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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 405, July 1849
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2017
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TALBOYS.
You mean my Fly.
BULLER.
First your Fly, and then, I think, yourself.
TALBOYS.
I have seen Il Maestro himself in Timber, and in brushwood too. From him I learned to disentangle knots, intricate and perplexed far beyond the Gordian – "with frizzled hair implicit" – round twig, branch, or bole. Not more than half-a-dozen times of the forty that I may have been fast aloft – I speak mainly of my noviciate – have I had to effect liberation by sacrifice.
SEWARD.
Pardon me, Mr Talboys, for hinting that you smacked off your tail-fly to-day – I knew it by the sound.
TALBOYS.
The sound! No trusting to an uncertain sound, Mr Seward. Oh! I did so once – but intentionally – the hook had lost the barb – not a fish would it hold – so I whipped it off, and on with a Professor.
BULLER.
You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, Mr Talboys.
TALBOYS.
I did – that metal minnow of yours came with a splash within an inch of his nose – and no wonder he broke me – nay, I believe it was the minnow that broke me – and yet you can speak of my losing a good fish in rather an awkward manner!
NORTH.
It is melancholy to think that I have taught young Scotland to excel myself in all the Arts that adorn and dignify life. Till I rose, Scotland was a barbarous country —
TALBOYS.
Do say, my dear sir, semi-civilised.
NORTH.
Now it heads the Nations – and I may set.
TALBOYS.
And why should that be a melancholy thought, sir?
NORTH.
Oh, Talboys – National Ingratitude! They are fast forgetting the man who made them what they are – in a few fleeting centuries the name of Christopher North will be in oblivion! Would you believe it possible, gentlemen, that even now, there are Scotsmen who never heard of the Fly that bears the name of me, its Inventor – Killing Kit!
BULLER.
In Cornwall it is a household word.
SEWARD.
And in all the Devons.
BULLER.
Men in Scotland who never heard the name of North!
NORTH.
Christopher North – who is he? Who do you mean by the Man of the Crutch? – The Knight of the Knout? Better never to have been born than thus to be virtually dead.
SEWARD.
Sir, be comforted – you are under a delusion – Britain is ringing with your name.
NORTH.
Not that I care for noisy fame – but I do dearly love the still.
TALBOYS.
And you have it, sir – enjoy it and be thankful.
NORTH.
But it may be too still.
TALBOYS.
My dear sir, what would you have?
NORTH.
I taught you, Talboys, to play Chess – and now you trumpet Staunton.
TALBOYS.
Chess – where's the board? Let us have a game.
NORTH.
Drafts – and you quote Anderson and the Shepherd Laddie.
TALBOYS.
Mr North, why so querulous?
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