By their united efforts, Macallan was at last safely landed—and, after much sputtering, blowing, and puffing, was about to address the coxswain in no very amicable manner, when the purser interrupted him.
“By the powers, doctor, but you took the right way to have a close examination of all those fine things which you were giving us a catalogue of; but now give us the remainder of your speech—you gave us a practical illustration of diving.”
“What sort of sensation was it, doctor?” said Price. “You recollect Shakespeare—and ‘O, methinks what pain it was to drown’—Let me see—something—”
“Pray don’t tax your memory, Price; it’s something like our country,—past all further taxation.”
“That’s the severest thing you’ve said since we’ve sailed together. You’re out of humour, doctor. Well, you know what Shakespeare says: ‘There never yet was found a philosopher’—something about the toothache. I forget the words.”
These attacks did not at all tend to restore the equanimity of the doctor’s temper, which, it must be acknowledged, had some excuse for being disturbed by the events of the morning; but he proved himself a wise man, for he made no further reply. The boat pulled in, and the party returned on board; and when Macallan had divested himself of his uncomfortable attire, and joined his messmates at the dinner-table, he had recovered his usual serenity of disposition, and joined himself in the laugh which had been created at his expense.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure.—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt:
Fear not to lie, ’twill seem a lucky hit,
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit,
Care not for feeling,—pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic! hated, yet caress’d.
Byron.