The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 275, September 29, 1827

"Got tamn ye, ye auld scounrel," said the man; "do ye mean to tak my money frae me?" And he lifted up a rung big eneuch to fell a stot, and let flee at the monkey; but Nosey was ower quick for him, and jumping aside, he lichted on a shelf before ane could say Jock Robinson. Here he rowed up the note like a baw in his hand, and put it into his coat pouch like any rational cratur. Not only this, but he mockit the Heelandman by a' manner of means, shooting out his tongue at him, spitting at him, and girning at him wi' his queer outlandish physiognomy. Then he would tak haud of his tail in his twa hands, and wag it at Donald, and steeking his nieves, he would seem to threaten him wi' a leatherin'. A'thegither he was desperate impudent, and eneuch to try the patience of a saunt, no to spak o' a het-bluided Heelandman. It was gude for sair een to see how Donald behavit on this occasion. He raged like ane demented, misca'ing the monkey beyond measure, and swearing as mony Gaelic aiths as micht hae sair'd an ordinar man for a twalmonth. During this time, I never sterr'd a foot, but keepit keeking frae the back shop upon a' that was ganging on. I was highly delighted; and jealousing that Nosey was ower supple to be easily catched, I had nae apprehension for the event, and remained snug in my birth to see the upshot.

In a short time, in comes Mr. Weft wi' a piece of lowing paper in his hand that he had got frae the next door to licht the shop; and nae sooner did Donald see him than he ax'd him for his note.

"What note, honest man?" said Mr. Weft.

"Got tamn," quo' Donald; "the note the auld scounrel, your grandfather, stole frae me."

"My grandfaither!" answered the ither wi' amazement. "I am thinking, honest man, ye hae had a glass ower muckle. My grandfaither has been dead for saxteen years, and I ne'er heard tell till now that he was a fief."

"Weel, weel, then," quo' the Heelandman, "I don't care naething about it. If he's no your grandfaither, he'll be your faither, or your brither, or your cousin."

"My faither or my brither, or my cousin!" repeated Mr. Weft. "I maun tell ye plainly, frien', that I hae neither faither, nor brither, nor cousin of ony description on this side of the grave. I dinna understand ye, honest man, but I reckon that ye hae sat ower lang at the whisky, and my advice to ye is to stap awa hame and sleep it aff."

At this speech the Heelandman lost a' patience, and lookit sae awfully fairce, that ance or twice I was on the nick of coming forrit, and explaining how matters really stood; but curiosity keepit me chained to the back shop, and I just thocht I would bide a wee, and see how the affair was like to end.

"Pray, wha are you, sir?" said Donald, putting his hands in his sides, and looking through his specks upon Mr. Weft, like a deevil incarnit. "Wha are you, sir, that daar to speak to me in this manner?"

"Wha am I?" said the ither, drapping the remnant of the paper, which was burnin' close to his fingers. "I am Saunders Weft, manufacturir In Hamilton—that's what I am."

"And I am Tonald Campbell, piper's sister's son to his grace the great, grand Tuke of Argyle," thundered out the Heelandman, wi' a voice that was fearsome to hear.

"And what about that?" quo' Mr. Weft, rather snappishly, as I thocht. "If ye were the great, grand Duke of Argyle himself, as ye ca' him, I'll no permit you to kick up a dust in my shop."

"Ye scounrel," said Donald, seizing Mr. Weft by the throat, and shaking him till he tottered like an aspen leaf, "div ye mean to speak ill of his grace the Tuke of Argyle?" And he gi'ed him anither shake—then, laying haud of his nose, he swore that he would pu't as lang as a cow's tail, if he didna that instant restore him his lost property. At this sicht I began to grew a' ower, and now saw the needcessity of stapping ben, and saving my employer frae farther damage, bodily and itherwise. Nae sooner had I made my appearance than Donald let go his grip of Mr. Weft's nose, and the latter, in a great passion, cried out, "William M'Gee, I tak ye to witness what I hae sufferit frae this bluid-thirsty Heelandman! It's no to be endured in a Christian country. I'll hae the law of him, that I will. I'll be whuppit but I'll hae amends, although it costs me twenty pounds!"

