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MR EDITOR,

THE HARUM-SCARUM CLUB.

No. V.

We trifle all, and he who best deserves

Is but a trifler. What art thou, whose eye Follows my pen? Or what am I that write? Both triflers. "Tis a trifling world!

SOME years ago I was at a pennywedding, (now a novelty in our quarter of the country,) when the mirth and harmony of the company was interrupted by a nondescript young man, being a kind of cross-breed be tween the beau and the bully. He was known in the village, and indeed over the parish, by the nickname of Cobbett, from the loudness and frequency with which he sounded the praises of that versatile and unprincipled demagogue. At the nuptial festivity to which I have alluded, he became officiously troublesome to the rustic maidens, and swaggeringly impertinent with their admirers. A knot of young fellows in the opposite end of the rural ball-room, provoked by his impudence, said aloud, it was a pity nobody would turn that blustering fool Cobbett out of doors. The sound of the well-known appellation caught his ear, and strutting up to the party in a threatening attitude, he, in the style of Ancient Pistol, demanded who had had the insolence to call him Cobbett? shew him the man who would dare to pronounce such a word in his hearing, and he would dash every tooth in the lubber's head down his throat! The young man who had uttered the offensive appellation, veering round in the crowd, came behind this Bobadil, and slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, cried, "What is the matter? Who has offended you, Cobbett?" With clenched fist, and extended arm, the bully turned fiercely round; but seeing his antagonist, endeavour ed to clothe his face in a smile, and in an easy tone replied, "Oh! is this you, Charlie ?-I'll no hinder you to ca' me Cobbett; but d these riff-raff if they dare offer to tak' sic freedoms."

-n

Now, Mr Editor, to apply my story; my feelings were much of a kin with Cobbett's, when I read my

VOL. XIV.

own

Hurdis.

"eventful history" in the Fourth Number of the HarumScarum Club, inserted in your Miscellany, till I turned over and saw the name of my good friend Democritus as the author, when I again felt like Cobbett; whether my motives were the same, it is not my province to say. Even after the discovery, I felt half inclined to be angry; but prudence suggested to put a good face on the matter, and join in the laugh against myself. The paper might be actionable, for it has been decided that truth is a libel; but I should be ashamed to prosecute, when conscious that the whole is true. Besides, I have no inclination to quarrel with my friends; but as one good turn deserves another, I shall consider myself indebted to the Dominie, till his folly, or my good fortune, enables me to repay him in his

own coin.

In the mean time, I have the pleasure of informing you, that the impending storm which hovered above my head has begun to dissipate. The independence which I have displayed, and the threats which I held out in Number Third, have had their desired effect. The respectable lady there mentioned has since honoured me so far as to write me a card, requesting me to favour her with a loan of Moore's Loves of the Angels; and you know, Mr Editor, no woman of character will stoop to solicit a favour from a man whom she despises. I have also had the pleasure of drinking tea with more than one of the coterie, and been agreeably entertained with some of their literary criticisms, which displayed more acumen than I expected. The Provost has likewise hinted to a friend, that he conceives himself honoured by the insertion of his very ingenious illustration and solution of the philosophical question, which had N n

uz

zled almost every head in the Town Council. I have recently had occasion to appear before him in my official capacity, when he was on the bench, and have observed that he listened to my pleadings with more respectful attention; and if he has occasion to address me, it is with greater complacency of manner than formerly.

All this, Mr Editor, may appear egotism and sheer vanity; but to both of these foibles I am as much a stranger as the Preacher in the Caledonian Chapel, Hatton Garden; and, like him, I write pro bono publico. I therefore advise every man, who either expects to rise, or wishes to maintain his place in society, like me, to shew himself prepared to resist and resent every attack, from whatever quarter; and always to bear in mind our national badge and motto, Nemo me impune lacesset; and shall conclude my advice, with commending to your readers the following couplet, which I have somewhere seen:

This world's a stage, and they who act

thereon

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I now annex copies of the seypieces produced by the new members mentioned in the communication by Democritus. The first I have to record is the production of a young man on whom Nature has bestowed talents, but whose niggard fortune has denied means and opportunity for their cultivation. He is at present a working mechanic, and literature is only the amusement of those leisure hours which are often spent in pleasures less rational, and more expensive. Modest and unassuming, the muse is

His shame in crowds, his solitary pride.

