd. Is Nottingham far intil England, sir? would really like to pay the Hooitts a visit this simmer. Quakers are, what ane micht scarcely opine frae first principles, a maist poetical Christian seck. There was Scott o' Amwell,1 wha wrote some simplish things in a preservin speerit o' earnestness; there is Wilkinson, yonner, wha wons on a beautifu' banked river, no far aff Peerith (is't the Eamont, think ye ?) the owther o' no a few pomes3 delichtfu' in their domesticity-auld bachelor though he be-nae warld-sick hermit, but an enlichtened labourer o' love, baith in the kitchen and flower garden o' natur;-lang by letter has me and Bernard Barton* been acquent, and verily he is ane o' the mildest and modestest o' the Muses' sons, nor wanting a thochtfu' genie, that aften gies birth to verses that treasure themselves in folk's hearts;-the best scholar amang a' the Quakers is Friend Wiffen, a capital translator, Sir Walter tells me, o' poets wi' foreign tongues, sic as Tawso, and wi' an original vein too, sir, which has produced, as I opine, some verra pure ore;-and feenally, the Hooitts, the three Hooitts,-na, there may be mair o' them for aught I ken, but I'se answer for William and Mary, husband and wife, and oh! but they're weel met; and eke for Richard, (can he be their brither?) and wha's this was tellin me about anither brither o' Wullie's, a Dr Godfrey Hooitt, ane o' the best botanists in a' England, and a desperate beetle-hunter? 5 6 North. Entomologist, James. A man of science. Shepherd. The twa married Hooitts I love just excessively, sir. What they write canna fail o' bein' poetry, even the maist 1 Scott of Amwell, the author of Amwell and other poems; born in 1739, died in 1783. 2 Wordsworth has sung the praises of this gentleman's spade, in the verses beginning, "Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands." 3 Pomes-poems. 4 Bernard Barton, a friend of Charles Lamb; born 1784, died 1849. 5 J. H. Wiffen; born 1792, died 1836. 6 Since this was written, Mr and Mrs Howitt have adorned our literature with many agreeable contributions. 244 HOWITT'S BOOK OF THE SEASONS. middlin o't, for it's aye wi' them the ebullition o' their ain feeling, and their ain fancy, and whenever that's the case, a bonny word or twa will drap itsel intil ilka stanzy, and a sweet stanzy or twa intil ilka pome, and sae they touch, and sae they sune win a body's heart; and frae readin their byuckies ane wushes to ken theirsels, and indeed do ken theirsels, for their personal characters are revealed in their volumms, and methinks I see Wully and Mary North. Strolling quietly at eve or morn by the silver Trent Shepherd. No sae silver, sir, surely, as the Tweed? North. One of the sincerest streams in all England, James. Shepherd. Sincere as an English sowl that caresna wha looks intil't, and flows bauldly alang whether reflectin cluds or sunshine. North. Richard, too, has a true poetical feeling, and no small poetical power. His unpretending volume of verses well deserves a place in the library along with those of his enlightened relatives-for he loves nature truly as they do, and nature has returned his affection. Shepherd. But what's this Byuck o' the Seasons? North. In it the Howitts have wished to present us with all their poetic and picturesque features-a Calendar of Nature, comprehensive and complete in itself-which, on being taken up by the lover of nature at the opening of each month, should lay before him in prospect all the objects and appearances which the month would present, in the garden, in the field, and the waters-yet confining itself solely to those objects. Such, in their own words, is said to be their aim. Shepherd. And nae insignificant aim either, sir. Hae they hit it? North. They have. The scenery they describe is the scenery they have seen. Shepherd. That circling Nottingham. North. Just so, James. Their pictures are all English. Shepherd. They show their sense in stickin to their native land-for unless the heart has brooded, and the een brooded too, on a' the aspecks o' the outer warld till the edge o' ilka familiar leaf recalls the name o' the flower, shrub, or tree frae which it has been blawn by the wund, or drapped in the cawm, the poet's haun 'ill waver, and his picture be but a haze. In a' our warks, baith great an' sma', let us be national; an' thus the true speerit o' ae kintra 'ill be breathed intil anither, an' the haill warld encompassed an' pervaded wi' poetry and love. North. As a proof, James, of their devotedness to merry England Shepherd. No a whit less merry that it contains a gude mony Quakers. North. -our Friends have described the year, without once alluding-as far as I have observed to the existence of Thomson. Shepherd. Na-that is queer an' comical aneuch ; -nor can I just a'thegither appruve o' that forgetfulness, ignorance, or omission. North. It shows