"What's the matter?" quo' I, pretending ignorance of the haill concern. "What, in the name of Nebuchadnezzar, has set ye thegither by the lugs?" Then Mr. Weft began his tale, how he had been collared and weel nigh thrappled in his ain shop;—then the ither tauld how, in the first place, Mr. Weft's grandfather, as he ca'd Nosey, had stolen his note, and how, in the second place, Mr. Weft himsell had insulted the great, grand Duke of Argyle. In a word, there was a desperate kick-up between them, the ane threeping that he would tak the law of the ither immediately. Na, in this respect Donald gaed the greatest lengths, for he swore that, rather than be defeat, he wad carry his cause to the house of lords, although it cost him thretty pounds sterling. I now saw it was time to put in a word.

"Houts-touts, gentlemen," quo' I, "what's the use of a' this clishmaclaver? Ye've baith gotten the wrang sow by the lug, or my name's no William M'Gee. I'll wager ye a pennypiece, that my monkey, Nosey is at the bottom of the business."

Nae sooner had I spoken the word, than the twa, looking round the shop, spied the beastie sitting upon the shelf girning at them, and putting out his tongue, and wiggle-waggling his walking-stick ower his left elbow, as if he had been playing upon the fiddle. Mr. Weft at this apparition set up a loud lauch; his passion left him in a moment, when he saw the ridiculous mistake that the Heelandman had fa'en into, and I thocht he would hae bursted his sides wi' evendown merriment. At first Donald lookit desperate angry, and judging frae the way he was twisting about his mouth and rowing his een, I opined that he intended some deadly skaith to the monkey. But his gude sense, of which Heelandmen are no a'thegither destitute, got the better of his anger, and he roared and lauched like the very mischief. Nor was this a', for nae sooner had he began to lauch, than the monkey did the same thing, and held its sides in precisely the same manner, imitating his actions, in the maist amusin' way imaginable. This only set Donald a lauching mair than ever, and when he lifted up his nieve, and shook it at Nosey in a gude humoured way, what think ye that the cratur did? Odds man, he took the note frae his pouch, whare it lay rowed up like a baw, and, papping it at Donald, hit him as fairly upon the nose, as if it had been shot out of a weel-aimed musket. There was nae resisting this. The haill three, or rather the haill four, for Nosey joined us, set up a loud lauch; and the Heelandman's was the loudest of a', showing that he was really a man of sense, and could tak a joke as weel as his neighbours.

When the lauchin' had a wee subsided, Mr. Campbell, in order to show that he had nae ill wull to Mr. Weft, ax'd his pardon for the rough way he had treated him, but the worthy manufacturer wadna hear o't. "Houts, man," quo' he, "dinna say a word about it. It's a mistak a'thegether, and Solomon himsell, ye ken, whiles gaed wrang." Whereupon the Heelandman bought a Kilmarnock nichtcap, price elevenpence happeny, frae Mr. Weft, and paid him wi' part of the very note that brocht on the ferly I hae just been relating. But his gude wull didna end here, for he insisted on takin' us a'—Nosey amang the lave—to the nearest public, where he gi'ed us a frien'ly glass, and we keepit tawking about monkeys, and what not, in a manner at ance edifying and amusing to hear.—Blackwood's Magazine.

SCOTCH SONG

The lassie we love and the friend we can trust,
And a bumper to wash from our spirits the rust;
Then let gear-scraping carls make o' life catch-the-plack,
And strod to the de'il wi' the trash on their back.

This life is a garden where all choose their posies:
In the spring of our youth let us gather the roses;
For brief is their bloom like the dews of the morn,
If you seek them too late you will find but a thorn.

If Care steal amang us he's narrowly watch'd,
By a smile or a squeeze of the hand he's dispatch'd;
Or the arm of a friend should the stout villain meet,
One blink of true love lays him dead at your feet.

Then fill up a glass to the absent and dear—
May their lives be serene as their breasts are sincere;
And to crown our true bliss, let us give, ere we part—
May we have in our arms whom we love in our heart.

London Weekly Review.

THE SKETCH-BOOK

No. XLVII

MATCHES IN TEENS

"To marry!—Why, every man plays the fool once in his life—but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long."—CONGREVE.

There is something so satisfactory in knowing at once the limit of your fortunes—in making yourself secure in the first instance of that happiness to which all your exertions are directed,—which is in fact the end and aim of your worldly existence, and of all your worldly toils—the enjoyment of domestic peace and love;—in quenching that restless, burning anxiety, which is ever busy within the bosom of the young and the aspiring. Marrying early, in fact, is taking time by the forelock, and leading your future destinies after you, instead of suffering yourself to be led and tossed about by them,—it is tearing away the black veil from the brow of futurity, and perusing all her lineaments in her own despite. It is [he continued with an oratorical attitude] building your fate upon a rock—"

"Ah!" I exclaimed, "stop there—that rock is so commonplace."

