IS A CHAPTER OF TALES IN A DOUBLE SENSE--THE DOMINIE, FROM THE NATURAL
EFFECTS OF HIS SINGLE-HEARTEDNESS, BEGINS TO SEE DOUBLE--A NEW
DEFINITION OF PHILOSOPHY, WITH AN EPISODE ON JEALOUSY.
We now took our seats on the deck, round the saucepan, for we did not
trouble ourselves with dishes, and the Dominie appeared to enjoy the
lobscouse very much. In the course of half-an-hour all was over; that
is to say, we had eaten as much as we wished; and the Newfoundland dog,
who, during our repast, lay close by young Tom, flapping the deck with
his tail, and sniffing the savoury smell of the compound, had just
licked all our plates quite clean, and was now finishing with his head
in the saucepan; while Tom was busy carrying the crockery into the
cabin, and bringing out the bottle and tin pannikins, ready for the
promised carouse.
"There, now, master, there's a glass o' grog for you that would float a
marline-spike. See if that don't warm the _cockles_ of your old heart."
"Ay," added Tom, "and set all your _muscles_ as taut as weather
backstays."
"Master Tom, with your leave, I'll mix your grog for you myself. Hand
me back that bottle, you rascal."
"Just as you please, father," replied Tom, handing the bottle; "but
recollect, none of your _water bewitched_. Only help me as you love
me."
Old Tom mixed a pannikin of grog for Tom, and another for himself. I
hardly need say which was the _stiffer_ of the two.
"Well, father, I suppose you think the grog will run short. To be sure,
one bottle aren't too much 'mong four of us."
"One bottle, you scamp! there's another in the cupboard."
"Then you must see double already, father."
Old Tom, who was startled at this news, and who imagined that Tom must
have gained possession of the other bottle, jumped up and made for the
cupboard, to ascertain whether what Tom asserted was correct. This was
what Tom wished; he immediately changed pannikins of grog with his
father, and remained quiet.
"There _is_ another bottle, Tom," said his father, coming out and taking
his seat again. "I knew there was. You young rascal, you don't know
how you frightened me!" And old Tom put the pannikin to his lips.
"Drowned the miller, by heavens!" said he, "What could I have been
about?" ejaculated he, adding more spirit to his mixture.
"I suppose, upon the strength of another bottle in the locker, you are
doubling the strength of your grog. Come, father," and Tom held out his
pannikin, "do put a little drop in mine--it's seven-water grog, and I'm
not on the black-list."
"No, no, Tom; your next shall be stronger. Well, master, how do you
like your liquor?"
"Verily," replied the Dominie, "it is a pleasant and seducing liquor.
Lo and behold! I am at the bottom of my utensil."
"Stop till I fill it up again, old gentleman. I see you are one of the
right sort. You know what the song says--
"A plague on those musty old lubbers,
Who tell us to fast and to think,
And patient fall in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but _water_ to _drink_!
"Water, indeed! The only use of water I know is to mix your grog with,
and float vessels up and down the world. Why was the sea made salt, but
to prevent our drinking too much water. Water, indeed!
"A can of good grog, had they swigg'd it,
T'would have set them for pleasure agog,
And in spite of the rules
Of the schools,
The old fools
Would have all of them swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog."
"I'm exactly of your opinion, father," said Tom, holding out his empty
pannikin.
"Always ready for two things, Master Tom--grog and mischief; but,
however, you shall have one more _dose_."
"It hath, then, medicinal virtues?" inquired the Dominie.
"Ay, that it has, master--more than all the quacking medicines in the
world. It cures grief and melancholy, and prevents spirits from getting
low."
"I doubt that, father," cried Tom, holding up the bottle "for the more
grog we drink, the more the _spirits become low_."
_Cluck, cluck_, came from the thorax of the Dominie. "Verily, friend
Tom, it appeareth, among other virtues, to sharpen the wits. Proceed,
friend Dux, in the medicinal virtues of grog."
"Well, master, it cures love when it's not returned, and adds to it when
it is. I've heard say it will cure jealousy; but that I've my doubts
of. Now I think on it, I will tell you a yarn about a jealous match
between a couple of fools. Jacob, aren't your pannikin empty, my boy?"
"Yes," replied I, handing it up to be filled. It was empty, for, not
being very fond of it myself, Tom, with my permission, had drunk it as
well as his own.
"There, Jacob, is a good dose for you; you aren't always craving after
it, like Tom."
"He isn't troubled with low spirits, as I am, father."
