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Noctes Ambrosianae.

No. XXXIV.

ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.

Σ.

PHOC. ap. Ath.

[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,

An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days;

Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING PEOPLE,

"NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE; "BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis

And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

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C. N. ap. Ambr.

SCENE I-Two Bathing-machines in the Sea at Portobello.

SHEPHERD and TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Halloo, Mr Tickler, are you no ready yet, man? I've been a mothernaked man, in my machine here, for mair than ten minutes. Hae your pantaloons got entangled amang your heels, or are you saying your prayers afore you plunge?

TICKLER.

Both. These patent long drawers, too, are a confounded nuisance-and this patent short under-shirt. There is no getting out of them, without greater agility than is generally possessed by a man at my time of life.

SHEPHERD.

Confound a' pawtents. As for mysell I never wear drawers, but hae my breeks lined wi' flannen a' the year through; and as for thae wee short corded under-shirts that clasp you like ivy, I never hae had ane o' them on syn last July, when I was forced to cut it aff my back and breast wi' a pair o' sheepshears, after having tried in vain to get out o't every morning for twa months. But are ye no ready, sir? A man on the scaffold wud na be allowed sae lang time for preparation. The minister or the hangman wud be jugging him to fling the handkershief.

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What the devil has become of James? He is nowhere to be seen. That is but a gull-that only a seal-and that a mere pellock. James, James, James! SHEPHERD, (emerging.)

Wha's that roaring? Stop awee till I get the sawt water out o' my een, and my mouth, and my nose, and wring my hair a bit. Noo, whare are you, Mr

Tickler?

TICKLER.

I think I shall put on my clothes again, James. The air is chill; and I see from your face that the water is as cold as ice.

SHEPHERD.

Oh, man! but you're a desperate cooart. Think shame o' yoursell, staunin naked there, at the mouth o' the machine, wi' the hail crew o' yon brig sailin' VOL. XXII.

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up the Frith, looking at ye, ane after anither, frae cyuck to captain, through the telescope.

TICKLER.

James, on the sincerity of a shepherd, and the faith of a Christian, lay your hand on your heart, and tell me was not the shock tremendous? I thought you never would have reappeared.

SHEPHERD.

The shock was naething, nae mair than what a body feels when waukenin' suddenly during a sermon, or fa'in' ower a stair-case in a dream.-But I'm aff to Inchkeith.

Whizz.

TICKLER.

(Flings a somerset into the sea.)

SHEPHERD.

Ane-twa-three-four-five-sax-seven-aught-but there's nae need

o' coontin-for nae pearl-diver, in the Straits o' Madagascar or aff the coast o' Coromandel, can haud in his breath like Tickler. Weel that's surprisin'. Yon chaise has gaen about half a mile o' gate towards Portybelly syn he gaid fizzin' outower the lugs like a verra rocket. Safe us, what's this gruppin' me by the legs? A sherk—a sherk—a sherk!

TICKLER, (yellowing to the surface.)

Blabla-blabla-bla

SHEPHERD.

He's keep't soomin' aneath the water till he's sick; but every man for himself, and God for us all-I'm aff.

(SHEPHERD stretches away to sea in the direction of Inchkeith-TICKLER in pursuit.)

TICKLER.

Every sinew, my dear James, like so much whip-cord. I swim like a sal◄

mon.

SHEPHERD.

O, sir! that Lord Byron had but been alive the noo, what a sweepstakes! .

TICKLER.

A Liverpool gentleman has undertaken, James, to swim four-and-twenty miles at a stretch. What are the odds?

SHEPHERD.

Three to one on Saturn and Neptune. He'll get numm.

TICKLER.

James, I had no idea you were so rough on the back. You are a perfect otter.

SHEPHERD.

Nae personality, Mr Tickler, out at sea. I'll compare carcasses wi' you ony day o' the year. Yet, you're a gran' soomer-out of the water at every stroke, neck, breast, shouthers, and half way doon the back-after the fashion o' the great American serpent. As for me, my style o' soomin's less showy-laigh and lown-less hurry, but mair speed. Come, sir, I'll dive you for a jug o' toddy.

(TICKLER and SHEPHERD melt away like foam-bells in the sunshine.)

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It's a drawn bate-sae we'll baith pay.-O sir! Is na' Embro a glorious city? Sae clear the air, yonner you see a man and a woman stannin' on the tap o' Arthur's Seat! I had nae notion there were sae mony steeples, and spires, and columns, and pillars, and obelisks, and doms, in Embro! And at this distance, the ee canna distinguish atween them that belangs to kirks, and them that belangs to naval monuments, and them that belangs to ile-gas companies, and them that's only chimley-heeds in the auld toun, and the taps o' groves, or single trees, sic as poplars; and aboon a' and ahint a', craigs and saft-broo'd hills sprinkled wi' sheep, lichts and shadows, and the blue vapoury glimmer o' a Midsummer day-het, het, het, wi' the barometer at ninety ;

but here, to us twa, bob-bobbin amang the wee, fresh, cool, murmurin', and faemy wi' waves, temperate as the air within the mermaid's palace. Anither dive! •

TICKLER.