Harry laughed and went on with his argument.—"Besides, there is the gratification of making yourself considered in society—which no single man is. A single man is a kind of protected or licensed vagabond—rambling to and fro without stamp or mark, as Witwould might say,—like a sheep that has been overlooked at tarring time. His home is a desert to him,—and the love of social converse, which is so natural, and so amiable at the same time keeps him eternally in a state of fidgetty restlessness, which precludes all possibility of serious and persevering labour. Only think of the horrors of a house without a queen—Yawning servants, negligent housekeepers, extorting tradespeople,—these and a thousand other annoyances, for which you have no relief, because you cannot stoop to meddle or make in such transactions—are the agitations which perpetually infest the domestic commonwealth of a bachelor.—But turn your eyes into the house of 'Benedick, the married man'—He wears his rue with a difference, indeed!—There is a sense of life, bustle, mirth, and happiness, in the very air of the dwelling. To be greeted with smiles at your going forth and coming in—to know that there is at least one who serves you without a self-interest—to hear the joyous, feminine laugh, delicate and temperate in the very whirlwind of its ecstacy, ring through the mansion from hour to hour—to hear the little foot pattering about you as you sit at your philosophic studies—to have a friend with whom you can converse freely and without fear of present offence or future disadvantage—and whose presence is not without its influence and its charm, even when the call of a worldly ambition summons you to—

"–Pursue
Your tasks, in social silence too,"

with just sense enough to understand all you can say to her—and nothing so wise as to mortify you at any time by setting you right. Then, instead of the natty primness of your bachelor's apartment, you have your eyes feasted by that elegant confusion of the little sanctuary—the charm of which cannot, unseen, be apprehended, and is only known to those who are privileged to enter, by the passport of Hymen. A bit of bobbin here—a thread-paper there—here a hat feather—there a scrap of silk.—Besides," [drawing his chair closer to mine and looking very tender] "when you love her, you know—." He paused and sighed, and I groaned strenuously.—

"And is this all you have to say in defence of an elopement with a girl of sixteen." ["A beautiful girl," he passionately interrupted] "well! a beautiful girl—so young, that it is perfectly impossible for you to form any judgment on her inclinations or her temper—at a time when her character is undecided—unformed—when that which is mere caprice, frequently assumes the hue of passion, and wears all its fervour and intensity. Or if it should continue unabated—as I must confess [observing him turn himself with an air before a pier glass,] I see no reason why it should not—you will find the unsophistication of the young lady as quickly tending to domestic disquiet, as might have been her inconstancy—She will be unreasonable in her exactions on your confidence, and you will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness—perhaps rudeness;—and then what becomes of that blissful state, where like you, every body expects, and so very—very few find happiness?—to secure which the most perfect union of taste and feeling—the utmost kindliness of manner, and a politeness as habitual as motion itself, are absolute requisites?—Have you no further arguments to offer in favour of this measure of yours?—"

"Oh, yes," said he, very dryly, "I have one more."

"What may that be?"

"That I WILL marry her."

"Oh!…" said I.

And without exchanging another word, I put on my great coat, and we sallied forth together to the rendezvous of the lovers. The fair fugitive was true to her appointment, and at the first sound of the expected footfall, glided from her concealment into the happy scoundrel's arms. The action which followed I could not see (though it was a bright moonlight,) for a breeze lifted the large veil which hung over the lady's shoulder, in such a manner as to envelope the countenances of both. What the action ought to have been, perhaps you, madam, or you, mademoiselle, may inform me?—I only know that when the modest zephyr passed, and the veil fell back again, the fair cheek that it revealed glowed with

"A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't,
Might well have warm'd old Saturn."

Harry gave me his hand (heartily) as he stood on the carriage step, and the bride wafted me a farewell with the prettiest action of her fan from the window, and murmured,—"Give me a good wish for the tobacconist."

"Yes," said I; "may you never have occasion to say of the love that now leads you to him, that

"'Its beacon light is quench'd in smoke.'"

[For although naturally grave, and silently given, I often catch myself endeavouring to sport a bad pun, when I have got the ear of a fair damsel] The only effect which the witticism produced in the present instance, however, was an enormous groan, in which the fellows on the dickey participated. Even the postilion who stood near, set up a crowing laugh—and the very horses by their snorting and neighing, seemed to be sensible of the utter and deplorable failure.