THE "FUN GROWS FAST AND FURIOUS"--THE PEDAGOGUE DOES NOT SCAN CORRECTLY,
AND HIS FEET BECOME VERY UNEQUAL--AN ALLEGORICAL COMPLIMENT ALMOST
WORKED UP INTO A LITERAL QUARREL--AT LENGTH THE MIGHTY ARE LAID LOW, AND
THE DOMINIE HURTS HIS NOSE.
I heard Tom's treble, and a creaking noise, which I recognised to
proceed from the Dominie, who had joined the chorus; and I went aft, if
possible to prevent further excess; but I found that the grog had
mounted into the Dominie's head, and all my hints were disregarded. Tom
was despatched for the other bottle, and the Dominie's pannikin was
replenished, old Tom roaring out--
"Come, sling the flowing bowl;
Fond hopes arise,
The girls we prize
Shall bless each jovial soul;
The can, boys, bring,
We'll dance and sing,
While foaming billows roll.
"Now for the chorus again--
"Come, sling the flowing bowl, etcetera.
"Jacob, why don't you join?" The chorus was given by the whole of us.
The Dominie's voice was even louder, though not quite so musical, as old
Tom's.
"_Evoe_!" cried the Dominie; "_evoe! cantemus_.
"_Amo, amas_--I loved a lass,
For she was tall and slender;
_Amas, amat_--she laid me flat,
Though of the feminine gender.
"Truly do I not forget the songs of my youth, and of my hilarious days:
yet doth the potent spirit work upon me like the god in the Cumean
sybil; and I shall soon prophecy that which shall come to pass."
"So can I," said Tom, giving me a nudge, and laughing.
"Do thine office of Ganymede, and fill up the pannikin; put not in too
much of the element. Once more exalt thy voice, good Dux."
"Always ready, master," cried Tom, who sang out again in praise of his
favourite liquor--
"Smiling grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker.
Though dangers around him,
Unite to confound him,
He braves them, and tips off his grog.
'Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
The sailor's sheet anchor is grog."
"Verily, thou art an Apollo--or, rather, referring to thy want of legs,
half an Apollo--that is, a _demi_-god. (_Cluck, cluck_.) Sweet is thy
lyre, friend Dux."
"Fair words, master; I'm no liar," cried Tom. "Clap a stopper on your
tongue, or you'll get into disgrace."
"_Ubi lapsus quid feci_," said the Dominie; "I spoke of thy musical
tongue; and, furthermore, I spoke alle-gori-cal-ly."
"I know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as
for telling a _hell of a_ (something) _lie_, as you states, I say I
never did," rejoined old Tom, who was getting cross in his cups.
I now interfered, as there was every appearance of a fray; and in spite
of young Tom, who wished, as he termed it, to _kick up a shindy_,
prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for
nearly five minutes. When this was ended, I again entreated the Dominie
not to drink any more, but to go to bed.
"_Amice, Jacobe_," replied the Dominie; "the liquor hath mounted into
thy brain, and thou wouldst rebuke thy master and thy preceptor. Betake
thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. Verily,
Jacob, thou art _plenus Veteris Bacchi_; or, in plain English, thou art
drunk. Canst thou conjugate, Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou decline,
Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou scan, Jacob? I fear not. Nay, Jacob,
methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy
vision. Canst thou hear, Jacob? if so, I will give thee an oration
against inebriety, with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. Wilt thou
have it in Latin or in Greek?"
"O, damn your Greek and Latin!" cried old Tom; "keep that for to-morrow.
Sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall I sing you one? Here goes--
"For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger's drown'd,
We despise it to a man;
We sing a little--"
"Sing a little," bawled the Dominie.
"And laugh a little--"
"Laugh a little," chorused young Tom.
"And work a little--"
"Work a little," cried the Dominie.
"And swear a little--"
"Swear _not_ a little," echoed Tom.
"And fiddle a little--"
"Fiddle a little," hiccuped the Dominie.
"And foot it a little--"
"Foot it a little," repeated Tom.
"And swig the flowing can,
And fiddle a little,
And foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can--"
roared old Tom, emptying his pannikin.
"And swig the flowing can--"
followed the Dominie, tossing off his.
"And swig the flowing can--"
cried young Tom turning up his pannikin empty.
"Hurrah! that's what I calls glorious. Let's have it over again, and
then we'll have another dose. Come, now, all together." Again was the
song repeated; and when they came to "foot it a little," old Tom jumped
on his stumps, seizing hold of the Dominie, who immediately rose, and
the three danced round and round for a minute or two, singing the song
and chorus, till old Tom, who was very far gone, tripped against the
coamings of the hatchway, pitching his head into the Dominie's stomach,
who fell backwards, clinging to young Tom's hand; so that they all
rolled on the deck together--my worthy preceptor underneath the other
two.
