LITMIR.BIZ

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he had been a savage captain, to have braced our spirits to sturdy resistance, instead of a mild, good-humoured man of kind intentions, who lent us his linen to wear, fed us at his table, and taxed our most gentlemanly feelings to find excuses for him. Our way of revenging ourselves becomingly was to laud the heroes of antiquity, as if they had possession of our souls and touched the fountain of worship. Whenever Captain Welsh exclaimed, ‘Well done,’ or the equivalent, ‘That ‘s an idea,’ we referred him to Plutarch for our great exemplar. It was Alcibiades gracefully consuming his black broth that won the captain’s thanks for theological acuteness, or the young Telemachus suiting his temper to the dolphin’s moods, since he must somehow get on shore on the dolphin’s back. Captain Welsh could not perceive in Temple the personifier of Alcibiades, nor Telemachus in me; but he was aware of an obstinate obstruction behind our compliance. This he called the devil coiled like a snake in its winter sleep. He hurled texts at it openly, or slyly dropped a particularly heavy one, in the hope of surprising it with a death-blow. We beheld him poring over his Bible for texts that should be sovereign medicines for us, deadly for the devil within us. Consequently, we were on the defensive: bits of Cicero, bits of Seneca, soundly and nobly moral, did service on behalf of Paganism; we remembered them certainly almost as if an imp had brought them from afar. Nor had we any desire to be in opposition to the cause he supported. What we were opposed to was the dogmatic arrogance of a just but ignorant man, who had his one specific for everything, and saw mortal sickness in all other remedies or recreations. Temple said to him,

      ‘If the Archbishop of Canterbury were to tell me Greek and Latin authors are bad for me, I should listen to his remarks, because he ‘s a scholar: he knows the languages and knows what they contain.’

      Captain Welsh replied,

      ‘If the Archbishop o’ Canterbury sailed the sea, and lived in Foul Alley, Waterside, when on shore, and so felt what it is to toss on top of the waves o’ perdition, he’d understand the value of a big, clean, well-manned, well-provisioned ship, instead o’ your galliots wi’ gaudy sails, your barges that can’t rise to a sea, your yachts that run to port like mother’s pets at first pipe o’ the storm, your trim-built wherries.’

      ‘So you’d have only one sort of vessel afloat!’ said I. ‘There’s the difference of a man who’s a scholar.’

      ‘I’d have,’ said the captain, ‘every lad like you, my lad, trained in the big ship, and he wouldn’t capsize, and be found betrayed by his light timbers as I found you. Serve your apprenticeship in the Lord’s three-decker; then to command what you may.’

      ‘No, no, Captain Welsh,’ says Temple: ‘you must grind at Latin and Greek when you ‘re a chick, or you won’t ever master the rudiments. Upon my honour, I declare it ‘s the truth, you must. If you’d like to try, and are of a mind for a go at Greek, we’ll do our best to help you through the aorists. It looks harder than Latin, but after a start it ‘s easier. Only, I’m afraid your three-decker’s apprenticeship ‘ll stand in your way.’

      ‘Greek ‘s to be done for me; I can pay clever gentlemen for doing Greek for me,’ said the captain. ‘The knowledge and the love of virtue I must do for myself; and not to be wrecked, I must do it early.’

      ‘Well, that’s neither learning nor human nature,’ said I.

      ‘It’s the knowledge o’ the right rules for human nature, my lad.’

      ‘Would you kidnap youngsters to serve in your ship, captain?’

      ‘I’d bless the wind that blew them there, foul or not, my lad.’

      ‘And there they’d stick when you had them, captain?’

      ‘I’d think it was the Lord’s will they should stick there awhile, my lad—yes.’

      ‘And what of their parents?’

      ‘Youngsters out like gossamers on a wind, their parents are where they sow themselves, my lad.’

      ‘I call that hard on the real parents, Captain Welsh,’ said Temple.

      ‘It’s harder on Providence when parents breed that kind o’ light creature, my lad.’

      We were all getting excited, talking our best, such as it was; the captain leaning over his side of the table, clasping his hands unintentionally preacher-like; we on our side supporting our chins on our fists, quick to be at him. Temple was brilliant; he wanted to convert the captain, and avowed it.

      ‘For,’ said he, ‘you’re not like one of those tract-fellows. You’re a man we can respect, a good seaman, master of your ship, and hearty, and no mewing sanctimoniousness, and we can see and excuse your mistake as to us two; but now, there’s my father at home—he’s a good man, but he ‘s a man of the world, and reads his classics and his Bible. He’s none the worse for it, I assure you.’

      ‘Where was his son the night of the fog?’ said the captain.

      ‘Well, he happened to be out in it.’

      ‘Where’d he be now but for one o’ my men?’

      ‘Who can answer that, Captain Welsh?’

      ‘I can, my lad-stewing in an ante-room of hell-gates, I verily believe.’

      Temple sighed at the captain’s infatuation, and said, ‘I’ll tell you of a fellow at our school named Drew; he was old Rippenger’s best theological scholar—always got the prize for theology. Well, he was a confirmed sneak. I’ve taken him into a corner and described the torments of dying to him, and his look was disgusting—he broke out in a clammy sweat. “Don’t, don’t!” he’d cry. “You’re just the fellow to suffer intensely,” I told him. And what was his idea of escaping it? Why, by learning the whole of Deuteronomy and the Acts of the Apostles by heart! His idea of Judgement Day was old Rippenger’s half-yearly examination. These are facts, you know, Captain Welsh.’

      I testified to them briefly.

      The captain said a curious thing: ‘I’ll make an appointment with you in leviathan’s jaws the night of a storm, my lad.’

      ‘With pleasure,’ said Temple.

      ‘The Lord send it!’ exclaimed the captain.

      His head was bent forward, and he was gazing up into his eyebrows.

      Before we knew that anything was coming, he was out on a narrative of a scholar of one of the Universities. Our ears were indifferent to the young man’s career from the heights of fortune to delirium tremens down the cataract of brandy, until the captain spoke of a dark night on the Pool of the Thames; and here his voice struggled, and we tried hard to catch the thread of the tale. Two men and a girl were in the boat. The men fought, the girl shrieked, the boat was upset, the three were drowned.

      All this came so suddenly that nothing but the captain’s heavy thump of his fist on the table kept us from laughing.

      He was quite unable to relate the tale, and we had to gather it from his exclamations. One of the men was mate of a vessel lying in the Pool, having only cast anchor that evening; the girl was his sweetheart; the other man had once been a fine young University gentleman, and had become an outfitter’s drunken agent. The brave sailor had nourished him often when on shore, and he, with the fluent tongue which his college had trimmed for him, had led the girl to sin during her lover’s absence. Howsoever, they put off together to welcome him on his arrival, never suspecting that their secret had been whispered to Robert Welsh beforehand. Howsoever, Robert gave them hearty greeting, and down to the cabin they went, and there sat drinking up to midnight.

      ‘Three lost souls!’ said the captain.

      ‘See how they run,’ Temple sang, half audibly, and flushed hot, ashamed of himself.

      ‘‘Twas I had to bear the news to his mother,’ the captain pursued; ‘and it was a task, my lads, for I was then little more than your age, and the glass was Robert’s only fault, and he was my only brother.’

      I offered my hand to the captain. He grasped it powerfully. ‘That crew in a boat, and wouldn’t you know the devil’d be coxswain?’ he called loudly, and buried his

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