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NORTH.

* In calm, breeze, gale, or storm

SHEPHERD Dinna tak the words oot o' ma mouth, sir-in his pages I see them sailin alang in cawm, breeze, gale, or storm, as plain as if I was lookin' at them frae the shore, or

Scudding under bare poles like you and I, James, without our wigs.

Naething's mair intolerable to me than a constant attempp at wut. Besides, wha ever was seen—either men or ships-skuddin' under bare poles in a cawm ?

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

Or sailin'-James

in a cawm—as you said just now.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH

But I didna say a deed cawm; an'gin I had, does na the wund often drap a' at ance, and a' at ance get up again—and wasna the ship lying waitin' for the wun' wi' a' sail set-or maybe motion still in her ? And therefore nane but an ignorawmus in nowticals woud objeck to a Shepherd, wha is nae sailor, speakin' o' a ship sailing in a cawm. Are ye satisfied ?

My friend Marryatt finds fault with Tom Cringle for being too melodramatic.

TICKLER,
His volumes are indeed a mellow dram in two calkers.

SHEPHERD. Faith, for a pun, that's no sae very far amiss ; and in a few years, frae playin' on words, I shudna be surprised to see you, sir, gettin' grupp o' an idea.

BULLER. My friend Fonblanque characterised Captain Cringle truly by three words in the Examiner-the Salvator Rosa of the Sea.

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NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

And of a high order.

Marryatt missed to remember that while he was penning his critique. Strike all the poetry out of Tom's proseT'll defy you.

NORTH. And Marryatt would have been right. Read his prose by the light of the poetry that illumines it, and Marryatt is wrong.

SHEPHERD. Wha's he, that Marryatt?

NORTH. A captain in the navy, and an honour to it-an admirable sailor, and an admirable writer—and would that he too were with us on the leads, my lads, for a pleasanter fellow, to those who know him, never enlivened the social board,

SHEPHERD,

I like the words you slipped in there, sir, wi' a marked vice, like italics in prent-" to those who know him-for them that's gotten the character o' bein' pleasant fallows on a' occasions, and to a' men, are seldom sound at the core-and oh I but they grow wearisome on ane's hauns when ane's no in the humour for diversion or daffin', but wish to be quate.

Right, James. I have no conceit of them “ who are all things to all men.” Why, I have seen John Schetky himself in the sulks with sumphs, though he is more tolerant of ninnies and noodles than almost any other man of genius I have ever known-but clap him down among a choice crew of

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

kindred spirits, and how his wild wit éven yet, as in its prime, wantons ! Playing at will its virgin fancies, till Care herself comes from her cell, and sitting by the side of Joy, loses her name, and forgets her nature, and joins in glee or catch, beneath the power of that magician, the merriest in the hall.

I houp I'll no gang to my grave without forgathering wi' John Schetky. Marryatt is often gruff.

Then you and him 'll agree like brithers, for you're aften no only gruff, but grim.

He would have stood in the first class of sea-scribes, had he written nothing but Peter Simple.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Did he-did Marryyacht write Peter Simple ? Peter Simple in his ain way's as gude's Parson Adams.

TICKLER.

Parson Adams!

SHEPHERD.

Aye, just Parson Adams. He that imagined Peter Simple’s a Sea-Fieldin'. That's a better compoun' yepithet, Mr North, nor your sea-scribe. Methinks I see another son of Ocean sitting on that couch.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Wha?

NORTH.

Glasscock.

SHEPHERD.

Let me look intil his face. (Rising up and going to the couch.) Na-nana, sir, I'm sorry, to say 'this is no Man-Glasscock-it's neither his fine bauld face, nor his firm springy figur'.

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Glasscock had a difficult game to play, Buller, in the Douro, but he played it with a skill and a resolution that have gained him the praise of the whole service.

BULLER,

NORTH.

You may,

No man stands higher.
All his books have been excellent, but his last is best of all.

SHEPHERD.
Shall I ca' him a Sea-Smollet?

