A Tory? BULLER. NORTH. I would not prostitute the name so far: but he always voted with them. As a clever poet of last year said "I grant you he never behaved, anno 12, ill He always used then to chime in with Lord Melville. There were words, I remember, he used to pronounce ill; But he always supported the orders in council. At the Whigs it was then his chief pleasure to rail He opposed all the Catholic claims, tooth and nail; That he voted against Stewart Wortley's address; And while others were anxious for bringing in Canning- BULLER. What a memory you have! Joseph has not so good a one, I'll swear, or he would not look the Tories in the face after such a ratting! NORTH. Why, no wonder than he hates the Tories. They never thought of him while he was with them-and now the Whigs do talk of Joe as if he were somebody. But as John Bull says "A very small man with the Tories Is a very great man 'mong the Whigs!" BULLER. If you were to rat, North, what a rumpus they would make about you! Why, they would lift you on their shoulders, and huzza till you were tired. NORTH. That would not be long. Away with stinking breath, say I. BULLER. At first they pretended to say you were dull. But that was soon over. Jeffrey persuaded them that would never pass, I am told. NORTH. I can believe it. Jeffrey is a king among the blind. BULLER. I suppose he hates you cordially, however. NORTH. No doubt, in a small toothy way: just as a rat hates a terrier. But what makes you always speak about him? I'm sure you don't mind such folks. BULLER. Not much; but, next to abusing one's friends, what, after all, is so pleasant as abusing one's enemies? NORTH. Try praising them, my friend: You will find that embitters them far more fiercely. There's an air of superiority about commendation which makes a man wince to his backbone. The Whigs can't endure to be lauded. BULLER. That's the reason you always lash them, I presume. NORTH. Me lash them! I would as soon get on horseback to spear a tailor. I just tickle their noses with the tip of my thong. Put me into a passion, and I'll shew you what lashing is. BULLER. I have no curiosity, Christopher. I'll take it all upon trust. When you cock your wig awry, you look as if you could eat a Turk. NORTH. I would rather eat any thing than a Whig. When you cut them up, 'tis all stuffing, and skin and gall. * See Letter to a Friend in the Country. London, Triphook. 1821. NORTH. Why, I believe there is but one animal who may, in a certain sense, commit all crimes with impunity, and its name is WHIG. To have been detected in the basest embezzlement of money would not hinder one of them from being talked of as the light of the age. I suppose the next thing will be to have some habit and repute thief or house-breaker proposing a reformation of the criminal code. A Whig is never cut by the Whigs. Fox and Tom Erskine stuck by Arthur O'Connor to the last, and swore that they believed him to have the same political principles as themselves. I suppose, in spite of his behaviour to Mackerrel, Brougham could get a certificate! Even Bennet is something with them still! BULLER. Not much. "Tis a fine thing to be Whig, however. How the Chaldee would have been praised had it been written against the Tories! NORTH. Why, the English Tories would have laughed at it, and the Scotch Tories would have joined trembling with their mirth-and Jamie Hogg would have been dinnered to his death, poor fellow. BULLER. I have a sort of lurking hereditary respect for the name of Whig. I can't bear its having come to designate such people. NORTH. What stuff is this? You might as well wax wroth because a cicerone is not the same thing with a Cicero, nor a bravo the same thing with a brave mun. BULLER. Why is it that the Whigs attack you so much more bitterly than they do Gifford? NORTH. Why, Mr Buller, the crow always darts first at THE EYE. BULLER. Their attacks on you are as zealous as their laudations of themselves. And as ineffectual. NORTH. "Talk and spare not for speech, end at last you will reach, And the proverb hold good, I opine, sirs, In spite of ablution, scent and perfume, pollution Show'd still that the sow was a swine, sirs." BULLER. What is that you are quoting now? NORTH. Aristophanes-Mitchell, I mean. I think the verses are in his version of The Wasps. BULLER. I have not seen his new volume yet. Is it as good as the first? NORTH. I don't know. The dissertations in the first volume were the most popular things in it, and there are no dissertations in this; but 'tis full of capital notes, and the translation is quite in the same spirited style. Nothing can be more true, I