"THE REEL 0' BOGIE."
THE Veto Act. has got its quietus in Scotland: it has become a laughingstock. Among other matters which have partly been thrown up by the ebb of excitement—partly contributed to turn the tide—is a clever caricature which has appeared under the above title. During the discussion of the Veto Act, Dr. GORDON, admit- ting that he had turned round upon his original views, declared that "he had considerable difficulty" in doing so; and Dr. Cam, BIERS, adverting to the Strathbogie Presbytery, in one of his fits of broad humour, which go further to delight the auditors than to promote his cause, made an allusion, startling to clerical gravity, to an old wicked song, of which the refrain is- " We'll tak a fling upon the grass, As they do in Stmthbogie."
On these hints the caricaturist has represented four leading agitators of the Kirk sedulously engaged in dancing, in full canoni-
cal; the famous "Reel o' Bogie" ; while an itinerant Voluntary lecturer sits fiddling to them, (as erst his Satanic Majesty to the witches in Alloway Kirk,) perched on the summit of a cask of aqua. Dr. CHALMERS' with his massive face and intense earnest- ness of expression, (as far as the face goes, it is the best and hand- somest portrait of the Doctor we have seen,) has just planted one colossal foot for the purpose of making the whirlwind sweep of the Highland fling; in his hand he brandishes a streamer, on which is inscribed "Retreat! no, not a hair's-breadth,"—which will describe the circle above; while the sweep of his leg belo* threatens to carry with it a little manikin, (the Reverend Mr. CANDLISH') who is capering vis-a-vis—" all four in the air at once," as we say of an elastic filly—snapping his fingers, and crying out, "A fig for the Court of Session!" The other pair engaged in the reel—which on this occasion is a "foursome" one—are, a stout, truculent, Parson Trulliber looking man, (the Reverend Mr. CUNNINGHAM') who has trussed the other in his hawklike clutches, and is crying out, "Come, turn round, Bobby, turn round, my boy;" and poor Dr. GORDON, who, a hazle-wand in his grasp, essays with failing spindle-shanks to execute the national pirouette, looking down at his grasshopper supporters with an expression of countenance in which the anxious peeping of the eye from beneath his lofty forehead contrasts exquisitely with the querulous fright- ened droop of the lip. The wicked tiddler on the whisky-barrel, dressed out with all the vulgar nattiness of a third-rate dancing- master, and sporting a huge redundancy of watch-chain and seals, is leering back at a figure in the background, which from a half. open door is stretching forth the sword of justice to smite the Lilliputian roysterer, (the Sir Andrew Aguechcek of the party, who defies the Court of Session,) and whispering, " Hit him hard, my Lord, lie has no friends." This is superfluous, and the least happy part of the sketch. The pyramidal groupe of the four dancers and their fiddler is instinct with all the glee of clerical " high-jinks " : the additional figure deranges the balance of the picture. Besides, all who know the eminent Voluntary alluded to, know that his delight in a row is mere Donnybrook-fair love of the sport of fighting—he bears no malice. The invitation to hurt his victim is as much out of character as the picture on the wall be- hind him, of Nero fiddling while Rome was burning. The like- ness of the Lord President, too, is a failure : we took him at first for our old friend PETER ROBERTSON. Still the sketch is "exquisite fooling," and has told over Scotland with an effect unknown since the days of KAY. It is but fair to add, that no man has enjoyed it more than Dr. CHALMERS : we much doubt whether his partners in the reel have the same relish.
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