_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Eh! sir, on its own around, your Thames salmon has two virtues over all others; first, that it is fresh; and, second, that it is rare; for I understand you do not take half a dozen in a year. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—In some years, sir, not one. Mud, filth, gas-dregs, lock-weirs, and the march of mind, developed in the form of poaching, have ruined the fishery. But, when we do catch a salmon, happy the man to whom he falls. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—I confess, sir, this is excellent: but I cannot see why it should be better than a Tweed salmon at Kelso. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, I will take a glass of Hock with you. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—With all my heart, sir. There are several varieties of the salmon genus: but the common salmon, the _salmo salar_, is only one species, one and the same everywhere, just like the human mind. Locality and education make all the difference. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Education! Well, sir, I have no doubt schools for all are just as fit for the species _salmo salar_ as for the genus _homo_. But you must allow that the specimen before us has finished his education in a manner that does honour to his college. However, I doubt that the _salmo salar_ is only one species, that is to say, precisely alike in all localities. I hold that every river has its own breed, with essential differences; in flavour especially. And as for the human mind, I deny that it is the same in all men. I hold that there is every variety of natural capacity from the idiot to Newton and Shakespeare; the mass of mankind, midway between these extremes, being blockheads of different degrees; education leaving them pretty nearly as it found them, with this single difference, that it gives a fixed direction to their stupidity, a sort of incurable wry neck to the thing they call their understanding. So one nose points always east, and another always west, and each is ready to swear that it points due north. _Mr. Crotchet_.—If that be the point of truth, very few intellectual noses point due north. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Only those that point to the Modern Athens. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Where all native noses point southward. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Eh, sir, northward for wisdom, and southward for profit. _Mr. Crotchet_, _jun._ Champagne, doctor? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Most willingly. But you will permit my drinking it while it sparkles. I hold it a heresy to let it deaden in my hand, while the glass of my _compotator_ is being filled on the opposite side of the table. By-the-bye, Captain, you remember a passage in Athenæus, where he cites Menander on the subject of fish-sauce: ὀψάριον ἐπὶ ἰχθύος. (The Captain was aghast for an answer that would satisfy both his neighbours, when he was relieved by the divine continuing.) The science of fish-sauce, Mr. Mac Quedy, is by no means brought to perfection; a fine field of discovery still lies open in that line.