vagrant as Rhyming Davy, for I had seen his name in the list of subscribers to the tragedy, although I knew he was no patron of the muses. "Atweel ye may be gayen sure I didna sign wi' my gude will. Me! would I gie a penny to the lazy fallow, if I could help it? But if yin dinna gie him something, he'll lampoon them in his poem books! There was Bailie Brecham, the saddler, refused to buy his last "Dream" about the Battle o' Drumclog. On the next night, Davy sung a queer sang about him, amang a' the sma' wabsters o' the place, in Luckie Tippletasty's kitchen; and there's no a bit wean in a' the toun but what ha'st off by heart now." From Mr. Dousechaffs I likewise learned somewhat of Davy's history. He had been a fisherman on the picturesque banks of the Leven, but seized with the mo-mania, forsook his trade, to travel the country for subscriptions for the poems he wished to usher to the world. To pay the printer's bill he parted with the utensils of his former vocation, and his boat became the property of his landlord, for arrears of rent. His household furniture he melted into whisky, of which he had always been fond, but doubly so when he became a poet-aquavitae to the class, of which Davy is a member, being their Castalian stream, and, I believe, the only source of their inspiration. Davy's wife died of a broken heart, and her friends provided for his two daughters, while his son was apprenticed to a farmer in the humble capacity of herd-callant. A variety of reflections suggested themselves to my mind, after parting with Mr. Dousechaffs, as I slowly walked home. Pope, in his own powerful and antithetic manner, has expressed them in one line, much more forcibly than I could do in a hundred, "A little learning is a dangerous thing." J. C. B. Strathblane, 182-. THE MYSOGYNIST. Woman 's taught me all I know, The right they have I do not see, then, DRAMATIC SCENE. ALBERTO, OR THE FRIENDS OF MILAN. SCENE-A Street in Milan. Enter ALBERTO from Foscolo's Palace, in a fancy dress, and masked. ALBERTO. (Advancing slowly.) How beautiful the face of night appears! Crowd to their homes at the approach of night, As if thy face, chaste Dian! were not fair, Grew murky 'neath thy sway! They throng the Scala's swelling porticoes Yet, let me not deceive myself:— 'Tis not thy charms, pale Luna, call me forth, Why, when the maskers met in Foscolo's, And twinkling feet beat time to sprightly music- To hold with Monti converse? She placed her hand in his, and they led down If that he juggles with the heart that's mine- (Replaces his mask.) Enter FRANCESCO from Foscolo's. FRANCESCO. Why, good Alberto, at your pranks once more?— The hour (looking his watch) eleven-the place Foscolo's door The signal a white handkerchief! If so, excuse me; in these nice affairs None than myself detests intrusion more. Stay, Francesco, stay. ALBERTO. You talk with so much volubility, That sense and thought lag oft behind your words. And only left the dance awhile to taste The cooling freshness of the evening breeze, And then rejoin, with sharpened zest, the maskers. FRANCESCO. (Shivering.) Plague on all evening breezes and their freshness! Or danced with others.-With your friend, young Monti, Rivals turn out but cold acquaintances! ALBERTO. (Aside.) Then their new kindness was remarked by all: When, from Pandora's charge the virtues fled, FRANCESCO. Mighty fine, signor, mighty fine these words, Did I not hear, As to the banquet Monti led. Giana, The tender nothings that he stuffed her ear with. He said no more than sober truth, Francesco; FRANCESCO. Come, come, Alberto; you could talk all night As they advance to the gateway of Foscolo's Palace, enter MONTI. Who says Giana waits? MONTI. Giana waits and looks for none but Monti; Must do so through the passage of my will. ALBERTO. Monti, have the rich wines of Foscolo Already ta'en possession of your brain? Have you forgot your friend? Has memory fled, MONTI. Memory still rules, and reason fills her throne: ALBERTO. The lover of Giana!-can it be? What is the name of honour but a sound, Why, we were bred from infancy together, Grew with our years, and death alone can quench it! MONTI. These are the glittering domes thy fancy raises- Be then my Goddess, Fancy!-thy creations That I'm Giana's lover is my boast, ALBERTO. Think you that mouthing candour can deceive? You would combine impossibilities. The rose ne'er blooms on Greenland's frost-bound shore, Nor waves acacia on the glacier's ridge. MONTI. Why, you are mighty vehement, Alberto; 'Tis not unnatural you should be so: A mistress lost will cross the best of tempers. ALBERTO. Can this be Monti ?-this the friend I loved ?- MONTI. You're in a moralising mood, Alberto; Your own reflections best will suit yourself.-(Going.) |