LITMIR.BIZ

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he was still “nubibus,” while the dog galloped forward with the fragment, and Tom chased him to recover it. The Dominie continued in his reverie, when old Tom burst out—

      “O, England, dear England, bright gem of the ocean,

          Thy valleys and fields look fertile and gay,

      The heart clings to thee with a sacred devotion,

          And memory adores when in far lands away.”

      The song gradually called the Dominie to his recollection; indeed, the strain was so beautiful that it would have vibrated in the ears of a dying man. The Dominie gradually turned round, and when old Tom had finished, exclaimed, “Truly it did delight mine ear, and from such—and,” continued the Dominie, looking down upon old Tom—“without legs too!”

      “Why, old gentleman, I don’t sing with my legs,” answered old Tom.

      “Nay, good Dux, I am not so deficient as not to be aware that a man singeth from the mouth; yet is thy voice mellifluous, sweet as the honey of Hybla, strong—”

      “As the Latin for goose,” finished Tom. “Come, father, old Dictionary is in the doldrums; rouse him up with another stave.”

      “I’ll rouse you up with the stave of a cask over your shoulders, Mr Tom. What have you done with the old gentleman’s swallow-tail?”

      “Leave me to settle that affair, father: I know how to get out of a scrape.”

      “So you ought, you scamp, considering how many you get into; but the craft are swinging and heaving up. Forward there, Jacob, and sway up the mast; there’s Tom and Tommy to help you.”

      The mast was hoisted up, the sail set, and the lighter in the stream before the Dominie was out of his reverie.

      “Are there whirlpools here?” said the Dominie, talking more to himself than to those about him.

      “Whirlpools!” replied young Tom, who was watching and mocking him; “yes, that there are, under the bridges. I’ve watched a dozen chips go down, one after the other.”

      “A dozen ships!” exclaimed the Dominie, turning to Tom; “and every soul lost?”

      “Never saw them afterwards,” replied Tom, in a mournful voice.

      “How little did I dream of the dangers of those so near me,” said the Dominie, turning away, and communing with himself. “‘Those who go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters;’—‘Et vastas aperit Syrtes;’—‘These men see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.’—‘Alternante vorans vasta Charybdis aqua.’—‘For at his word the stormy wind ariseth, which lifteth up the waves thereof.’—‘Surgens a puppi ventus.—Ubi tempestas et caeli mobilis humor.’—‘They are carried up to the heavens, and down again to the deep.’—‘Gurgitibus miris et lactis vertice torrens.’—‘Their soul melteth away because of their troubles.’—‘Stant pavidi. Omnibus ignoiae mortis timor, omnibus hostem.’—‘They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man.’”

      “So they do, father, don’t they, sometimes?” observed Tom, leering his eye at his father. “That’s all I’ve understood of his speech.”

      “They are at their wit’s end,” continued the Dominie.

      “Mind the end of your wit, master Tom,” answered his father, wroth at the insinuation.

      “‘So when they call upon the Lord in their trouble’—‘Cujus jurare timent et fallere nomen’—‘He delivereth them out of their distress, for he makest the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof are still;’ yea, still and smooth as the peaceful water which now floweth rapidly by our anchored vessel—yet it appeareth to me that the scene hath changed. These fields met not mine eyes before. ‘Riparumque toros et prata recentia rivis.’ Surely we have moved from the wharf?”—and the Dominie turned round, and discovered, for the first time, that we were more than a mile from the place at which we had embarked.

      “Pray, sir, what’s the use of speech, sir?” interrogated Tom, who had been listening to the whole of the Dominie’s long soliloquy.

      “Thou asketh a foolish question, boy. We are endowed with the power of speech to enable us to communicate our ideas.”

      “That’s exactly what I thought, sir. Then pray what’s the use of your talking all that gibberish, that none of us could understand?”

      “I crave thy pardon, child; I spoke, I presume, in the dead languages.”

      “If they’re dead, why not let them rest in their graves?”

      “Good; thou hast wit.” (Cluck, cluck.) “Yet, child, know that it is pleasant to commune with the dead.”

      “Is it? then we’ll put you on shore at Battersea churchyard.”

      “Silence, Tom. He’s full of his sauce, sir—you must forgive it.”

      “Nay, it pleaseth me to hear him talk; but it would please me more to hear thee sing.”

      “Then here goes, sir, to drown Tom’s impudence:—

      “Glide on my bark, the morning tide

      Is gently floating by thy side;

      Around thy prow the waters bright,

      In circling rounds of broken light,

      Are glittering, as if ocean gave

      Her countless gems unto the wave.

      “That’s a pretty air, and I first heard it sung by a pretty woman; but that’s all I know of the song. She sang another—

      “I’d be a butterfly, born in a bower.”

      “You’d be a butterfly!” said the Dominie, taking old Tom literally, and looking at his person.

      Young Tom roared, “Yes, sir, he’d be a butterfly, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t very soon. His legs are gone, and his wings aren’t come: so he’s a grub now, and that, you know, is the next thing to it. What a funny old beggar it is, father—aren’t it?”

      “Tom, Tom, go forward, sir; we must shoot the bridge.”

      “Shoot!” exclaimed the Dominie; “shoot what?”

      “You aren’t afraid of fire-arms, are ye, sir?” inquired Tom.

      “Nay, I said not that I was afraid of fire-arms; but why should you shoot?”

      “We never could get on without it, sir; we shall have plenty of shooting, by-and-by. You don’t know this river.”

      “Indeed, I thought not of such doings; or that there were other dangers besides that of the deep waters.”

      “Go forward, Tom, and don’t be playing with your betters,” cried old Tom. “Never mind him, sir, he’s only humbugging you.”

      “Explain, Jacob. The language of both old Tom and young Tom are to me as incomprehensible as would be that of the dog Tommy.”

      “Or as your Latin is to them, sir.”

      “True, Jacob, true. I have no right to complain; nay, I do not complain, for I am amused, although at times much puzzled.”

      We now shot Putney Bridge, and as a wherry passed us, old Tom carolled out—

      “Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young waterman?”

      “No, I never did,” said the Dominie, observing old Tom’s eyes directed towards him. Tom, amused by this naïveté on the part of the Dominie, touched him by the sleeve, on the other side, and commenced with his treble—

      “Did you ne’er hear a tale

      Of a maid in the vale?”

      “Not that

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