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.
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.
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.