Chapter 3

How many more have you, not absolutely lost, but to a certain extent abused, at breakfast--sip, sipping away at unnecessary cups of sirupy tea, or gob, gobbling away at jam-buttered rolls, for which nature never called--or "to party giving up what was meant for mankind"--forgetting the loss of Time in the Times, and, after a long, blank, brown, and blue study, leaving behind you a most miserable chronicle indeed! Then think--O think--on all your aimless forenoon saunterings--round and round about the premises--up and down the avenue--then into the garden on tiptoe--in and out among the neat squares of onion-beds--now humming a tune by the brink of abysses of mould, like trenches dug for the slain in the field of battle, where the tender celery is laid--now down to the river-side to try a little angling, though you well know there is nothing to be had but Pars--now into a field of turnips, without your double-barreled Joe Manton, (at Mr. Wilkinson's to be repaired,) to see Ponto point a place where once a partridge had pruned himself--now home again, at the waving of John's red sleeve, to receive a coach-full of country cousins, come in the capacity of forenoon callers--endless talkers all--sharp and blunt noses alike--and grinning voraciously in hopes of a lunch--now away to dress for dinner, which will not be for two long, long hours to come--now dozing, or daized on the drawing-room sofa, wondering if the bell is ever to be rung--now grimly gazing on a bit of bloody beef which your impatience has forced the blaspheming cook to draw from the spit ere the outer folds of fat were well melted at the fire--now, after a disappointed dinner, discovering that the old port is corked, and the filberts all pluffing with bitter snuff, except such as enclose a worm--now an unwholesome sleep of interrupted snores, your bobbing head ever and anon smiting your breast-bone--now burnt-beans palmed off on the family for Turkish coffee--now a game at cards, with a dead partner, and the ace of spades missing--now no supper--you have no appetite for supper--and now into bed tumbles the son of Genius, complaining to the moon of the shortness of human life, and the fleetness of time!

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

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SLEEPING AFTER DINNER.

Mr. Fox at St. Ann's Hill was, for the last years of his life, in the habit (never interfered with by his friends) of dosing for a few minutes after dinner; and it was on this occasion, unconsciously yielding to the influence of custom, I perceived that Mr. Garrow, who was the chief talker (Parr was in his smoking orgasm,) began to feel embarrassed at Mr. Fox's non-attention; and I, therefore, made signs to Mr. Fox, by wiping my fingers to my eyes, and looking expressively at Garrow. Mr. Fox, the most _truly_ polite man in the world, immediately endeavoured to rouse himself--but in vain; Nature would have her way. Garrow soon saw the struggle, and adroitly feigned sleep himself. Mr. Fox was regenerated in ten minutes--apologized--and made the evening delightful--_Senatorial Reminiscenses_.--_The Inspector_.

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THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

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CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE.

_The Two Drovers._

(_Concluded from page 289._)

[Our readers must have missed, and probably with some regret, the conclusion of the above story, as promised for insertion in our last Number; and unaccustomed as we are to an intentional discrepancy of this sort, (for such was the above,) we shall consider ourselves justified in briefly stating some of the circumstances which led to the irregularity. We are not disposed to enter into the tilts of rival journalists, some of whom, in taking time by the forelock, may have perhaps been rather more enterprising than the subject warranted.[17] Nevertheless, in the attempt to please the public, as in other races, the youngest are often the fleetest. In the present case, the appetite of the public had been _whetted_ with "reiterated advertisement:" and one of our contemporaries, with more playfulness than truth, had compared his priority to that of _Fine-ear_ in the fairy tale. But his talisman failed, and a young rival outstripped him; and from this quarter we were induced to copy the first portion of the tale of _The Two Drovers_, upon the editor's assurance of his own honesty in obtaining the precedence, and which assurance We are still unwilling to question: although, were we to do so, ours would not he a solitary specimen of such ingratitude.[18] On the day of our publishing the first portion, we received a notice to desist from its continuance,--full of the causticity of our friends on the other side of the Tweed, and with whom, for the credit of the south, we hope the measure originated. We next resolved to suspend the conclusion; since the _brutum fulmen_ became louder and louder still, in an advertisement actively inserted in the London newspapers. To make short of what is and ought to be but a trifling affair, we have _abridged_ the whole story, and accordingly now present the conclusion to our readers, though certainly not in the promised state; how far we have exculpated ourselves, is for our patrons to determine.--A few words at parting, on the policy of the above conduct. We need not enlarge upon the advantages which publishers (and, to some extent, authors) derive from portions of their works appearing in periodical journals. The benefit is not reciprocal, but largely on their side, if they consider how many columns of advertisement duty they thereby avoid. It is well known that the _first edition_ of any work by such a master-spirit as Sir Walter Scott is consumed in a few days by the circulating libraries and reading societies of the kingdom; but how many thousands would neither have seen nor heard of his most successful works, had not the _gusto_ been previously created by the caducei of these literary Mercuries. Again, sift any one of them, with higher pretensions to originality than our economical sheet will admit of, and you shall find it, in _quantity_, at least, to resemble Gratiano's three grains. But we are not inclined to quarrel with the scheme, for with Johnson we say, "Quotation, sir (Walter), is a good thing," in the hope of hearing our readers reply, "This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas."--ED.]

