i once had a dog that went mad,

and sorry i was that i got him;

it came to a run,

and a man with a gun

pepper’d me when he ought to have shot him.

[pg 193]

my profits have gone to the dogs,

my trade has been such a deceiver,

i fear that my aim

is a mere losing game,

unless i can find a retriever.

the kangaroos.

a fable.

a pair of married kangaroos

(the case is oft a human one too)

were greatly puzzled once to choose

a trade to put their eldest son to:

a little brisk and busy chap,

as all the little k.’s just then are—

about some two months off the lap,—

they’re not so long in arms as men are.

a twist in each parental muzzle

betray’d the hardship of the puzzle—

so much the flavour of life’s cup

is framed by early wrong or right,

and kangaroos we know are quite

dependent on their “rearing up.”

the question, with its ins and outs,

was intricate and full of doubts;

and yet they had no squeamish carings

for trades unfit or fit for gentry,

such notion never had an entry,

for they had no armorial bearings.

howbeit they’re not the last on earth

that might indulge in pride of birth;

[pg 194]

whoe’er has seen their infant young

bob in and out their mother’s pokes,

would own, with very ready tongue,

they are not born like common folks.

well, thus the serious subject stood,

it kept the old pair watchful nightly,

debating for young hopeful’s good,

that he might earn his livelihood,

and go through life (like them) uprightly.

arms would not do at all; no, marry,

in that line all his race miscarry;

and agriculture was not proper,

unless they meant the lad to tarry

for ever as a mere clod-hopper.

he was not well cut out for preaching,

at least in any striking style;

and as for being mercantile—

he was not form’d for over-reaching.

the law—why there still fate ill-starr’d him,

and plainly from the bar debarr’d him:

a doctor—who would ever fee him?

in music he could scarce engage,

and as for going on the stage

in tragic socks i think i see him!

he would not make a rigging-mounter;

a haberdasher had some merit,

but there the counter still ran counter,

for just suppose

a lady chose

to ask him for a yard of ferret!

a gardener digging up his beds,

the puzzled parents shook their heads.

[pg 195]

“a tailor would not do because—”

they paused and glanced upon his paws.

some parish post, though fate should place it

before him, how could he embrace it?

in short each anxious kangaroo

discuss’d the matter through and through;

by day they seem’d to get no nearer,

’twas posing quite—

and in the night

of course they saw their way no clearer!

at last thus musing on their knees—

or hinder elbows if you please—

it came—no thought was ever brighter!

in weighing every why and whether,

they jump’d upon it both together—

“let’s make the imp a short-hand writer!”

moral.

i wish all human parents so

would argue what their sons are fit for;

some would-be critics that i know

would be in trades they have more wit for.

literary reminiscences.

no. ii.

to do justice to the climate of “stout and original scotland,” it promised to act kindly by the constitution committed to its care. the air evidently agreed with the natives; and auld robin grays and john andersons were plenty as blackberries, and auld lang syne himself seemed to walk, bonneted, amongst

[pg 196]

these patriarchal figures in the likeness of an old man covered with a mantle. the effect on myself was rather curious—for i seemed to have come amongst a generation that scarcely belonged to my era; mature spinsters, waning bachelors, very motherly matrons, and experienced fathers, that i should have set down as uncles and aunts, called themselves my cousins; reverend personages, apparently grandfathers and grandmothers, were simply great uncles and aunts: and finally i enjoyed an interview with a relative oftener heard of traditionally, than encountered in the body—a great-great grandmother—still a tall woman and a tolerable pedestrian, going indeed down the hill, but with the wheel well locked. it was like coming amongst the struldbrugs; and truly, for any knowledge to the contrary, many of these old mortalities are still living, enjoying their sneeshing, their toddy, their cracks, and particular reminiscences. the very phrase of being “scotch’d, but not killed,” seems to refer to this caledonian tenacity of life, of which the well-known walking stewart was an example: he was an annuitant in the county-office, and as the actuaries would say, died very hard. it must be difficult for the teatotallers to reconcile this longevity with the imputed enormous consumption of ardent spirits beyond the tweed. scotia, according to the evidence of mr. buckingham’s committee, is an especially drouthie bodie, who drinks whiskey at christenings, and at buryings, and on all possible occasions besides. her sons drink not by the hour or by the day, but by the week,—witness souter johnny:—

“tam lo’ed him like a vera brither,

they had been fou for weeks thegither.”

swallowing no thin washy potation, but a strong overproof spirit, with a smack of smoke—and “where there is smoke there is fire,” yet without flashing off, according to temperance theories, by spontaneous combustion. on the contrary, the canny northerns are noted for soundness of constitution and clearness

[pg 197]

of head, with such a strong principle of vitality as to justify the poetical prediction of c***, that the world’s longest liver, or last man, will be a scotchman.