TICKLER.
if
you
choose to talk stuff.

SHEPHERD. I was speerin' at Mr North-nane but a fule wou'd speer sic a question at you—for you was never in a ship but ance; and though she was in a dry dock, you was sae sea-sick that there was a want o' mops.

I call him what he is—a Sea-Glasscock. No man alive can tell a galleya story with him—the language of the forecastle from his lips smacks indeed of the salt sea-foam--his crew must have loved such a captain-for he knows Jack's character far better than Jack does himself--and were there more such books as his circulating in the service they would assist, along with all wise and humane and just regulations and provisions made by Government to increase and secure Jack's comforts at sea and Poll's on shore, in extinguishing all necessity for press-gangs.

NORTH

BULLER.

Glasscock, sir, can tell, too, a story as well as the best of them all-Hall, or Marryatt, or Chamier-of the Gunroom and the Captain's cabin.

He can—and eke of the Admiral's. Marryatt and Glasscock in a bumper, with all the honours.

NORTH.

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NORTH.

No cursing or swearing allowed on board this ship.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Call the master-of-arms, and let him get a dozen.

If ony man says that ever I cursed or sweered, either in ship or shielin', then he's neither mair nor less than a confoonded leear. Fules! fules! fules! Sumphs! sumphs ! sumphs! Sops! sops! sops! Saps! saps! saps ! Wou'd you cram the healths of twa siccan men, wi' a' the honours, intil ae bumper? Let's drink them separate--and in tummlers.

Charge.
Halt. “ I wunna drink't."

NORTH.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

I'll no be mocked, Tickler. Besides, that's no the least like ma vice.

“ I wunna drink't”-unless we all quaff, before sitting down, another tumbler to Basil Hall.

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OMNES.

NORTH.

Aye, aye, sir-Aye, aye, sir-Aye, aye, sir. Instead of the rule seniores priores—to prove our equal regard- let us adopt an arithmetical order and drink them in Round Robin.

[Four (that is, sixteen) bumper tumblers (not of the higher ranks, but

the middle orders) are emptied arithmetically, with all the honours, to the healths of Captains Cringle, Glasscock, Hall, and Marryatt. For a season there is silence on the leads, and you hear the thrush

near his second or third brood--at his evening song. Fowre tummlers, taken in instant sequence, o' strang drink, by each o fowre men—a' fowre nae farder back than yestreen sworn in members o’

SHEPHERD.

the left haun' branch o' the Temperance Society! I howp siccan a decided exception, while it is pruvin', may no explode the general rule. The general rule wi' us fowre when we forgather, is to drink naething but milk and water--the general exception to drink naething but speerits o' winethat was a lapsus lingy-speerits and wine. It's a pleasant sicht to see a good general rule reconciled wi' a good general exception; and it's my earnest desire to see a' the haill warld shakin' hauns,

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

SHEPHERD.

Peter, place my pillows. (Peter does so.)
There's ane gaen weel shued up.

TICKLER.
St Peter? I'm Pope. Kiss my toe, James.

SHEPHERD.
Drink aye makes him clean daft.

BULLER. 'Tis merry in the ball, when beards wag all. Then all took a smack-a smack, at the old black-jack-to the sound of the bugle-horn—to the sound of the bugle.born. Such airs I hate, like a pig in a gate-give me the good old strain-and nought is heard on every side but signoras and signors“ like a pig in a gate, to the sound of the bugle-horn.

Drink maks him musical-yet he seems to remember the words better nor the tune. North! nae snorin' alloo'd on the leeds. Tickler! do you hear? nae snorin' alloo'd on the leede. Buller, pu' baith thair noses. Fa'en owre too! Noo, I ca' that a tolerable nawsal treeo. It's really weel snored. Tickler! you're no keepin' time. Kit, you're gettin' out o' the tune. Buller, nae fawsetto. Come here, Peter, I wush to speak to you. (Peter goes to the Shepherd.) Is na Mr North gettin' rather short in the temper? Hae na ye observed, too, a fa'in' aff o some o' his facultiessic as memory-and, I fear, judgment? And what's this I hear o' him (whispering Peter). I do indeed devoutly trust iťll no get wun'! (Peter puts his finger to his nose, and looking towards North, winks the Shepherd to be mum.) Ye needna clap your finger on your nose, and wunk, and screw your mouth in that gate, for he's in a safe snorin' sleep.

