We had intended to embody some remarks upon the pretended journey of Caillié; but we find we have already occupied too much space in details necessary to make the geographical nature of the question well understood; and we shall content ourselves with remarking, that the discovery of the termination of the Quorra, or Niger, tends to throw a degree of improbability upon the narrative of that individual, which it will require much ingenuity to explain away. It is certain that the latitude given to Timbuctoo by the editor of those travels, and upon which sufficient ridicule has already been thrown in the Edinburgh Geographical Journal, may be considered as an error entirely of the editor's, who, by taking it upon himself, will relieve the burden of the mistake from the traveller, and thus lighten the weighty doubts which might in consequence bear upon the remainder of the details; for the situation of that city, as given by Jomard, is quite inconsistent with the situation it must be in, from the ascertained source, direction, and termination of the river. There can be no doubt but that a portion of the labours presented to the public as the travels of Caillié are founded upon valid documents, wherever obtained, and probably most of the errors are those of the editor. But though authorities can be found in support of the division of the Quorra into two branches; one of which, the Joliba, flows to the north-west, and the other in an almost opposite direction,—fact which has no analogy in geography, and, what is better, no existence in nature; yet no authority can be found for placing Timbuctoo on a river flowing north from the Niger.

The details which will be given to us by the results of this successful expedition will, then, not only be of assistance in allying the existing condition of things with the knowledge of the ancients, but it will enable us to reduce to a few facts the many contradictory statements which have originated in the variety of the sources of information, and the individual and national rivalry which the interest of the question gave birth to among the geographers of the present day. It will also be of importance, as it was connected with a great question, as to the possibility of a large river traversing an extensive continent, or losing itself in a marsh or lake, or being buried in the extensive sands of the desert. By laying open the interior of Africa to us, it will increase our political strength and commercial advantages on those coasts;—it will enable us to put into practice an amelioration long contemplated by Mr. Barrow, in the choice of our settlements on those coasts;—it will place the greatest and most important vent of the barbarous and inhuman traffic of negroes in our possession; and it will enable us to diffuse the benefits of superior intelligence among an ignorant and suffering people.—Literary Gazette.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

DISAGREEABLES

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

"For four things the earth is disquieted, and five which it cannot bear." AGUR.

This world is a delightful place to dwell in, And many sweet and lovely things are in it; Yet there are sundry, at the which I have A natural dislike, against all reason. I never like A TAILOR. Yet no man Likes a new coat or inexpressibles Better than I do—few, I think, so well: I can't account for this. The tailor is, A far more useful member of society Than is a poet;—then his sprightly wit, His glee, his humour, and his happy mind Entitle him to fair esteem. Allowed. But then, his self-sufficiency;—his shape So like a frame, whereon to hang a suit Of dandy clothes;—his small straight back and arms, His thick bluff ankles, and his supple knees, Plague on't!—'Tis wrong—I do not like a tailor. AN OLD BLUE-STOCKING MAID! Oh! that's a being, That's hardly to be borne. Her saffron hue, Her thinnish lips, close primmed as they were sewn Up by a milliner, and made water-proof, To guard the fount of wisdom that's within. Her borrowed locks, of dry and withered hue, Her straggling beard of ill-condition'd hairs, And then her jaws of wise and formal cast; Chat-chat—chat-chat! Grand shrewd remarks! That may have meaning, may have none for me. I like the creature so supremely ill, I never listen, never calculate. I know this is ungenerous and unjust: I cannot help it; for I do dislike An old blue-stocking maid even to extremity. I do protest I'd rather kiss a tailor. A GREEDY EATER! He is worst of all. The gourmand bolts and bolts, and smacks his chops— Eyes every dish that enters, with a stare Of greed and terror, lest one thing go by him. The glances that he casts along the board, At every slice that's carved, have that in them Beyond description. I would rather dine Beside an ox—yea, share his cog of draff; Or with a dog, if he'd keep his own side; Than with a glutton on the rarest food. A thousand times I've dined upon the waste, On dry-pease bannock, by the silver spring. O, it was sweet—was healthful—had a zest; Which at the paste my palate ne'er enjoyed. My bonnet laid aside, I turned mine eyes With reverence and humility to heaven, Craving a blessing from the bounteous Giver; Then grateful thanks returned. There was a joy In these lone meals, shared by my faithful dog, Which I remind with pleasure, and has given A verdure to my spirit's age. Then think Of such a man, beside a guzzler set; And how his stomach nauseates the repast. "When he thinks of days he shall never more see. Of his cake and his cheese, and his lair on the lea, His laverock that hung on the heaven's ee-bree, His prayer and his clear mountain rill." I cannot eat one morsel. There is that, Somewhere within, that balks each bold attempt; A loathing—a disgust—a something worse: I know not what it is. A strong desire To drink, but not for thirst. 'Tis from a wish To wash down that enormous eater's food— A sympathetic feeling. Not of love! And be there ale, or wine, or potent draught Superior to them both, to that I fly, And glory in the certainty that mine Is the ethereal soul of food, while his Is but the rank corporeal—the vile husks Best suited to his crude voracity. And far as the bright spirit may transcend Its mortal frame, my food transcendeth his. A CREDITOR! Good heaven, is there beneath Thy glorious concave of cerulean blue, A being formed so thoroughly for dislike, As is a creditor? No, he's supreme, The devil's a joke to him! Whoe'er has seen An adder's head upraised, with gleaming eyes, About to make a spring, may form a shade Of mild resemblance to a creditor. I do remember once—'tis long agone— Of stripping to the waist to wade the Tyne— The English Tyne, dark, sluggish, broad, and deep; And just when middle-way, there caught mine eye, A lamprey of enormous size pursuing me! L– what a fright! I bobb'd, I splashed, I flew. He had a creditor's keen, ominous look, I never saw an uglier—but a real one. This is implanted in man's very nature, It cannot be denied. And once I deemed it The most degrading stain our nature bore: Wearing a shade of every hateful vice, Ingratitude, injustice, selfishness. But I was wrong, for I have traced the stream Back to its fountain in the inmost cave, And found in postulate of purest grain, It's first beginning.—It is not the man, The friend who has obliged us, we would shun, But the conviction which his presence brings, That we have done him wrong:—a sense of grief And shame at our own rash improvidence: The heart bleeds for it, and we love the man Whom we would shun. The feeling's hard to bear. A BLUSTERING FELLOW! There's a deadly bore, Placed in a good man's way, who only yearns For happiness and joy. But day by day, This blusterer meets me, and the hope's defaced. I cannot say a word—make one remark, That meets not flat and absolute contradiction— I nothing know on earth—am misinformed On every circumstance. The very terms, Scope, rate, and merits of my own transactions Are all to me unknown, or falsified, Of which most potent proof can be adduced. Then the important thump upon the board, Snap with the thumb, and the disdainful 'whew!' Sets me and all I say at less than naught. What can a person do?—To knock him down Suggests itself, but then it breeds a row In a friend's house, or haply in your own, Which is much worse; for glasses go like cinders; The wine is spilled—the toddy. The chair-backs Go crash! No, no, there's nothing but forbearance, And mark'd contempt. If that won't bring him down, There's nothing will. Ah! can the leopard change His spots, or the grim Ethiop his hue? Sooner they may and nature change her course, Than can a blusterer to a modest man: He still will stand a beacon of dislike. A fool—I wish all blustering chaps were dead, That's the true bathos to have done with them.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 495, June 25, 1831

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

DISAGREEABLES

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

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