MUCH LEARNING AFLOAT--YOUNG TOM IS VERY LIVELY UPON THE DEAD LANGUAGES--
THE DOMINIE, AFTER EXPERIENCING THE WONDERS OF THE MIGHTY DEEP, PREPARES
TO REVEL UPON LOBSCOUSE--THOUGH THE MAN OF LEARNING GETS MANY SONGS AND
SOME YARNS FROM OLD TOM, HE LOSES THE BEST PART OF A TALE WITHOUT
KNOWING IT.
The old Dominie's bundle and other paraphernalia being sent on board, he
took farewell of Mr Drummond and his family in so serious a manner,
that I was convinced that he considered he was about to enter upon a
dangerous adventure, and then I led him down to the wharf where the
lighter lay alongside. It was with some trepidation that he crossed the
plank, and got on board, when he recovered himself and looked round.
"My sarvice to you, old gentleman," said a voice behind the Dominie. It
was that of old Tom, who had just come from the cabin. The Dominie
turned round, and perceived old Tom.
"This is old Tom, sir," said I to the Dominie, who stared with
astonishment.
"Art thou, indeed? Jacob, thou didst not tell me that he had been
curtailed of his fair proportions, and I was surprised. Art thou then
Dux?" continued the Dominie, addressing old Tom.
"Yes," interrupted young Tom, who had come from forward, "he is _ducks_,
because he waddles on his short stumps; and I won't say who be goose.
Eh, father?"
"Take care you don't _buy goose_, for your imperance, sir," cried old
Tom.
"A forward boy," exclaimed the Dominie.
"Yes," replied Tom "I'm generally forward."
"Art thou forward in thy learning? Canst thou tell me Latin for goose?"
"To be sure," replied Tom; "Brandy."
"Brandy!" exclaimed the Dominie. "Nay, child, it is _anser_."
"Then I was right," replied Tom. "You had your _answer_!"
"The boy is apt." _Cluck cluck_.
"He is apt to be devilish saucy, old gentleman; but never mind that,
there's no harm in him."
"This, then, is young Tom, I presume, Jacob?" said the Dominie,
referring to me.
"Yes, sir," replied I. "You have seen old Tom, and young Tom, and you
have only to see Tommy."
"Want to see Tommy, sir?" cried Tom. "Here, Tommy, Tommy!"
But Tommy, who was rather busy with a bone forward, did not immediately
answer to his call, and the Dominie turned round to survey the river.
The scene was busy, barges and boats passing in every direction, others
lying on shore, with waggons taking out the coals and other cargoes, men
at work, shouting or laughing with each other. "`_Populus in fluviis_,'
as Virgil hath it. Grand indeed is the vast river, `_Labitur et labetur
in omne volubilis aevum_,' as the generations of men are swept into
eternity," said the Dominie, musing aloud. But Tommy had now made his
appearance, and Tom, in his mischief, had laid hold of the tail of the
Dominie's coat, and shown it to the dog. The dog, accustomed to seize a
rope when it was shown to him, immediately seized the Dominie's coat,
making three desperate tugs at it. The Dominie, who was in one of his
reveries, and probably thought it was I who wished to direct his
attention elsewhere, each time waved his hand, without turning round, as
much as to say, "I am busy now."
"Haul and hold," cried Tom to the dog, splitting his sides, and the
tears running down his cheeks with laughing. Tommy made one more
desperate tug, carrying away one tail of the Dominie's coat; but the
Dominie perceived it not, 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 _naivete_ 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 I can recollect, my child," replied the Dominie.
"Then, where have you been all your life?"
"My life has been employed, my lad, in teaching the young idea how to
shoot."
"So, you're an old soldier, after all, and afraid of fire-arms. Why
don't you hold yourself up? I suppose it's that enormous jib of yours
that brings you down by the head."
"Tom, Tom, I'll cut you into pork pieces if you go on that gait. Go and
get dinner under weigh, you scamp, and leave the gentleman alone.
Here's more wind coming.
"A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast.
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee."
"Jacob," said the Dominie, "I have heard by the mouth of Rumour, with
her hundred tongues, how careless and indifferent are sailors unto
danger; but I never could have believed that such lightness of heart
could have been shown. Yon man, although certainly not old in years,
yet, what is he?--a remnant of a man resting upon unnatural and
ill-proportioned support. Yon lad, who is yet but a child, appears as
blythe and merry as if he were in possession of all the world can
afford. I have an affection for that bold child, and would fain teach
him the rudiments, at least, of the Latin tongue."
"I doubt if Tom would ever learn them, sir. He hath a will of his own."
"It grieveth me to hear thee say so, for he lacketh not talent, but
instruction; and the Dux, he pleaseth me mightily--a second Palinurus.
Yet how that a man could venture to embark upon an element, to struggle
through the horrors of which must occasionally demand the utmost
exertion of every limb, with the want of the two most necessary for his
safety, is to me quite incomprehensible."
"He can keep his legs, sir."
"Nay, Jacob; how can he _keep_ what are _already gone_? Even thou
speakest strangely upon the water. I see the dangers that surround us,
Jacob, yet I am calm: I feel that I have not lived a wicked
life--`_Integer vitae, scelerisque purus_,' as Horace truly saith, may
venture, even as I have done, upon the broad expanse of water. What is
it that the boy is providing for us? It hath an inviting smell."
"Lobscouse, master," replied old Tom, "and not bad lining either."
"I recollect no such word--_unde derivatur_, friend?"
"What's that, master?" inquired old Tom.
"It's Latin for lobscouse, depend upon it, father," cried Tom, who was
stirring up the savoury mess with a large wooden spoon. "He be a
_deadly_ lively old gentleman, with his dead language. Dinner's all
ready. Are we to let go the anchor, or pipe to dinner first?"
"We may as well anchor, boys. We have not a quarter of an hour's more
ebb, and the wind is heading us."
Tom and I went forward, brailed up the mainsail, cleared away, and let
go the anchor. The lighter swung round rapidly to the stream. The
Dominie, who had been in a fit of musing, with his eyes cast upon the
forests of masts which we had passed below London Bridge, and which were
now some way astern of us, of a sudden exclaimed, in a loud voice,
"_Parce precor! Periculosum est_!"
The lighter, swinging short round to her anchor, had surprised the
Dominie with the rapid motion of the panorama, and he thought we had
fallen in with one of the whirlpools mentioned by Tom. "What has
happened, good Dux? tell me," cried the Dominie to old Tom, with alarm
in his countenance.
"Why, master, I'll tell you after my own fashion," replied old Tom,
smiling; and then singing, as he held the Dominie by the button of his
spencer--
"Now to her berth the craft draws nigh,
With slacken'd sail, she feels the tide;
`Stand clear the cable!' is the cry--
The anchor's gone, we safely ride.
"And now, master, we'll bail out the lobscouse. We sha'n't weigh anchor
again until to-morrow morning; the wind's right in our teeth, and it
will blow fresh, I'm sartain. Look how the scud's flying; so now we'll
have a jolly time of it, and you shall have your allowance of grog on
board before you turn in."
"I have before heard of that potation," replied the Dominie, sitting
down on the coaming of the hatchway, "and fain would taste it."