"How long has that been your complaint, Tom?" inquired I.
"Ever since I heard how to cure it. Come, father, give us the yarn."
"Well, then, you must mind that an old shipmate o' mine, Ben Leader, had
a wife named Poll, a pretty sort of craft in her way--neat in her
rigging, swelling-bows, taking sort of figure-head, and devilish well
rounded in the counter; altogether, she was a very fancy girl, and all
the men were after her. She'd a roguish eye, and liked to be stared at,
as most pretty women do, because it flatters their vanities. Now,
although she liked to be noticed so far by the other chaps, yet Ben was
the only one she ever wished to be handled by; it was `Paws off,
Pompey!' with all the rest. Ben Leader was a good-looking, active,
smart chap, and could foot it in a reel, or take a bout at single-stick
with the very best o' them; and she was mortal fond of him, and mortal
jealous if he talked to any other woman, for the women liked Ben as much
as the men liked she. Well, as they returned love for love, so did they
return jealousy for jealousy; and the lads and lasses, seeing that, had
a pleasure in making them come to a misunderstanding. So every day it
became worse and worse between them. Now, I always says that it's a
stupid thing to be jealous, _'cause_ if there be _cause_, there be no
_cause_ for love and if there be no _cause_, there be no _cause_ for
jealousy."
"You're like a row in a rookery, father--nothing but _caws_,"
interrupted Tom.
"Well, I suppose I am; but that's what I call chop logic--aren't it,
master?"
"It was a syllogism," replied the Dominie, taking the pannikin from his
mouth.
"I don't know what that is, nor do I want to know," replied old Tom; "so
I'll just go on with my story. Well, at last they came to downright
fighting. Ben licks Poll 'cause she talked and laughed with other men,
and Poll cries and whines all day 'cause he won't sit on her knee,
instead of going on board and 'tending to his duty. Well, one night,
a'ter work was over, Ben goes on shore to the house where he and Poll
used to sleep; and when he sees the girl in the bar, he says, `Where is
Poll?' Now, the girl at the bar was a fresh-comer, and answers, `What
girl?' So Ben describes her, and the bar-girl answers, `She be just
gone to bed with her husband, I suppose;' for, you see, there was a
woman like her who had gone up to her bed, sure enough. When Ben heard
that, he gave his trousers one hitch, and calls for a quartern, drinks
it off with a sigh, and leaves the house, believing it all to be true.
A'ter Ben was gone, Poll makes her appearance, and when she finds Ben
wasn't in the tap, says, `Young woman, did a man go upstairs just now?'
`Yes,' replied the bar-girl, `with his wife, I suppose; they be turned
in this quarter of an hour.' When she almost turned mad with rage, and
then as white as a sheet, and then she burst into tears, and runs out of
the house, crying out, `Poor misfortunate creature that I am!' knocking
everything down undersized, and running into the arms of every man who
came athwart her hawse."
"I understood him, but just now, that she was running on foot; yet doth
he talk about her _horse_. Expound, Jacob."
"It was a nautical figure of speech, sir."
"Exactly," rejoined Tom; "it meant her figure-head, old gentleman; but
my yarn won't cut a figure if I'm brought up all standing in this way.
Suppose, master, you hear the story first, and understand it
a'terwards?"
"I will endeavour to comprehend by the context," replied the Dominie.
"That is, I suppose, that you'll allow me to stick to my text. Well,
then, here's coil away again. Ben, you see, what with his jealousy and
what with a whole quartern at a draught, became _somehow nohow_, and he
walked down to the jetty with the intention of getting rid of himself,
and his wife and all his trouble by giving his soul back to his Creator,
and his body to the fishes."
"Bad philosophy," quoth the Dominie.
"I agree with you, master," replied old Tom.
"Pray what sort of a thing is philosophy?" inquired Tom.
"Philosophy," replied old Tom, "is either hanging, drowning, shooting
yourself, or, in short, getting out of the world without help."
"Nay," replied the Dominie, "that is _felo de se_."
"Well, I pronounce it quicker than you, master; but it's one and the
same thing: but to go on. While Ben was standing on the jetty, thinking
whether he should take one more quid of 'baccy afore he dived, who
should come down but Poll, with her hair all adrift, streaming and
coach-whipping astern of her, with the same intention as Ben--to commit
_philo-zoffy_. Ben, who was standing at the edge of the jetty, his eyes
fixed upon the water, as it eddied among the piles, looking as dismal as
if he had swallowed a hearse and six, with the funeral feathers hanging
out of his mouth--"
"A bold comparison," murmured the Dominie.