James, here goes the Fly-Wheel.

SHEPHERD.

That beats a'! He gangs round in the water like a jack roastin' beef. I'm thinkin' he canna stop himsell. Safe us, he's fun' out the perpetual motion.

TICKLER.

What fish, James, would you incline to be, if put into scales?

SHEPHERD.

A dolphin-for they hae the speed o' lichtnin'. They'll dart past and roun' about a ship in full sail before the wind, just as if she was at anchor. Then the dolphin is a fish o' peace-he saved the life o' a poet of auld, Arion, wi' his harp and oh! they say, the creatur's beautifu' in death-Byron, ye ken, comparin' his hues to those o' the sun settin' ahint the Grecian Isles. I sud like to be a dolphin.

TICKLER.

⚫ I should choose to sport shark for a season. In speed he is a match for the dolphin-and then, James, think what luxury to swallow a well-fed chaplain, or a delicate midshipman, or a young negro girl occasionally

SHEPHERD.

And feenally to be grupped wi' a hyuck in a cocked hat and feather, at which the shark rises, as a trout does at a flee, hawled on board, and hacked to pieces wi' cutlasses and pikes by the jolly crew, or left alive on the deck, gutted as clean as a dice-box, and without an inch o' bowels.

TICKLER.

Men die at shore, James, of natural deaths as bad as that

SHEPHERD.

Let me see-I sud hae nae great objections to be a whale in the Polar Seas. Gran' fun to fling a boatfu' o' harpooners into the air-or, wi' ae thud o' your tail, to drive in the stern-posts o' a Greenlandman.

TICKLER.

Grander fun still, James, to feel the inextricable harpoon in your blubber, and to go snoving away beneath an ice-floe with four mile of line connecting you with your distant enemies.

SHEPHERD.

But then whales marry but ae wife, and are passionately attached to their offspring. There, they and I are congenial speerits. Nae fish that swims enjoys so large a share of domestic happiness.

A whale, James, is not a fish.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Is na he? Let him alane for that. He's ca'd a fish in the Bible, and that's better authority than Buffon. Oh! that I were a whale!

TICKLER.

What think you of a summer of the American Sea-Serpent?

SHEPHERD.

What? To be constantly cruized upon by the hale American navy, military and mercantile ! No to be able to show your back aboon water without being libelled by the Yankees in a' the newspapers, and pursued even by pleasure-parties, playin' the hurdy-gurdy and smokin' cigars! Besides, although I hae nae objection to a certain degree o' singularity, I sudna just like to be sae very singular as the American Sea-Serpent, who is the only ane of his specie noo extant; and whether he dees in his bed, or is slain by Jonathan, must incur the pain and the opprobrium o' defunckin' an auld bachelor.-What's the matter wi' you, Mr Tickler ?-(Dives.)

TICKLER.

The calf of my right leg is rather harder than is altogether pleasant. A pretty business if it prove the cramp; and the cramp it is, sure enough-hallo -James-James-James-hallo-I'm seized with the cramp-James-the

sinews of the calf of my right leg are gathered up into a knot about the bulk and consistency of a sledge-hammer

SHEPHERD.

Nae tricks upon travellers. You've nae cramp. Gin you hae, streek out your richt hind leg, like a horse giein' a funk-and then ower on the back o' ye, and keep floatin' for a space, and your cauf 'll be as saft's a cushion. Lord safe us, what's this? Deevil tak me if he's no droonin'. Mr Tickler, are you droonin'? There he's doon ance, and up again-twice, and up again ;—but it's time to tak haud o' him by the hair o' the head, or he'll be doon amang the limpets!-(SHEPHERD seizes TICKLER by the locks.)

TICKLER.

Oho-oho-oho-ho-ho-ho-hra-hra-hrach-hrach.

SHEPHERD.

What language is that? Finnish? Noo, sir, dinna rug me doon to the bottom alang wi' you in the dead-thraws.

TICKLER.

Heaven reward you,-James-the pain is gone-but keep near me.

SHEPHERD.

Whammle yoursell ower on your back, sir. That 'ill do. Hoo are you now, sir? Yonner's the James Watt steam-boat, Captain Bain, within half a league. Lean on my airm, sir, till he comes alang-side, and it 'ill be a real happiness to the captain to save your life. But what 'ill a' the leddies do whan they're hoistin' us a-board? They maun just use their fans.

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TICKLER.

My dear Shepherd, I am again floating like a turtle,-but keep within hail, James. Are you to windward or leeward?

SHEPHERD.

Right astarn. Did you ever see, sir, in a' your born days, sic a sky? Ane can scarcely say he sees't, for it's maist invisible in its blue beautifu' tenuity, as the waters o' a well! It's just like the ee o' ae lassie I kent lang ago-the langer you gazed intil't, the deep, deep, deeper it grew-the cawmer and the mair cawm-composed o' a smile, as an amythist is composed o' lichtand seeming something impalpable to the touch, till you ventured, wi' fear, joy, and tremmlin' to kiss it-just ae hesitatin', pantin', reverential kiss-and then to be sure your verra sowl kent it to be a bonny blue ee, covered wi' a lid o' dark fringes, and drappin' aiblins a bit frichten'd tear to the lip o' love.