their sincerity. They quote, indeed, scarcely any poetry but Wordsworth's-for in it, above all other, their quiet, and contemplative, and meditative spirits seem to repose in delight. Shepherd. I canna understaun' why it should be sae, but wi' the exception o' yoursel, sir, I never kent man or woman wha loved and admired Wordsworth up to the pitch, or near till't, o' idolatrous worship, wha seemed to care a doit for ony ither poet, leevin or dead. He's a sectawrian, you see, sir, in the religion o' natur North. Her High Priest. Shepherd. Weel-weel--sir; e'en be't sae. But is that ony reason why a' ither priests should be despised or disregarded, when tryin in a religious speerit to expound or illustrate the same byuck-the byuck o' natur which God has given us, wi' the haly leaves lyin open, sae that he wha rins may read, though it's only them that walks slowly, or sits down aneath the shadow o' a rock or a tree, that can understaun' sufficient to privilege them to breathe forth their knowledge an' their feelings in poetry, which is aye as a prayer or a thanksgiving? North. The Book of the Seasons is a delightful book and I recommend it to all lovers of nature. (Enter the Household on their stocking-soles, and remove the relics of the Feast of Shells.) Shepherd. Noo, we may wauken Tickler. He whuspered 246 A BATTLE OF CATS. intil my lug, as I was makin him cosy wi' the cloaks, no to let him sleep ayont eleven. [The SHEPHERD "blows mimic hootings to the silent owl,” who, opening his large eyes, cries "toowhit toowhoo!" and sits up on his perch. Tickler. Let us have oysters. Shepherd. Eisters! The eisters 'ill no be ready, sir, for an hour yet. For my ain pairt, I'm no hungry the nicht-and dinna think I'll eat ony eisters. Mr North, will you? North. No. Shepherd. Dinna fash wi' eisters the nicht, Mr Tickler—for this has been a stormy day, and they're no caller. Was ye dreamin, sir? For you seemed unco restless. Tickler. I was, James. Tickler. A Battle of Cats. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the slates!" Miss Tabitha having made an assignation with Tom Tortoiseshell, the feline phenomenon, they two sit curmurring, forgetful of mice and milk, of all but love! How meekly mews the Demure, relapsing into that sweet under-song—the Purr ! And how curls Tom's whiskers like those of a Pashaw! The point of his tail—and the point only is alive-insidiously turning itself, with serpent-like seduction, towards that of Tabitha, pensive as a Nun. His eyes are rubies, hers emeralds as they should be—his lightning, hers lustre―for in her sight he is the lord, and in his, she is the lady of Creation. North. "O happy love!—where love like this is found! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale❞— Shepherd. The last line wunna1 answer— "Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale!" Tickler. Woman or cat-she who hesitates is lost. But Diana, shining in heaven, the goddess of the Silver Bow, sees 1 Wunna-will not. A BATTLE OF CATS. 247 the peril of poor Pussy-and interposes her celestial aid to save the vestal. An enormous grimalkin, almost a wild cat, comes rattling along the roof, down from the chimney-top, and Tom Tortoiseshell, leaping from love to war, tackles to the Red Rover in single combat. Sniff-snuff-splutter-squeak -squall-caterwaul, and throttle! North. Where are the following lines? "From the soft music of the spinning purr, When through the house Puss moves with long complaint, Shepherd. Wheesht, North-wheesht. Tickler. Over the eaves sweeps the hairy hurricane. Two cats in one-like a prodigious monster with eight legs and a brace of heads and tails-and through among the lines on which clothes are hanging in the back-green, and which break the fall, the dual number plays squelch on the miry herbage. Shepherd. A pictur o' a back-green in fowre words. I see it and them. Tickler. The four-story fall has given them fresh fury and more fiery life. What tails! Each as thick as my arm, and rustling with electricity like the northern streamers. The Red Rover is generally uppermost-but not always-for Tom has him by the jugular like a very bulldog-and his small, sharp, tiger-teeth, entangled in the fur, pierce deeper and deeper into the flesh-while Tommy keeps tearing away at his rival, as if he would eat his way into his windpipe. Heavier than Tom Tortoiseshell is the Red Rover by a good many pounds; but what is weight to elasticity-what is body to soul? In the long tussle, the hero ever vanquishes the ruffian-as the Cock of the North the Gander. North (bowing). Proceed. Tickler. Cats' heads are seen peering over the tops of walls, and then their lengthening bodies, running crouchingly along the copestones, with pricked-up ears and glaring eyes, all attracted towards one common centre-the back-green of the inextinguishable battle. Some dropping, and some leaping |