He prefaced his recitation with the following remarks: "For the tradition of the tale which I am about to rehearse, I have been recently indebted to a friend, who sent me a long and circumstantial account, containing many particulars of which I have not availed myself. There were other actors in the drama; and the ultimate catastrophe of the priest was different, and less natural

than I have represented it, indeed evidently fabulous. I have preserved the names given in my friend's letter, not having an opportunity of learning whether they were affixed by him, or if they have been preserved with the traditionary story,-if the latter, the similarity of the priest's to that of Cardinal Beaton, and that of the Maiden of Myreton to his last victim, is a remarkable coincidence."

THE

Maiden Stone of Tullibody.

I sing not of Arcadian plains, Angelic maids and seraph swains, Where suns, in cloudless glory bright, Pour forth a flood of lasting light; Where all is soft, voluptuous ease, Ambrosial sweets on every breeze; Young Loves, disporting in the shade, Reclin'd on flowers that never fade, While transport brightens every eye, And rapture swells in every sigh, Health breathing in the balmy air, Nor head nor heart oppress'd with care. No: Caledonia claims my lay, And gladly I the call obey: Land of my birth! dear is thy clime, Thy mountains hoar that rise sublime, Thy rude grey rocks, thy heath-clad hills, Thy broad blue lakes, thy crystal rills, Gay waving woods. rich fruitful plains, Straw-covered cots and happy swains; Thy maidens, fair as summer morn, Blithe as the blackbird on the thorn, Whose modest blushes grace their charms; Thy sons, renown'd in arts and arms, For labour strong, in battle brave, On martial field or stormy wave. And oh! to me how dear the glen Which I shall never tread again! How lightly there stole by the hour, When, in the mantling birchen bow'r, I met the modest blushing fair, Pure as the dew-drops on the spray ! Sweet as the fragrance breathing there, Or lead her down the flow'ry dell, How pleasant o'er the mead to stray, And, leaning, press the heather-bell!' These guileless joys, dear to the heart, No foreign clime could e'er impart ; Though fled, like phantom of the night, Love's sunny morn of young delight; When Time has chill'd, or changed the

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O'er early friendships, now no more,
And joys which Time can ne'er restore;
Who, when he bears his country's name,
Still feels the kindling patriot flame;
Whose mountains, cloth'd in wintry snow,
Shed round his heart a fervid glow;
Who loves to tread her misty vales,
And listen to her howling gales;
Who, when the angry ocean roars,
And foams on her indented shores,
Hears melody when sea-birds scream,
And music in the mountain stream;
Though rude my hand, and harsh my
strain,

To him I shall not harp in vain :
And though he cannot shout applause,
Yet sympathizing in the cause,

Approves this tribute to his country due, While I, in artless verse, my simple tale pursue.

Macneil, with softly Doric song,
Stray'd Fortha's winding banks along ;
To castled cliff, and mansion gay,
Delighted, pour'd his rural lay;
But still remains a classic spot,
By him neglected or forgot:
"Tis Tullibody, yet unsung,

A name that flows from many a tongue;
A thousand years have nearly flown
Since Kenneth rais'd the sacred stone,
As witness of the compact sworn
To curb and crush the Pictish horn:
Its holy fane, in after days,
For mattin songs and vesper lays,
Rear'd when King David rul'd the land,
Unroof'd by Gallia's hostile band,
When Reformation's dawning light
Dispell'd the shades of Papal night;
But still it lives in modern fame,
And bears an Abercromby's name;
Him who the brave to battle led,
On Egypt's sands who fought and bled;
But nobler lays become his shrine,
And fitter hands for him should twine
The laurell'd wreath, that long shall

bloom

In lasting verdure on his tomb.
Be mine to tell, in simple rhyme,
A legend of the olden time;
Though, haply, some in Devon's vale
Yet sigh, when musing o'er the tale ;
And Beauty tighter draws her virgin zone,
While with a watery eye she views the
Maiden Stone.

