"Of course not.

But then, Nigel, poetry in your mother _is_ poetry, an' she can _do_ it, lad--screeds of it--equal to anything that Dibdin, or, or,--that other fellow, you know, I forget his name--ever put pen to--why, your mother is herself a poem! neatly made up, rounded off at the corners, French-polished and all shipshape.

Ha! you needn't go an' shelter yourself under _her_ wings, wi' your inflated, up in the clouds, reef-point-patterin', balloon-like nonsense." "Well, well, father, don't get so hot about it; I won't offend again.
Besides, I'm quite content to take a very low place so long as you give mother her right position.

We won't disagree about that, but I suspect that we differ considerably about the other matter you mentioned." "What other matter ?" demanded the sire.
"My doing duty as first mate," answered the son.

"It must be quite evident to you by this time, I should think, that I am not cut out for a sailor.