imagine. I am quite sure nothing can be more spirited or more graceful. BULLER. That's high praise from a Cynic like you, Mr Christopher. I suppose 'tis the first thing of the sort in our language, however. NORTH. Oh! most certainly it is so. None of the ancient dramatists have ever had any thing like justice done them before. There is so much poetry in some of the passages in this last volume, that I can't but wish Mitchell would take some of the tragedians in hand next. What a name might he not make, if he could master Æschylus as well as he has done Aristophanes? or perhaps some of Euripides' plays would fall more easily into his management. I wish he would try the Baccha or the Cyclops. BULLER. Spout a little piece more of him, if you can. NORTH. I will give you part of a passage that I consider nobody has so good a right to quote as myself; for I am the true representative of the Vetus Comedia "When the swell of private rage foam'd indignant, that The Stage Dared upbraid lawless love and affection, And will'd our poet's speech, (guilty pleasures not to reach) Did he heed the loud reproof? No-he wisely kept aloof, For never could he chuse, to behold his dearest Muse, BULLER. Why, this certainly looks as if it had been written since Rimini and Juan. Listen, man NORTH. "When first the scenic trade of instruction he essay'd, Monsters, not men, were his game, sirs; Strange Leviathans, that ask'd strength and mettle, and had task'd BULLER. The Shepherd of Chaldea may hold up his head now, I think. Hush NORTH. "In peril and alarms was his prenticeship of arms, With a SHARK fight and battle essaying, From whose eyes stream'd baleful light, like the blazing balls of sight Rude the portent, fierce and fell, did its sight the poet quell, No; his blows still fell unsparing that and next year, when came warring BULLER. No! Nobody can say that of you, Christopher. NORTH. There's another passage-a semi-chorus of Wasps, which I must give you. It seems as if I heard a certain" CLEVER OLD BODY" singing in the midst of all his disjecta membra. "O the days that are gone by, O the days so blithe and bland, When my foot was strong in dance, and the spear was in my hand; Mr Tickler! TICKLER. [Enter MR TICKLER. Ha! Buller, my dear boy-may you live a thousand years. BULLER. Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage. I trust Mrs Tickler is tolerably well-not complaining very much? TICKLER. No bantering, you dog-I might marry without losing any good fellowship, which is more than you can say, Mr Brazennose. Why the devil don't you all marry at Oxford? What could be more interesting than to see Christchurch Walk swarming with the wives, children, and nurses of senior fellows? BULLER. Spare us, Tickler, spare us. What are you about? Not a single article of yours has gladdened England for a twelvemonth. TICKLER. I am engaged on the Pope Controversy. My work will embrace three quarto volumes. I begin with pointing out the difference between nature and art, which has been often written about, but never understood. Do you know the difference? No!-confound me if I do. BULLER. TICKLER. Take an illustration. Mr Bowles walking to church in a suit of blackwith a gown, bands and shovel hat-is an artificial object, though he may not think so; and therefore, according to his own principles, an unfit theme for the highest species of poetical composition. So is Mr Bowles in his night-shirt and night-cap-but Mr Bowles going in to bathe in puris naturalibus, is artificial nomore-he is a natural-and, as such, a fit subject for the loftiest song. NORTH. Very well, Tickler-but I love and respect Bowles. TICKLER. Very well, North-but I love and respect Pope, And of all the abject and despicable drivelling, ever drivelled by Clerk or Layman, is all that late drivelling about the eternal principles of poetry, and the genius of the Bard of Twickenham. Why, there is more passion in that one single line of Eloisa to Abelard, "Give all thou canʼst, and let me dream the rest," than in all the verses Mr Bowles ever wrote in his life, or Mr Campbell either. BULLER. Wordsworth says Dryden's Ode is low, and vulgar, and stupid. TICKLER. Wordsworth is an ass-that is, as great an ass as Dryden. Pray, is his poem of Alice Fell worth a bad farthing? Only think of the author of the Lyrical Ballads sitting by himself in a post-chaise, driving like the very devil into Durham. No poet ought to have made such a confession. Besides, it is well known that it was a return-chaise, and I question if the post-boy "who drove in fierce career," (such are the Bard's absurd words) gave his master the coin, I shrewdly