It was before pale Scotia sigh'd

And wept o'er Flodden's fatal day, When lazy priests, in haughty pride,

O'er high and low usurp'd the sway; When Cambuskenneth pour'd her train Of drones, to fatten on the plain, A priest in Tullibody stood, And weekly bow'd before the rood;

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The priest of whom my song I frame, In principle and heart the same; By Nature form'd with manly grace, And meekly sanctimonious face; Of fluent speech, and honied tongue, In features fair, in years still young: Look in his face, it seem'd design'd The index of a spotless mind; But soon appear'd-the heart laid bare A foul errata written there. In capitals, there one might trace

Ambition's lofty, boundless aim, And lordly pride, like all his race,

And fleshly lust's unhallow'd flame. He well could frame his accents meek, To hide his rage or malice dire; The glow that lighted up his cheek Was kindled at unholy fire; The tear that trembled in his eye, When sinners kneel'd-his public pray'r,

With hands uplifted to the sky

Each had its end-a secret snare
Hypocrisy, with mask devout,

His sins disguis'd-all fair without,
No spot was seen; but all was foul

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The music of her melting voice

Bespoke the gentle, spotless mind; It might have made despair rejoice,

And charm'd the foe of human kind. Both parents fondly lov'd the maid, Their only child, their pride and joy ; And she such filial love repaid,

Their hopes had never known alloy. And Beaton look'd, and dar'd to love, Yea, dote upon this spotless flow'r : So looks the vulture on the dove,

When he would Innocence devour! The fire that sparkled in his eye Still brightest shone when she was by; His eloquence more softly flow'd, His ruddy cheek more richly glow'd; So far the priest could not controul The strong emotions of his soul. Though holy mother Church had said, No priest should mount the marriage bed, She knew they lov'd; but always kind, Was to her children's frailties blind: And Beaton dearly lov'd to twine Love's blooming rose with Bacchus' vine; Well skill'd in each insidious art, To win the unsuspecting heart;

For he had vanquish'd virgin charms; He knew to fan the youthful flame, How best to win the wanton dame, And lure the bashful to his arms; But here it was his constant care With piety to bait the snare ; No talk of love the maid could lure, For Martha's virgin heart was pure As Lady Alva's web of snow *, That mocks the sun's meridian glow, Whose influence oft is shed in vain, When May with flow'rs has deckt the plain;

As pure, but not so cold was Martha's heart,

Ah! little skill'd to shun the sly seducer's art!

Alas! that Love should e'er inspire

A beauteous maiden's guileless breast, With all his fine ethereal fire,

To harbour there a worthless guest! But Eve was by the serpent charm'd,

Without Love's soul-subduing smile; What wonder Martha's heart was warm'd, When Love was leagued with serpent guile.

Her father deem'd the table graced,

If Tullibody's priest was there; And Martha every hour embraced

His winning eloquence to share ; For veil'd in Wisdom's solemn guise, Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue; And while his person fix'd her eyes, Her ears in fond attention hung. His visits made the maiden glad,

And brighter shone her melting eye;

When he departed, she was sad,

And sigh'd, although she knew not why. Still new attractions were display'd, And still her admiration grew; And Myreton's Martha, hapless maid! Had lost her heart before she knew: When darkness hover'd round her head, She felt a void within her breast; She turn'd upon her sleepless bed,

And wonder'd why she could not rest; Or if she clos'd her eyes in sleep,

Young Fancy's visions were so bright, That she would sigh, and sometimes weep,

To wake from dreams of soft delight; But morn would bring the holy man,

A welcome guest to Myreton's board, Who still the secret fire would fan, Now of her heart the sovereign lord.

When Beaton saw the maiden's heart
Was now the victim of his art,
Entangled in his demon toil,
Although he long'd to reap the spoil,
He wish'd the fruit more ripe to see,
Before he shook it from the tree:
Hence, all his art was still essay'd
To lure the heart he had betray'd.
He long had mark'd her taste refin'd,
Her restless, keen, inquiring mind,
That sought to know and understand
The works of Nature's plastic hand;
Of such the priest with her would talk,
Whene'er they took their evening walk:
When seated in the garden bow'r,

The branch, the bud, the leaf, the flow'r,
Afforded an exhaustless store
For Beaton's philosophic lore:
When twilight's gold and purple glow
Smil'd o'er Dumait's lofty brow,
Or when the moon, with silver beam,
Shed trembling light on Devon's stream;
He would direct the maiden's eye
To all the splendours of the sky,
Her boundless fancy roving far
Beyond the orb of evening star;
Till, like a bird on wearied wing,
That sinks where buds and blossoms
spring,

So Martha sought a place of rest,
And fix'd her home on Beaton's breast;
And built her bower, and fondly nestled
there,

And in the dream of love forgot each earthly care.

Yet was that love still cross'd with

fear,

And bath'd her cheek in many a tear ;
She knew the Church, in Papal pride,
Allow'd her priests no earthly bride;
Yet Hope would whisper, Myreton's
charms

Might lure him from the Church's arms,

A wreath of snow, which often lies in a hollow of the Ochil Hills till May or June, is called "Lady Alva's web."