Some words passed after the departure, of Robin Oig, between the bailiff, and Harry Wakefield, who was now not indisposed to defend Robin Oig's reputation. But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel by her peremptory interference. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the prices from different parts of Scotland and England, and Harry Wakefield found a chap for a part of his drove, and at a considerable profit; an event more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the past scuffle. But there remained one from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped by possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.

This was Robin Oig M'Combich.--"That I should have had no weapon," he said, "and for the first time in my life!--Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk--the dirk--ha! the English blood!--My muhme's word--when did her word fall to the ground?"

Robin now turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which, by Mr. Ireby's report, Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury the treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion--of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage which he belonged to--nothing was left to him--but revenge.

When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt him and Morrison, whose advance was limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle. And now the distant lowing of Morrison's cattle is heard; and now he meets them--passes them, and stops their conductor.

"May good betide us," said the South-lander--"Is this you, Robin M'Combich, or your wraith?"

"It is Robin Oig M'Combich," answered the Highlander, "and it is not.--But never mind that, give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will be words petween us."

"There it is for you then, since less wunna serve."

"Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig again either at tryste or fair."

So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in the direction from which he had advanced.

Long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken place. It was two hours after the affray when Robin Oig returned to Heskett's inn. There was Harry Wakefield, who amidst a grinning group of smockfrocks, hob-nailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was trolling forth an old ditty, when he was interrupted by a high and stern voice, saying "Harry Waakfelt--if you be a man, stand up!"

"Harry Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if you be a man!"

"I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness.

"'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight more than a school-girl."

"I _can_ fight," answered Robin Oig, sternly, but calmly, "and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight--I show you now how the Highland Dunniewassal fights."

He then plunged the dagger, which he suddenly displayed, into the broad breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal certainty and force, that the hilt made a hollow sound against the breast bone, and the double-edged point split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield fell, and expired with a single groan.

Robin next offered the bloody poniard to the bailiff's throat.

"It were very just to lay you beside him," he said, "but the blood of a base pick-thank shall never mix on my father's dirk, with that of a brave man."

As he spoke, he threw the fatal weapon into the blazing turf-fire.

"There," he said, "take me who likes--and let fire cleanse blood if it can."

The pause still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a constable having stepped out, he surrendered himself.

"A bloody night's work you have made of it," said the constable.

"Your own fault," said the Highlander. "Had you kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would have been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes since."

"It must be sorely answered," said the peace-officer.

"Never you mind that--death pays all debts; it will pay that too."

The constable, with assistance, procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle, to abide his doom at the next assizes. While the escort was preparing, the prisoner, before he was carried from the fatal apartment, desired to look at the dead body, which had been deposited upon the large table, (at the head of which Harry Wakefield had just presided) until the surgeons should examine the wound. The face of the corpse was decently covered with a napkin. Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed on the lifeless visage. While those present expected that the wound, which had so lately flooded the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig replaced the covering, with the brief exclamation, "He was a pretty man!"

My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate Highlander stood his trial at Carlisle. I was myself present. The facts of the case were proved in the manner I have related them; and whatever might be at first the prejudice of the audience against a crime so un-English as that of assassination from revenge, yet when the national prejudices of the prisoner had been explained, which made him consider himself as stained with indelible dishonour, the generosity of the English audience was inclined to regard his crime as the aberration of a false idea of honour, rather than as flowing from a heart naturally savage, or habitually vicious. I shall never forget the charge of the venerable judge to the jury.