TICKLER.

What is your specific gravity, James? You float like a sedge.

SHEPHERD.

Say rather a Nautilus, or a Mew. I'm native to the yelement.

TICKLER.

Where learned you the natatory art, my dear Shepherd?

SHEPHERD.

Do you mean soomin'? In St Mary's Loch. For a kail simmer I kept plouterin' alang the shore, and pittin' ae fit to the grun, knockin' the skin aff my knees, and makin' nae progress, till ae day, the gravel haein' been loosened by a flood, I plowpped in ower head and ears, and in my confusion, turnin' my face the wrang airt, I swom across the loch at the widest, at ae streatch, and ever after that cou'd hae soomed ony man in the Forest for a wager, excep Mr David Ballantyne, that noo leeves ower by yonner, near the Hermitage Castle.

TICKLER.

Now, James, you are, to use the language of Spenser, the Shepherd of the Sea.

SHEPHERD.

O that I had been a sailor! To hae circumnavigated the warld! To hae pitched our tents, or built our bowers, on the shores o' bays sae glitterin' wr' league-lang wreaths o' shells, that the billows blushed crimson as they murmured! To hae seen our flags burnin' meteor-like, high up amang the primeval woods, while birds bright as ony buntin' sat trimmin' their plummage amang the cordage, sae tame in that island where ship had haply never touched afore, nor ever might touch again, lying in a latitude by itsell, and f

out o' the breath o' the treddwunds! Or to hae landed wi' a' the crew, marines and a', excep a guard on ship-board to keep aff the crowd o' canoes, on some warlike isle, tossin' wi' the plumes on chieftains' heads, and soun'-soun'-soundin' wi' gongs! What's a man-o'-war's barge, Mr Tickler, beautifu' sicht though it be, to the hundred-oared canoe o' some savage Island-king! The King himsell lyin' in state-no dead, but leevin', every inch o' him-on a platform-aboon a' his warriors standin' wi' war-clubs, and stane-hatchets, and fish-bane spears, and twisted mats, and tattooed faces, and ornaments in their noses, and painted een, and feathers on their heads a yard heigh, a silent, or burstin' out o' a sudden intil shootin' sangs o' welcome or defiance, in a language made up o' a few lang strang words-maistly gutturals—and gran' for the naked priests to yell intil the ears o' their victims, when about to cut their throats on the altar-stane that Idolatry had incrusted with blood, shed by stormy moonlicht to glut the maw of their sanguinary God. Or say rather-O rather say, that the white-winged Wonder that has brought the strangers frae afar, frae lands beyond the setting sun, has been hailed with hymns and dances o' peace-and that a' the daughters of the Isle, wi' the daughter o' the King at their head, come a' gracefully windin' alang in a figur, that, wi' a thousan' changes, is aye but ae single dance, wi' unsandalled feet true to their ain wild singin', wi' wings fancifully fastened to their shou thers, and, beautifu' creaturs! a' naked to the waist-But whare the deevil's Mr Tickler? Has he sunk during my soliloquy? or swum to shore? Mr Tickler-Mr Tickler-I wush I had a pistol to fire into the air, that he might be brought to. Yonner he is, playin' at porpuss. Let me try if I can reach him in twenty strokes-it's no abune a hunder yards. Five yards a-stroke-no bad soomin' in dead water.There, I've done it in nineteen. Let me on my back for a rest.

TICKLER.

I am not sure that this confounded cramp

SHEPHERD.

The cramp's just like the hiccup, sir-never think o't, and it's gane. I've seen a white lace-veil, sic as Queen Mary's drawn in, lyin' afloat, without stirrin' aboon her snawy broo, saftenin' the ee-licht-and it's yon braided clouds that remind me o't, motionless, as if they had lain there a' their lives; yet, wae's me! perhaps in ae single hour to melt away for ever!

TICKLER.

James, were a Mermaid to see and hear you moralizing so, afloat on your back, her heart were lost.

SHEPHERD.

I'm nae favourite noo, I suspec, amang the Mermaids.

TICKLER.

Why not, James? You look more irresistible than you imagine. Never saw I your face and figure to more advantage-when lying on the braes o' Yarrow, with your eyes closed in the sunshine, and the shadows of poetical dreams chasing each other along cheek and brow. You would make a beautiful corpse, James.

SHEPHERD.

Think shame o' yoursell, Mr Tickler, for daurin' to use that word, and the sinnies o' the cawf o' your richt leg yet knotted wi' the cramp. Think shame o' yoursell! That word's no canny.

TICKLER.

But what ail the Mermaids with the Shepherd?

SHEPHERD.

I was ance lyin' half asleep in a sea-shore cave o' the Isle o' Sky, wearied out by the verra beauty o' the moonlicht that had keepit lyin' for hours in ae lang line o' harmless fire, stretching leagues and leagues to the rim o' the ocean. Nae sound, but a bit faint, dim plash-plash-plash o' the tide whether eb→ bin' or flawin' I ken not-no against, but upon the weedy sides o' the cave

TICKLER.

As when some shepherd of the Hebride Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main!

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