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Prince's Street, from St. John's chapel to the Prince Regent Bridge,* unbroken, save perhaps by some coach wheeling along its pile of dust-covered outsides. At the corner of some cross street sat some hopeless fruiterer, with her basket of gooseberries, "alas! all too ripe;" while perhaps some unlucky school-boy, who was drawling his dull holidays in town, hesitatingly eyed the small red hairy circlets, and had the resolution to pass by with his halfpenny in his hand. The linen-blinds shaded the shop-windows, in winter and spring so gorgeously displayed, and not one gay and buzzing insect was seen to enter or issue from the deserted hive. The Middle Shop itself, two little months ago, before our shoes were old in which we went to the moors,

“So full of laughing faces and bright eyes,”

stood empty and silent, save when some summer-stranger from the South came in to ask for a copy of the last Number of Blackwood's Magazine or of Peter's Letters, or when we ourselves hobbled in, and received an unwitnessed greeting from our publisher, whom the wellknown sound of our foot had brought forth with a pen behind his ear, from the Sanctum Sanctorum. Even in Ambrose's the sound of the grinders was low. The ordinary in Barclay's tavern, at which we have seen thirty pair of knives and forks at play, did well if it exhibited half-a-dozen mouths; and the matchless weekly suppers of the Dilettanti at Young's (to which we are sometimes admitted), had, in the heat of the weather, melted quite away. True, the Theatre was open, but it was likewise empty; and O'Neill, Farren, Abbott, and Jones, sighed, wept, doted, laughed, and whisked about in vain. Would you go down to the sea-side? There some solitary bathing machine voided its nudity into the waves, or some parsimonious bachelor sat wiping his hairy length on a stone; while, perchance, one of the London packets sailed briskly from the pier, and seemed soon to carry away into the dim distance the scanty remains of the population of Edinburgh.

In this state of mind, it would have been folly to remain in town; so we resolved once more to join the Tent, which had now taken root in the Highlands; and while trying to take courage to buy a ticket in the Perth Breakneck,† we strolled into our favorite snuff and tobacco shop, and filled our cannister with Princes' mixture and segars. There, while admiring the beautiful arrangements of pipes, boxes, &c., and regarding with a friendly affection the light, airy, and graceful figure of the fair Miss Fanny Forman,‡ we mentally indited the following lines:

* Localities in Edinburgh.-M. †An appropriate name for a very fast-going stage-coach.-M. In a previous number of Maga, a sonnet by Mr. Gillies had celebrated the charms of Miss Forman, who kept a tobacconist's shop in Prince's-street, Edinburgh.-M.

1819.]

JOHN BALLANTYNE.

37

LINES TO MISS FANNY FORMAN, ON BIDDING HER FAREWELL.
By the Veiled EDITOR of Blackwood's Magazine.

I.

OH! the grass it springs green on the Street of the gay,

And the mall 'tis a desolate sight:

And the beaux and the belles they are all far away,
And the city's a wilderness quite.

And I too will wander-at dawn of the day

I will leave the dull city behind;

I will tread the free hills, and my spirits shall play.
As of old, in the spring of the wind.

II.

Yet, a lowly voice whispers, that, not as of old,
Shall to me the glad spirit be given:

Tho' the lakes beaming broad in their glens I behold,
And the hills soaring blue in the heaven:

That the kind hand of Nature in vain shall unfold

All her banner of innocent glee

For the depths of my soul in despondence are rolled,
And her mirth has no music for me.

III.

Yes, o'er valley and mountain, where'er I may go,
That voice whispers sadly and true,

I shall bear, lovely Fanny! my burden of woe

Cruel maid-my remembrance of you!

As some cloud whose dim fleeces of envious snow,

The rays of the evening-star cover,

Thy memory still a soft dimness shall throw,

O'er the languishing breast of thy lover.

While we were casting about in this way whom should we see turning the corner of Hanover-street in an elegant dennet, and at a noble trot, but our excellent friend Mr. John Ballantyne ?* We thought he had still been on the Continent, and have seldom been more gratified than by the unexpected apparition. There he was, as usual, arrayed in the very pink of knowingness-grey frock and pebble buttons, Buckskins, top-boots, &c.-the whip-for Old