"We have had," he said, "in the previous part of our duty, (alluding to some former trials,) to discuss crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they call down the well-merited vengeance of the law. It is now our still more melancholy duty to apply its salutary, though severe enactments to a case of a very singular character, in which the crime (for a crime it is, and a deep one) arose less out of the malevolence of the heart, than the error of the understanding--less from any idea of committing wrong, than from an unhappily perverted notion of that which is right. Here we have two men, highly esteemed, it has been stated, in their rank of life, and attached, it seems, to each other as friends, one of whose lives has been already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is about to prove the vengeance of the offended laws; and yet both may claim our commiseration at least, as men acting in ignorance of each other's national prejudices, and unhappily misguided rather than voluntarily erring from the path of right conduct.

"In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we must in justice give the right to the prisoner at the bar. He had acquired possession of the enclosure, by a legal contract with the proprietor, and yet, when accosted with galling reproaches he offered to yield up half his acquisition, and his amicable proposal was rejected with scorn. Then follows the scene at Mr. Heskett the publican's, and you will observe how the stranger was treated by the deceased, and I am sorry to observe, by those around, who seem to have urged him in a manner which was aggravating in the highest degree.

"Gentlemen of the jury, it was with some impatience that I heard my learned brother, who opened the case for the crown, give an unfavourable turn to the prisoner's conduct on this occasion. He said the prisoner was afraid to encounter his antagonist in fair fight, or to submit to the laws of the ring; and that therefore, like a cowardly Italian, he had recourse to his fatal stiletto, to murder the man whom he dared not meet in manly encounter. I observed the prisoner shrink from this part of the accusation with the abhorrence natural to a brave man; and as I would wish to make my words impressive, when I point his real crime, I must secure his opinion of my impartiality, by rebutting every thing that seems to me a false accusation. There can be no doubt that the prisoner is a man of resolution--too much resolution; I wish to heaven that he had less, or rather that he had had a better education to regulate it.

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"But, gentlemen of the jury, the pinch of the case lies in the interval of two hours betwixt the injury and the fatal retaliation. In the heat of affray and _chaude melée_, law, compassionating the infirmities of humanity, makes allowance for the passions which rule such a stormy moment--But the time necessary to walk twelve miles, however speedily performed, was an interval sufficient for the prisoner to have recollected himself; and the violence and deliberate determination with which he carried his purpose into effect, could neither be induced by anger, nor fear. It was the purpose and the act of pre-determined revenge, for which law neither can, will, nor ought to have sympathy.

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"The law says to the subjects, with a voice only inferior to that of the Deity, 'Vengeance is mine.' The instant that there is time for passion to cool, and reason to interpose, an injured party must become aware, that the law assumes the exclusive cognizance of the right and wrong betwixt the parties, and opposes her inviolable buckler to every attempt of the private party to right himself. I repeat, that this unhappy man ought personally to be the object rather of our pity than our abhorrence, for he failed in his ignorance, and from mistaken notions of honour. But his crime is not the less that of murder, gentlemen, and, in your high and important office, it is your duty so to find. Englishmen have their angry passions as well as Scots; and should this man's action remain unpunished, you may unsheath, under various pretences, a thousand daggers betwixt the Land's-end and the Orkneys."

The venerable judge thus ended what, to judge by his emotion and tears, was really a painful task. The jury, accordingly brought in a verdict of guilty; and Robin Oig M'Combich, _alias_ M'Gregor, was sentenced to death, and executed accordingly. He met his fate with firmness, and acknowledged the justice of his sentence. But he repelled indignantly the observations of those who accused him of attacking an unarmed man. "I give a life for the life I took," he said, "and what can I do more?"

[17] _We_ remember the proverb, "Honour among thieves."

[18] But we cannot so far forget our country as to be indifferent to them.--See a passage in the _Two Drovers_.

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A PERSIAN FABLE.

A little particle of rain, That from a passing cloud descended, Was heard thus idly to complain:-- "My brief existence now is ended. Outcast alike of earth and sky, Useless to live, unknown to die."

It chanced to fall into the sea, And there an open shell received it; And, after years, how rich was he, Who from its prison-house relieved it: The drop of rain has formed a gem, To deck a monarch's diadem.

_Amulet_.

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THE GATHERER.

"I am but a _Gatherer_ and disposer of other men's stuff."--_Wotton_.

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NEW READING.

A witty wight, on seeing the following line in our last,

_Necessitas non habet_ leg_em_,

supplied this new reading,

Necessity without a _leg_ to stand upon.

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O. P. RIOTS.

"What is doing to-night?" asked Kemble, of one of the ballet-masters; "Oh pis (O P) toujours, Monsieur," was the reply.

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A CURIOUS FACT.

