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50

THE FRAGRANCE OF ALL THAT GROWS.

North. I mean the prospect, James.

Shepherd. A prospect o' a panorama o' weans!

North. Poo-poo-my dear Shepherd-you wilfully misapprehend my meaning-look round you over land and sea! Shepherd. I canna look farrer than the leeds. Oh! but its a beautiful Conservatory! I never afore saw an Orange-tree. And it's true what I hae read o' them-blossom and fruit on the same plant-nae dout an evergreen-and in this caulder clime o' ours bricht wi' its gowden ba's as if we were in the Wast Indies ?-What ca' ye thir?1

North. These are mere myrtles.

Shepherd. Mere myrtles! Dinna say that again o' themmere; an ungratefu' word, o' a flowery plant a' fu' o' bonny white starnies-and is that their scent that I smell?

North. The balm is from many breaths, my dear James. Nothing that grows is without fragrance

Shepherd. However fent.2 I fand that out when a toddlerfor I used to fling awa or drap whatever I pu'd that I thocht had nae smell-till ae day I began till suspect that the faut micht lie in my ain nose, and no in the buds or leaves,—and frae a thousand sma' experiments I was glad to learn it was sae-and that there was a scent-as ye weel said the noo-in a' that grows. Wasna that kind in Nature! Hoo else could that real poet Tamson hae said, "the air is bawm!"

Tickler. I desiderate the smell of dinner.

Shepherd. What'n a sensual sentiment! The smell o' vittals is delicious whan the denner's gettin dished, and during the time o' eatin, but for an hour or mair after the cloth has been drawn, the room to ma nose has aye a close het smell, like that o' ingans. It's no the custom o' the kintra to leave wi' the leddies-but nae drawin-room like the leeds.-What'n frutes!

North. Help yourself, James.

Shepherd. I'll thank ye, Mr Tickler, to rax me ower thae

oranges.

Tickler. They are suspiciously dark in the colour-but perhaps you like the bitter?

3

Shepherd. They're nae mair ceevil than yoursel-but genuine St Michaelers-and as they're but sma', half-a-dizzen

1 Thir-these.

2 Fent-faint.

3 Seville-Garrick's poor pun on being pelted with oranges.

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o' them will sharpen the pallet for some o' thae American aipples that never put ane's teeth on edge-which is mair than you can say for Scotch anes, that are noo seldom sweeter than scribes.

Buller. Scribes ?

Shepherd. Crabs. Mr North, we maun tak tent what we're about, for it wouldna answer weel to stoiter ower the edge o' the leeds; nor yet to tummle doun the trapdoor-stairs.

North. The companion-ladder, if you please, James.

Shepherd. Companion-ladder? I suppose because only ae person can climb up at a time-though there's room aneuch, that's true, for severals to fa' doun at ance-but the term's nowtical, I ken-and you're a desperate cretur for thinkin o' the sea.

North. Would that Tom Cringle1 were here—the best sketcher of sea-scenery that ever held a pen!

Buller. And painter, too, sir.

Shepherd. I ken little mair, or aiblins less o' ships than Tam Cringle kens o' sheep-but in his pages I see them sailin alang

North. In calm, breeze, gale, or storm

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

or

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

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

Tickler. Or sailin-James-in a cawm-as you said just

now.

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

ye

1 Michael Scott, the author of Tom Cringle's Log, was born in Glasgow in 1789, and died in 1835.

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North. My friend Marryat' 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 shouldna be surprised to see you, sir, gettin grup o' an idea.

2

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

North. The truth is, that Tom is a poet.

Buller. And of a high order.

North. Marryat missed to remember that while he was penning his critique. Strike all the poetry out of Tom's prose

Shepherd. I'll defy you.

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

Shepherd. Wha's he, that Marryat?

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! but they grow wearisome on ane's hauns when ane's no in the humour for diversion or daffin, but wish to be quate.

North. Right, James. I have no conceit of them "who are all things to all men." Why, I have seen John Schetky3 him

1 Captain Marryat, author of many admirable naval novels, was born in 1786, and died in 1848. At this time he was editor of the Metropolitan Magazine. 2 Mr Albany Fonblanque, the author of a History of England under Seven Administrations, and at this time the editor of the Examiner.

3 This accomplished artist, whose sea-pieces, in particular, are of the highest order of excellence, was an early and esteemed friend of Professor Wilson's. He formerly held an appointment in the Military College at Addiscombe, but has now retired from the active duties of life.

CAPTAIN GLASCOCK.

53

self 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 kindred spirits, and how his wild wit even 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.

Shepherd. I howp I'll no gang to my grave without forgathering wi' John Schetky.

North. Marryat is often gruff.

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

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

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

Tickler. Parson Adams!

Shepherd. Ay, just Parson Adams.

He that imagined

Peter Simple's a Sea-Fieldin. That's a better compound yepithet, Mr North, nor your sea-scribe.

North. Methinks I see another son of Ocean sitting on that couch.

Shepherd. Wha?

North. Glascock.1

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

North. "Dicky Phantom!"

Shepherd. And nae mair.

North. Glascock 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. No man stands higher.

North. All his books have been excellent, but his last is best of all.

Shepherd. Shall I ca' him a Sea-Smollett ?

1 Captain Glascock, author of the Naval Sketch-Book, and other sea tales.

54

CRINGLE, GLASCOCK, HALL, AND MARRYAT.

Tickler. You may, if you choose to talk stuff.

Shepherd. I was speerin at Mr North-nane but a fule would 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.

No man

North. I call him what he is-a Sea-Glascock. alive can tell a galley-story with him-the language of the forecastle from his lips smacks indeed of the salt sea-foamhis 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.

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

North. He can-and eke of the Admiral's.

Glascock in a bumper, with all the honours.

Shepherd. Na. I wunna drink't.

North. James !!!

Marryat and

Tickler. What the devil's the matter with you now?
Buller. Mr Hogg!

Shepherd. If I drink't, may I be

North. No cursing or swearing allowed on board this ship.

Tickler. Call the master-of-arms, and let him get a dozen. Shepherd. 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! Would you cram the healths of twa siccan men, wi' a' the honours, inti ae bumper? Let's drink them separate and in

tummlers.

North. Charge.

Tickler. Halt. "I wunna drink't."

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

Tickler. "I wunna drink't"—unless we all quaff, before sitting down, another tumbler to Basil Hall.

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