* John Ballantyne was next brother to James, Scott's printer and confidential friend, and like him, was in the secret of the Waverley Novels. In 1809, he was started by Scott and his brother, in the publishing house of "John Ballantyne & Company," at Edinburgh, in opposition to Constable. One of his first publications was Scott's Lady of the Lake. After the success of Waverley, he published a wretched novel, "The Widow's Lodgings." The publishing business did not succeed, and the firm was dissolved. John Ballantyne then became an auctioneer, a business for which he was well qualified. In 1817, Scott contributed several minor poems to a periodical of his called "The Sale Room." Ballantyne died June, 1821, aged 45. Scott attended his funeral, and said, "I feel as if there would be less sunshine for me from this day forth." Lockhart says, "He was a quick. active, intrepid little fellow; and in society so very lively and amusing, so full of fun and merriment; such a thoroughly light-hearted droll. all over quaintness and humorous mimicry; and moreover, such a keen and skilful devotee to all manner of field-sports, fron fox-hunting to badger-bating inclusive, that it was no wonder he should have made a favorable impression on Scott." And again, "Of his style of story-telling it is sufficient to say that the late Charles Mathews's Old Scotch Lady,' was but an imperfect copy of the original, which the great imitator first heard in my presence from his lips."-M.

38

CHRISTOPHER IN THE TENT.

[Sept.

Mortality needs no whip-dangling from the horn behind-and that fine young grew, Dominie Sampson, capering round about him in the madness of his hilarity.* Whenever we met last spring we used to have at least a half-hour's doleful chat on the progress and symptoms of our respective rheumatisms-but Ballantyne now cut that topic short in a twinkling, assuring us he had got rid of the plague entirely and, indeed, nobody could look in his merry face without seeing that it was so. We never croak to people that are in sound health-and, therefore, not likely to enter into the spirit of our miseries; so, affecting an air of perfect vigor, we began to talk, in the most pompous manner, about our late exploits in the moors, regretting, at the same time, that Ballantyne had not come home in time to make one of our party on the 12th of August. "We are just off again for Braemar," said we. "The devil you are, John, “I don't much care to go with you if you'll take me." "By all means, you delight us," said we. "Well," cried he, "what signifies bothering, come along, I'll just call at Trinity for half a dozen clean shirts and neckcloths, and let's be off." "Done," said we, mounting to the lower cushion, “only just drive us over the way and pick up our portmanteau." No sooner said than done. In less than an hour we found ourselves, with all the cargo on board, scudding away at twelve knots an hour on the Queens-ferry road.

" said

During the whole journey to our Tent, we were kept in a state of unflagging enjoyment by the conversation of our companion. Who, indeed, could be dull in immediate juxta-position with so delightful a compound of wit and warm-heartedness? We have heard a thousand story-tellers, but we do not remember among the whole of them more than one single individual, who can sustain the briefest comparison with our exquisite bibliopole. Even were he to be as silent as the tomb of the Capulets, the beaming eloquence of that countenance alone would be enough to diffuse a spirit of gentle jovialty over all who might come into his presence. We do not think Allan has quite done justice to Mr. Ballantyne's face, in his celebrated master piece, "Hogg's House-heating." He has caught, indeed, the quaint, sly, archness of the grin, and the light, quick, irresistible glance of the eyes; but he has omitted entirely that fine cordial suffusion of glad, kind, honest, manly mirth, which lends the truest charm to the whole physiognomy, because it reveals the essential

* Lockhart says, "His horses were all called after heroes in Scott's poems or novels; and at this time he usually rode up to his auction on a tall milk-white hunter, yclept Old Mortality, attended by a leash or two of greyhounds,--Die Vernon, Jenny Dennison, &c., by name.-M. † In John Ballantyne's latter days, he was fitting up a mansion near Kelso, which he called Walton Hall, but in 1819, he inhabited Harmony Hall, by Trinity, near the Frith of Forth. "Here," says Lockhart, "Braham quavered, and here Liston drolled his best,-here Johnstone, and Murray, and Yates. mixed jest and stave,--here Kean revelled and rioted,—and here did the Roman Kemble often play the Greek from sunset to dawn. Nor did the popular cantatrice or danseuse of the time disdain to freshen her roses, after a laborious week, amidst these Paphian bowers of Harmony Hall.-M.

1819.]

THEODORE HOOK.

39

elements of the character, whose index that most original physiog nomy is. But the voice is the jewel-who shall ever describe its wonders? Passing at will through every note of seriousness and passion, down into the most dry, husky, vibrations of gruffness, or the most sharp feeble chirpings of old woman's querulousness, according to the minutest specialties of the character introduced for the moment upon the stage of that perpetual Aristophanic comedy; his conversation-why, Bannister, Mathews, Liston, Yates, Russelnone of them all is like John Ballantyne, when that eye of his has fairly caught its inspiration from the sparkle of his glass.*

Even here in our gig where we had neither bottle nor glass, a few puffs of one of Miss Forman's segars, as Odoherty describes them,