"Never sees her; and she was so busy with herself, that, although close
to him, she never sees he--always remembering that the night was dark.
So Poll turned her eyes up, for all the world like a dying jackdaw."
"Tell me, friend Dux," interrupted the Dominie, "doth a jackdaw die in
any peculiar way?"
"Yes," replied young Tom; "he always dies black, master."
"Then doth he die as he liveth. (_Cluck, cluck_.) Proceed, good Dux."
"And don't you break the thread of my yarn any more, master, if you wish
to hear the end of it. So Poll begins to bludder about Ben. `O Ben,
Ben,' cried she; `cruel, cruel man; for to come--for to go;--for to go--
for to come!'
"`Who's there?' shouted Ben.
"`For to come--for to go,' cried Poll.
"`Ship ahoy!' hailed Ben, again.
"`For to go--for to come,' blubbered Poll; and then she couldn't bring
out anything more for sobbing. With that, Ben, who thought he knew the
voice, walks up to her, and says, `Be that you, Poll?'
"`Be that you, Ben?' replied Poll, taking her hands from her face, and
looking at him.
"`I thought you were in bed with--with--oh! Poll!' said Ben.
"`And I thought you were in bed with--oh! Ben!' replied Poll.
"`But I wasn't, Poll?'
"`Nor more wasn't I, Ben.'
"`And what brought you here, Poll?'
"`I wanted for to die, Ben. And what brought you here, Ben?'
"`I didn't want for to live, Poll, when I thought you false.'
"Then Polly might have answered in the words of the old song, master;
but her poor heart was too full, I suppose." And Tom sang--
"Your Polly has never been false, she declares,
Since last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs.
"Howsomever, in the next minute they were both hugging and kissing,
sobbing, shivering and shaking in each other's arms; and as soon as they
had settled themselves a little, back they went, arm-in-arm, to the
house, and had a good stiff glass to prevent their taking the
rheumatism, went to bed, and were cured of their jealously ever
a'terwards--which in my opinion, was a much better _philo-zoffy_ than
the one they had both been bound on. There, I've wound it all off at
last, master, and now we'll fill up our pannikins."
"Before I consent, friend Dux, pr'ythee inform me how much of this
pleasant liquor may be taken without inebriating, _vulgo_, getting
tipsy."
"Father can drink enough to float a jolly-boat, master," replied Tom;
"so you needn't fear. I'll drink pan for pan with you all night long."
"Indeed you won't, mister Tom," replied the father.
"But I will, master."
I perceived that the liquor had already had some effect upon my worthy
pedagogue, and was not willing that he should be persuaded into excess.
I therefore pulled him by the coat as a hint; but he was again deep in
thought, and he did not heed me. Tired of sitting so long, I got up,
and walked forward to look at the cable.
"Strange," muttered the Dominie, "that Jacob should thus pull me by the
garment. What could he mean?"
"Did he pull you, sir?" inquired Tom.
"Yes, many times; and then he walked away."
"It appears that you have been pulled too much, sir," replied Tom,
appearing to pick up the tail of his coat, which had been torn off by
the dog, and handing it to him.
"_Eheu! Jacobe--fili dilectissime--quid fecisti_?" cried the Dominie,
holding up the fragment of his coat with a look of despair.
"`A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether,'" sang out old Tom:
and then looking at Tom, "Now, ain't you a pretty rascal, master Tom?"
"It is done," exclaimed the Dominie, with a sigh, putting the fragment
into the remaining pocket; "and it cannot be undone."
"Now, I think it is undone, and can be done, master," replied Tom. "A
needle and thread will soon join the pieces of your old coat again--in
_holy_ matrimony, I may safely say--"
"True. (_Cluck, cluck_.) My housekeeper will restore it; yet will she
be wroth, `_Feminae curaeque iraeque_;' but let us think no more about
it," cried the Dominie, drinking deeply from his pannikin, and each
minute verging fast to intoxication. "`_Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede
libero pulsanda tellus_.' I feel as if I were lifted up, and could
dance, yea, and could exalt my voice and sing."
"Could you, my jolly old master? then we will both dance and sing--
"Come, let us dance and sing,
While all Barbadoes bells shall ring,
Mars scrapes the fiddle string
While Venus plays the lute.
Hymen gay, trips away,
Jocund at the wedding day.
"Now for chorus--
"Come, let us dance and sing."