PETER (indignantly). Mr Hogg, I trust I shall never be so far left to myself as to act in any manner unbecoming my love, gratitude, and veneration for the best and noblest of men and masters.

SHEPHERD.

You did put your forefinger to your nose—you did wunk-ye did screw your mooth-ye did gesticulate that ye suspecked his sleep wasna as real's his snore-and ye did nod yes when I asked you wi' a whisper in your lug if it was true that he had taken to tipplin' by himsell in the forenoons ?

NORTA (starting up). You back-biting hog in armour-but I will break your bones-Peter, the crutch!

SHEPHERD.

The crutch is safe under lock and key in its ain case—and the key's in ma pocket-for you're no in a condition to be trusted wi' the crutch. As for back-biting, what I said I said afore your face—and if you was pretendin' to be asleep, let what you overheard be a lesson till you never to act so meanly again, for be assured, accordin' to the auld apogthegm, listeners never hear ony gude o' theirsells. Do they, Buller ?

BULLER,

Seldom.

SHEPHERD.

Do they ever, Tickler?

TICKLER.

Never.

SHEPHERD. Then I propose that we all get sober again. Peter-THE ANTIDOTE! It's time we a' took it-for I've seen the leeds mair stationary-half an hour back, I was lookin' eastward, but I'm sair mista'en if ma face be na noo due wast.

NORTH. Yes-Peter.

[ Peter administers the Antidote. Wasna that a blessed discovery, Mr Buller! Ae glass o' THE ANTIDOTE taken in time no only remedies the past, but ensures the future-we may each o' us toss aff ither fowre bumper-tummlers with the same impunity as we despatched their predecessors--and already what a difference in the steadiness o' the leeds!

SHEPHERD.

BULLER.

Hermes' Molly!

TICKLER. The Great Elixir !

NORTH. O sweet oblivious antidote indeed-for out of the grave of memory in bright resurrection rises Hope-and on the wings of Imagination the rekindled Senses seem to hold command over earth and heaven!

SHEPHERD.
O coofs-coofs-coofs! wha abuse the wine-bibbers o' the Noctes.

BULLER,
Coofs indeed!

SHEPHERD.
Never, Mr Buller, shall they breathe empyrean air.

BULLER.
Never.

SHEPHERD For them never shall celestial dews distil from evening's roseate cloud

BULLER, Never.

SHEPHERD, Nor setting suns their fancy ever fill with visions born o' golden licht when earth, sea, cloud, and sky, are a' interfused wi' ae speerit—and that speerit, sae beautifully hushed in high repose, tells o' something within us that is divine, and therefore that will leeve for ever! Luik! luik !

BULLER.

Such a sunset!

SHEPHERD.

Let nae man daur to word it. It's daurin' eneuch even to luik at it. For oh! ma freens ! are na thae the gates o' glory-wide open for departed speerits—that they may sail in on wings intil the heart o' eternal life! Let that sicht no be lost on us.

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SHEPHERD

Changed--gane ! Anither sun has set—surely a solemn thocht, sirs-yet, come, let's be cheerfu'-Mr North, let me see a smile on your face, manfor, my dear sir, I canna thole noo bein' lang melancholy at ae timefor every year sic times are growin' mair frequent—and I howp the bonnie Leddy Moon will no be lang o' risin', nor do I care whether or no she brings wi' her ane, nane, or ten thousan' stars. Here comes the caffee.

Enter AMBROSE, with tea and coffee silver-service.

AMBROSE,

Tea or coffee, sir ?

SHEPHERD,

Chaclat, Help the rest. Mr North ?

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