An absent man, whose heart can seldom resist the importunities of beggars, was, a few mornings since, followed by a hungry half-starved dog, when he inadvertently took from his pocket a penny, which he was just about to give to the four-footed wanderer, when he perceived his mistake. It should be mentioned that the above individual had, on nearly the precise spot, on the previous night, assisted one of his fellow creatures in the same manner as that in which he was about to relieve the quadruped. The EDITOR of the MIRROR will be happy to substantiate this fact to such as may be disposed to doubt its authenticity:--"if it be madness, there's method in it."

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SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

Seventeen hundred individuals a year, for the last seven years, have been committed for poaching.--_Report Prison Discip. Society_.

Crime is a curse only to the period in which it is successful; but virtue, whether fortunate or otherwise, blesses not only its own age, but remotest posterity, and is as beneficial by its example, as by its immediate effects.

At the late Doncaster races, there were 30,000 persons well clothed, and apparently well fed and happy. 2000l. were taken at the grand stand for admission.

Mr. Kean is to receive, during the present season, _fifty pounds_ for each night's performance--the yearly income of a curate!

Singing _Non Nobis Domine_ after dinner is a very foolish custom. People in England pay 10,000l. a year for _non nobis_. Rather sing Dr. Kitchener's Universal Prayer and the English grace. The common people of every country understand only their native tongue; therefore if you do not understand them, you will not understand each other. All Italian music is detestable, and nothing like our genuine native song. Weber's "unconcatenated chords" ought not to be listened to, while we have such composers as Braham and Tom Cooke. The _national songs of Great Britain_ have not sold so well as the _Cook's Oracle_. "People like what goes into the mouth better than what comes out of it."--_Dr. Kitchener_.

A museum, deanery, and a cattle-market are building at York. Various other improvements and repairs are also in progress in that city!

According to the Report of the Commissioners of Public Charities, the _annual_ sum of 972,396l. has been bequeathed by pious donors to _England only_! This is surely the promised land of benevolence; but in Salop only, there are arrears now due to the poor for upwards of 42 years!

M. La Combe, in his _Picture of London_, advises those who do not wish to be robbed to carry a brace of blunderbusses, and to put the muzzle of one out of each window, so as to be seen by the robbers.

The silly habit of praising every thing at a man's table came in for a share of the late Dr. Kitchener's severity. He said, "Criticism, sir, is not a pastime; it is a verdict on oath: the man who does it is (morally) sworn to perform his duty. There is but one character on earth, sir," he would add, "that I detest; and that is the man who praises, indiscriminately, every dish that is set before him. Once I find a fellow do that at my table, and, if he were my brother, I never ask him to dinner again."

A _daily_ literary journal has lately been started in Paris, and has, in less than three weeks, above 2,000 subscribers.

_Reviewing_, as a profession by which a certain class of men seek to instruct the public, and to support themselves creditably in the middle order, and to keep their children from falling, after the decease of enlightened parents, on the parish, is at the lowest possible ebb in this country; and many is the once well-fed critic now an hungered--_Blackwood_.

_Oranges_.--It is not perhaps generally known or suspected, that the rabbis of the London synagogues are in the habit of affording both employment and maintenance to the poor of their own persuasion, by supplying them with oranges at an almost nominal price.--Ibid.

_Noble Authors_.--The poor spinsters of the Minerva press can scarcely support life by their labours, so completely are they driven out of the market by the Lady Charlottes and the Lady Bettys; and a rhyming peer is as common as a Birmingham button. It would take ten Horace Walpoles at least to do justice to the living authors of the red book.

_Buying Books_.--Money is universally allowed to be the thing which all men love best; and if a man buys a book, we may safely infer he thinks well of it. What nobody buys, then, we may justly conclude is not worth reading.

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_On the Duchess of Devonshire's canvassing for Mr. Fox at the Westminster Election._

Array'd in matchless beauty, Devon's fair In Fox's favour takes a zealous part; But, oh! where'er the pilferer comes beware, She supplicates a vote, and steals a heart.

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_Lines sent by a Surgeon, with a box of ointment, to a Lady who had an inflamed eye._

The doctor's kindest wishes e'er attend His beauteous patient, may he hope his friend; And prays that no corrosive disappointment May mar the lenient virtues of his ointment; Of which, a bit not larger than a shot, Or that more murd'rous thing, "a beauty spot," Warmed on the finger by the taper's ray, Smear o'er the eye affected twice a day. Proffer not gold--I swear by my degree, From beauty's lily hand to take no fee; No glittering trash be mine, I scorn such pelf, The eye, when cured, will pay the debt itself.

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