Mr. M'Sneeshing. Peradventure, Mr Bosky, you would build a Union poor-house (sarcastically). Mr. Bosky. I would not. Mr. M'Sneeshing. An Hospital? (with a sardonic grin!) Mr. Bosky. I would! Mr. M'Sneeshing. Where? Mr. Bosky. In the _Human Heart!_ You may not know of such a place, Mr. M'Sneeshing. Your hospital would be where some countrymen of yours build castles, in Sky and Ayr! And the Lauréat abruptly quitted the room, leaving Mr. M'Sneeshing in that embarrassing predicament, “_Between the de'il and the deep sea!_” But his mission was soon apparent. “Three cheers for the kind young gentleman!” resounded from the holiday folks, and a broadside of blessings from the veteran tar! This obfuscated concholo-gist Geordie, and he was about to launch a _Brutum fulmen_, a speech _de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis_, as the magging mouthpiece of Professor M'Grab; when, to the great joy of Deputy Doublechin, the miserable drone-pipe of this leatherbrained, leaden-hearted, blue-nosed, frost-bitten, starved nibbler of a Scotch kail-yard, was quickly drowned in the sonorous double-bass of our saltwater Belisarius. My foes were my country's, my messmates the brave. My home was the deck, and my path the green wave; My musick, loud winds, when the tempest rose high-- I sail'd with bold Nelson, and heard his last sigh! His spirit had fled--we gaz'd on the dead-- The sternest of hearts bow'd with sorrow, and bled. As o'er the deep waters mov'd slowly his bier, What victory, thought we, was ever so dear? Far Egypt's hot sands have long since quench'd my sight-- To these rolling orbs what is sunshine or night? But the full blaze of glory that beam'd on thy bay, Trafalgar I still pours on their darkness the day. An ominous tap at the window--the “White Serjeant's!” invited Geordie to a tête-à-tête with a singed sheep's head, and the additional treat of a curtain-lecture, not on political but domestic economy, illustrated with sharp etchings by Mrs. M'Sneeshing's nails, of which his physiognomy had occasionally exhibited proof impressions! To his modern Athenian (!) broad brogue, raised in defiance of the applauding populace outside, responded the polite inquiry, “_Does your mother know you're out?_” * and other classical interrogatories. The return of Mr. Bosky was a signal for cheerfulness, mingled with deeper feelings; during which were not forgotten, “Old England's wooden walls?” and “Peace to the souls of the heroes!” “Hail! all hail I the warriors grave, Valour's venerable bed,-- Hail! the memory of the Brave! Hail! the Spirits of the Dead! * Certain cant phrases strike by their odd sound and apposite allusion. “No mistake!”