suspect he fobbed it. NORTH. Stop, Tickler-you are becoming personal. I discountenance all personalities, either here or elsewhere. TICKLER. I beg your and Mr Wordsworth's pardon. I mean no disrespect to that gentleman-but as long as my name is Tickler, he shall not abuse Dryden without getting abused himself. NORTH. Why, Tickler-many of the poets of our days are, with all their genius, a set of enormous Spoons. Wordsworth walks about the woods like a great satyr, or rather like the god Pan; and piping away upon his reed, sometimes -most infernally out of tune, he thinks he is listening, at the very least, to music equal to that of the spheres, and that nobody can blow a note but himself. BULLER. Ay, ay, Mr North-there is Satan reproving sin, as you presbyters are wont to say. Believe me, you have never yet done Southey justice in your work. He is a splendid genius. His mind has a high tone. Southey, sir, is one of the giants. TICKLER. Why, the Whigs, and Radicals, and Reformers, abuse Mr Southey, I observe, because, when an enthusiastic youth, soon after the French Revolution, he spoke and wrote a quantity of clever nonsense; and twenty years afterwards, when a wise man, he spoke and wrote a far greater quantity of saving knowledge. BULLER. Just so; you could not state the fact better, were you to talk an hour. TICKLER. Pray, North, are you for pulling down Lord Nelson's monument? 3 P NORTH. It is no great shakes of an erection; but I would let it stand. TICKLER. If Lord Nelson's monument is to be pulled down, because a better one might be built up, then I have a small proposal to make, namely, that the whole New Town of Edinburgh shall be pulled down. Does there exist in Europe in the world-a more absurd, stupid, and unmeaning street than George's Street? Why, this very tavern of Mr Ambrose, admirable as it is beyond all earthly taverns, ought on the same principle to be pulled down. But may I never live to see that time! Much affected.. BULLER. You will pardon me, my beloved and honoured friends, but do you not think that the "Modern Athens," as applied to the good town of Edinburgh, is pure humbug? TICKLER and NORTH rising from their chairs at once. BOTH. Humbug! aye humbug, indeed, Buller! BULLER. I wish to hear Mr Tickler. He is the elder. TICKLER. No, sir, I am no Elder. I never stood at the plate; but young as I am, I am old enough to recollect the day when such an impertinence would not have been tolerated in Auld Reekie. In the days of Sinith, and Hume, and Robertson, we were satisfied with our national name, and so were we during a later dynasty of genius, of which old Mackenzie still survives; but now-adays, when with the exception of Scott, yourself North, myself, and a few others, there is not a single man of power or genius in Edinburgh, the prigs call themselves Athenians! Why, you may just as appropriately call the first Parallellogram, that shall be erected on Mr Owen's plan, the Modern Athens, as the New Town of Edinburgh. Excellent, excellent, go on. BULLER. TICKLER. Where are our sculptors, painters, musicians, orators poets, and philosophers?-But give me my tumbler of gin-twist, for I ain sick.-(Drinks and recovers.) The ninnies have not even the sense to know that our Calton-hill is no more like the Acropolis, than Lord Buchan is like Pericles, or Jeffrey like Demosthenes. It is the Castle rock that is like the Acropolis, or may be said to be so; and if the Parthenon is to be built at all, it must be built on the Castle-rock. This is the first egregious blunder of our Modern Athenians. BULLER. Take another tift-now for blunder second. TICKLER. It is all one great, big, blown, blustering blunder together. We are Scotsmen, not Greeks. We want no Parthenon-we are entitled to none. There are not ten persons in Edinburgh—not one Whig I am sure, who could read three lines of Homer "ad aperturam libri." There are pretty Athenians for you! Think of shoals of Scotch artisans, with long lank greasy hair, and corduroy breeches, walking in the Parthenon! BULLER. Spare me, spare me-not a word more. TICKLER. Nay, we are to have the Kirk of Scotland in the naked simplicity of her worship, put under the tutelary power of the Virgin Goddess. Will the Scottish nation submit to this? NORTH. How fares the subscription for this Parthenon? TICKLER. One parish has subscribed, I understand, about nine guineas-Aberdour, I think. One old farmer there, has come forward with a sixpence for the Grand National Monument; but perhaps he has not yet advanced the sum: It is only on paper. - NORTH. It seems to me, that if the people of Scotland really desire a National Mo |