all these favourable signs i duly noted; and prophetically refrained from delivering the letter of introduction to doctor c——, which was to place me under his medical care. as the sick man said, when he went into the gin-shop instead of the hospital, i “trusted to natur.” whenever the weather permitted, therefore, which was generally when there were no new books to the fore, i haunted the banks and braes, or paid flying visits to the burns, with a rod intended to punish that rising generation amongst fishes called trout. but i whipped in vain. trout there were in plenty, but like obstinate double teeth, with a bad operator, they would neither be pulled out nor come out of themselves. still the sport, if so it might be called, had its own attractions, as, the catching excepted, the whole of the waltonish enjoyments were at my command, the contemplative quiet, the sweet wholesome country air, and the picturesque scenery—not to forget the relishing the homely repast at the shealing or the mill; sometimes i went alone, but often we were a company, and then we had for our attendant a journeyman tobacco-spinner, an original, and literary withal, for he had a reel in his head, whence ever and anon he unwound a line of allan ramsay, or beattie, or burns. methinks i still listen, trudging homewards in the gloaming, to the recitation of that appropriate stanza, beginning—

“at the close of the day when the hamlet was still,”

delivered with a gusto perhaps only to be felt by a day-labouring mechanic, who had “nothing but his evenings to himself.” methinks i still sympathise with the zest with which he dwelt on the pastoral images and dreams so rarely realised, when a chance holiday gave him the fresh-breathing fragrance of the

[pg 198]

living flower in lieu of the stale odour of the indian weed; and philosophically i can now understand why poetry, with its lofty aspirations and sublimed feelings, seemed to sound so gratefully to the ear from the lips of a “squire of low degree.” there is something painful and humiliating to humanity in the abjectness of mind, that too often accompanies the sordid condition of the working classes; whereas it is soothing and consolatory to find the mind of the poor man rising superior to his estate, and compensating by intellectual enjoyment for the physical pains and privation that belong to his humble lot. whatever raises him above the level of the ox in the garner, or the horse in the mill, ought to be acceptable to the pride, if not to the charity, of the fellow creature that calls him brother; for instance, music and dancing, but against which innocent unbendings some of our magistracy persist in setting their faces, as if resolved that a low neighbourhood should enjoy no dance but st. vitus’s, and no fiddle but the scotch.

to these open-air pursuits, sailing was afterwards added, bringing me acquainted with the boatmen and fishermen of the craig, a hardy race, rough and ready-witted, from whom perchance was first derived my partiality for all marine bipeds and sea-craft, from flag admirals down to jack junk, the proud first-rate to the humble boatie that “wins the bairns’ bread.” the tay at dundee is a broad noble river, with a racing tide, which, when it differs with a contrary wind, will get up “jars” (anglicè waves) quite equal to those of a family manufacture. it was at least a good preparatory school for learning the rudiments of boat craft; whereof i acquired enough to be able at need to take the helm without either going too near the wind or too distant from the port. not without some boyish pride i occasionally found myself intrusted with the guidance of the coach-boat—so called from its carrying the passengers by the edinburgh mail—particularly in a calm, when the utmost exertions

[pg 199]

of the crew, four old man-of-war’s-men, were required at the oars. it not unfrequently happened, however, that “the laddie” was unceremoniously ousted by the unanimous vote, and sometimes by the united strength, of the ladies, who invariably pitched upon the oldest old gentleman in the vessel to

“steer her up and haud her gaun.”

the consequence being the landing with all the baggage, some half-mile above or below the town—and a too late conviction, that the elder brethren of our trinity house were not the best pilots.

it was during one of these brief voyages, that i witnessed a serio-comic accident, at which the reader will smile or sigh according to his connexion with the corporation of london. i forget on what unconscious pilgrimage it was bound, but amongst the other passengers one day, there was that stock-dove of a gourmand’s affection, a five lively turtle. rich and rare as it was, it did not travel unprotected like moore’s heroine, but was under the care of a vigilant guardian, who seemed as jealous of the eyes that looked amorously at his charge, as if the latter had been a ward in chancery. so far—namely, as far as the middle of the tay—so good; when the spirit of mischief, or curiosity, or humanity, suggested the convenience of a sea-bath, and the refreshment the creature might derive from a taste of its native element. accordingly, testudo was lifted over the side, and indulged with a dip and a wallop in the wave, which actually revived it so powerfully, that from a playful flapping with its fore-fins it soon began to struggle most vigorously, like a giant refreshed with brine. in fact, it paddled with a power which, added to its weight, left no alternative to its guardian but to go with it, or without it. the event soon came off. the man tumbled backward into the boat, and the turtle plunged forward into the deep. there was a splash—a momentary glimpse of

[pg 200]

the broad back-shell—the waters closed, and all was over—or at least under! in vain one of the boatmen aimed a lunge with his boat-hook, at the fatal spot in particular—in vain another made a blow with his oar at the tay in general—whilst a third, in his confusion, heaved a coil of rope, as he would, could, should, might, or ought to have done to a drowning christian. the amphibious was beyond their reach, and no doubt, making westward and homeward with all its might, with an instinctive feeling that

“the world was all before it where to choose

its place of rest, and providence its guide.”

never shall i forget, whilst capable of reminiscences, the face of that mourning mate thus suddenly bereaved of his turtle! the unfortunate shepherd, ding-dog, in rabelais, could hardly have looked more utterly and unutterably dozed, crazed, mizmazed, and flabbergasted, when his whole flock and stock of golden-fleeced sheep suicidically sheepwashed themselves to death, by wilfully leaping over-board! he said little in words, but more eloquently clapped his hands to his waistcoat, as if the loss, as the nurses say, had literally “flown to his stomach.” and truly, after promising it both callipash and callipee, with the delicious green fat to boot, what cold comfort could well be colder than the miserable chilling reflection that there was

“cauld kail in aberdeen?”