The true Havana smooth, and moist, and brown,

were enough to kindle and rekindle as much mirth as was consistent with the safety of the vehicle that contained us. Among other things he told us a great many capital stories about his late tour to the Netherlands, expressing, as he went on, in every particular of look, voice, and gesture, the very corporal presence and essence of his friends the Hogan-mogans. Theodore Hook*-Provost Creechand Joseph Gillon, each had his niche in this Peristrephic Panorama of remembered merriment, and of each he told us innumerable new anecdotes-new to us at least-which we would give not a little to be able to reproduce for the edification of our readers; but alas! it would require a much bolder man than we are to attempt the hazardous experiment of serving up such dainties in a hash. One of Joseph Gillon's good things, however, we shall venture on, because the wit of it is of that kind which disdains to be improved by passing through the lips of any man, even of Ballantyne. Joseph happened to be in a certain pretty numerous party at Edinburgh (would he had never

* High as this eulogy is, contemporary report fully confirms it. Scott used to call John Ballantyne by the name of Rigdum Funnidos, while to his brother James, who was pompous and solemn, he gave the familiar title of Aldiboronte-phoscophornio.-M.

†Theodore Edward Hook, whose dramas and novels have been very popular, and show lively wit and much knowledge of the world, was born in 1788, and produced his first play before he was 17. The work of fiction called "Sayings and Doings," of which three series. were published, rank among his best works-but others were popular also, such as Jack Brag, Gilbert Gurney (in which he sketched some of his own adventures), literally filled with fun. He was editor of the John Bull, a London newspaper, commenced in order to aid the Tory party, by keen and humorous attacks upon Queen Caroline, (wife of George IV.) in 1820-21. In that journal appeared the celebrated Letters of Mrs. Ramsbottom, in which, following the example of Smollet's Winifred Jenkins, bad spelling was managed so as to excite the merriment usually elicited by humorous writing. Mr. Thackeray has extended perhaps not improved, this description of composition. As an improvisatore, Hook had no equal in England in his time. He died in August, 1841.--Creech was a bookseller in Edinburgh. who. in the early part of the present century was the Prince of the Trade. Well educated (for he had been intended for the church), he was the life of good society, a capital story-teller, a lively companion, and even a composer of jeux d'esprit for the newspapers. He attained the high position of Lord Provost of Edinburgh, but the publication of the Edinburgh Review, by Constable, may be said to have virtually dethroned him.--Joseph Gillon was a W. S. (writer of the Signet), and I believe, eventually became one of the door-keepers in the House of Lords, in London.-M.

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left us!) at the time when the Northern Whigs were everywhere exerting their lungs in the first of those systematic blasts which have since swelled the inflammable balloon of Brougham to that immoderate bulk. Joseph," whispered a modest Tory in company, "you have seen this young fellow-what is your real opinion of him? Do you think the man will rise, Joseph ?” "Aye," quoth Joseph, "I'll be bound he will-at a general rising." One day Gillon was very unwell (it was in July), and Mr. Ballantyne went to visit him. He found him on a couch in his writing chamber, surrounded by all his clerks and apprentices; "What, Gillon," said he, "this place is enough to kill ye, man, it is as hot as an oven;" "and what for no, man ?" cried Joseph, "it's the place whar I mak my bread, man. We beg pardon for these stories; but really Joseph was a true wit. Why does he not try his hand at a contribution now and then? But perhaps the worthy "door-keeper in the Lord's house" would have a text against us were we to make the application.

man."*

A great deal of his talk turned also (quis dubitaverit?) on Paris. He seems, in deed and in truth, to have done what Miladi Morgan was said to have done, he has seen Paris from the garret to the saloon, from the Palais Royal to the Catacombs. We had great pleasure in hearing his account of all the strange doings and goings on of that remarkable city-a city in which we ourselves have spent many happy-alas! very happy days and nights. While the names of the modern beaux and belles of that Regal City fell glibly from the lips of the bibliopole, faint and shadowy visions of the beaux and belles of her former days rose in dim and fleet succession before our too aithful eye of imagination. Kind, jovial, elegant Duc de la Cirelabouche, friend of our youth-friend and patron!—alas! where be now thy petits soupers! Beautiful, radiant, luxurious Madame la Biche !--but wherefore renew yet again these soul-piercing retrospections? While we were in the midst of our melancholy abstraction, our friend began chanting, in his own light, elastic, bounding style, that excellent French song,—

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By the way, Monsieur Jean," said we, "did you take any lessons

This is one of the most venerable and notorious of the late Mr. Joseph Miller's Jokes.-M. John Ballantyne frequently visited the Continent to purchase. or take consignments of articles of virtu, &c., for his very celebrated auctions in Hanover-street, Edinburgh.-M. †These titles appear suspicious. Cere-la-bouche might be interpreted wax-mouth, and La Biche reminds us of-a dog's sister.-M.

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