Make him prefer broad lands and gold
To Tullibody's narrow fold-

A blooming, fond, and faithful spouse,
To frigid, dull monastic vows.
Alas! the maiden little knew
The hopes Ambition held to view:
Though still secure stood Papal power,
They saw the distant dark cloud lower,
And, fearful of approaching storm,
Essay'd the phalanx strong to form.
Now Beaton's skill and worth were known,
On secret missions he had gone;

His name had reach'd the Papal chair,
And honours, prospects, rich and fair,
The Church had spread in flatt'ring guise,
To fix the priest's ambitious eyes;
He yet might be, so whisper'd Hope,
A Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope!
Such were the dreams of priestly pride:
And though for Martha's charms he sigh'd,
Yet Myreton's lands, and beauty fair,
Before them were but viewless air;
Though dup'd, his heart with high am-
bition swell'd,

She who has striven in virgin pride,
The glance of secret love to hide,
With burning cheek, and downcast eye,
Sought to suppress the rising sigh,
And felt the blush of maiden shame
Whene'er she heard the favour'd name,
Will feel more sooth than I can say
How Martha joy'd to find her way
With roses strew'd, that shed perfume
More rich than Eden's earliest bloom;
Their sweets as spotless to the view,
As fair, alas! as transient too!

Deep in Balquharn's shrubby glen,
Sequester'd far from human ken,
'Twas there she heard the whisper'd vow
Which tinged her cheek, and smooth'd her
brow;

The fondly, faithful cushat dove
Sole witness of the plighted love.
That hallow'd spot had since been dear,
The streamlet music to her ear;
No garden blossoms half so fair
As were the wild-flowers blooming there.
When she went out, before return,

And from his haughty soul each humbler Love led her to Balquharn burn:

thought expell'd.

Yet was this cunning, plotting knave
To every sensual vice a slave;
He saw the conquest he had made,
That Love had Martha's heart betray'd;
And watch'd for a propitious hour
To crop this blooming, spotless flower,
Then spurn it, like a worthless weed,
And leave the wounded heart to bleed.
In whispers soft, as coos the dove,
With honied tongue, he told his love;
The maiden heard with raptur'd sighs,
With glowing cheek and glist'ning eyes;
As lovelier seems the blushing rose
When in the dews of morn it glows;
The tear of joy on Martha's cheek,
The melting eye, that seem'd to speak;
Such charms o'er every feature shed,
That Beaton's heart, though cold and dead,
Though hackney'd in the paths of vice,
Like Satan, erst in Paradise,
A moment half relenting stood,
In hesitating, dubious mood,

And shudder'd, as he stretch'd his arms,
To fold such pure angelic charms;
Such power has beauty to controul
And waken conscience in the soul.
But though his indurated heart
Could from its guilty purpose start,
Yet, as he view'd the lovely prize,
And madly gaz'd with gloating eyes,
The fire which in his bosom burn'd
Fix'd his resolve, compunction spurn'd:
And as he led her down the vale,
Again he whisper'd o'er the tale;
And fondly hop'd, by love and flattery's

power,

To clasp the blushing fair in wanton
Pleasure's bower.

Wildly romantic was the scene,
A hillock clad in velvet green;
Behind, a grey rock rudely frown'd,
With heather-bells and wild-thyme crown'd,
While from the fissures in its side
The fox-glove hung in purple pride;
Though shed the rich and golden bloom,
Erewhile that deck'd the waving broom,
Array'd in gay perennial green,
Half round it form'd a shade and screen;
Before her feet, with murmuring din,
A crystal stream fell in the lin;
Above the pool the birch reclin'd,
With hazel, sloe, and woodbine twin'd;
Where finch and linnet, ever gay,
Would twitter on the bending spray.

One evening, seated on the knoll,
In calm serenity of soul,
Far in the west the sun declin'd,
And sunk the Ochil Hills behind;
The maiden join'd the joyous woodland
throng,

And thus in melting notes she pour'd
her guileless song:

"The summer sun about to rest,

On Alva woods is beaming;
And soon I'll see the dappled west
In gowd and purple gleaming:
On brown hills nods the heather-bell,
The streams like crystal glancing,
On ilka height and bloomy fell

The blithesome lambs are dancing:

"But summer suns will cease to sheen,
Cauld winter round us raving;
And Alva woods, nae langer green,

With leafless branches waving :
The burn now wimpling to the lin,
Where bonny birks are growing,

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