"Foot it _rather too much_ that time, father," said young Tom, getting
up the first, and laughing. "Come, Jacob, let's put father on his pins
again; he can't rise without a purchase." With some difficulty, we
succeeded. As soon as he was on his legs again, old Tom put a hand upon
each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer--
"What though his timbers they are gone,
And he's a slave to tipple,
No better sailor e'er was born
Than Tom, the jovial cripple.
"Thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. I suspect we
knocked the wind out of him. Hollo, there, are you hard and fast?"
"The bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing," quoth
the Dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him.
"Senses going, do you say, master?" cried old Tom. "Don't throw them
overboard till we have made a finish. One more pannikin apiece, one
more song, and then to bed. Tom, where's the bottle?"
"Drink no more, sir, I beg; you'll be ill to-morrow," said I to the
Dominie.
"_Deprome quadrimum_," hiccuped the Dominie. "_Carpe diem--quam
minimum--creula postero._--Sing, friend Dux--_Quem virum--sumes
celebrare--music amicus_.--Where's my pattypan?--We are not
Thracians--_Natis in usum--laetitae scyphis pugnare_--(hiccup)--_Thracum
est_--therefore we--will not fight--but we will drink--_recepto dulce
mihi furere est amico_--Jacob, thou art drunk--sing, friend Dux, or
shall I sing?
"_Propria quae maribus_ had a little dog,
_Quae genus_ was his name--
"My memory faileth me--what was the tune?"
"That tune was the one the old cow died of, I'm sure," replied Tom.
"Come, old Nosey, strike up again."
"Nosey, from _nasus_--truly, it is a fair epithet; and it remindeth me
that my nose--suffered in the fall which I received just now. Yet I
cannot sing--having no words--"
"Nor tune, either, master," replied old Tom; "so here goes for you--
"Young Susan had lovers, so many that she
Hardly knew upon which to decide;
They all spoke sincerely, and promised to be
All worthy of such a sweet bride.
In the morning she'd gossip with William, and then
The noon will be spent with young Harry,
The evening with Tom; so, amongst all the men,
She never could tell which to marry.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
"It pleaseth me--it ringeth in mine ears--yea, most pleasantly.
Proceed,--the girl was as the Pyrrha of Horace--
"Quis multa gracillis--te puer in rosa--
Perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus.
Grate, Pyrrha--sub antro?"
"That's all high Dutch to me, master; but I'll go on if I can. My
memory box be a little out of order. Let me see--oh!
"Now William grew jealous, and so went away;
Harry got tired of wooing;
And Tom having teased her to fix on the day,
Received but a frown for so doing;
So, 'mongst all her lovers, quite left in the lurch,
She pined every night on her pillow;
And meeting one day a pair going to church,
Turned away, and died under a willow.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
"Now, then, old gentleman, tip off your grog. You've got your
allowance, as I promised you."
"Come, master, you're a cup too low," said Tom, who, although in high
spirits, was not at all intoxicated; indeed, as I afterwards found, he
could carry more than his father. "Come, shall I give you a song?"
"That's right, Tom; a volunteer's worth two pressed men. Open your
mouth wide, an' let your whistle fly away with the gale. You whistles
in tune, at all events."
Tom then struck up, the Dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very
sleepy--
"Luck in life, or good or bad,
Ne'er could make me melancholy;
Seldom rich, yet never sad,
Sometimes poor, yet always jolly.
Fortune's in my scale, that's poz,
Of mischance put more than half in;
Yet I don't know how it was,
I could never cry for laughing--
Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
"Now for chorus, father--
"Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
"That's all I know; and that's enough, for it won't wake up the old
gentleman."
But it did. "Ha, ha, ha--ha, ha, ha! I could never die for laughing,"
bawled out the Dominie, feeling for his pannikin; but this was his last
effort. He stared round him. "Verily, verily, we are in a whirlpool--
how everything turneth round and round! Who cares? Am I not an ancient
mariner--`_Qui videt mare turgidum--et infames scopulos_.' Friend Dux,
listen to me--_favet linguis_."
"Well," hiccuped old Tom, "so I will--but speak--plain English--as I
do."
"That I'll be hanged if he does," said Tom to me. "In half an hour more
I shall understand old Nosey's Latin just as well as his--plain English,
as he calls it."
"I will discuss in any language--that is--in any tongue--be it in the
Greek or the Latin--nay, even--(hiccups)--friend Dux--hast thou not
partaken too freely--of--dear me! _Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui--plenum_--
truly I shall be tipsy--and will but finish my pattypan--_dulce
periculum est_--Jacob--can there be two Jacobs?--and two old Toms?--
nay--_mirabile dictu_--there are two young Toms, and two dog Tommies--
each with--two tails. _Bacche, parce--precor--precor_--Jacob, where art
thou?--_Ego sum tu es_--thou art--_sumus_, we are--where am I?
_Procumbit humi bos_--for Bos--read Dobbs--_amo, amas_--I loved a lass.
_Tityre, tu patulae sub teg-mine_--nay--I quote wrong--then must I be--I
do believe that--I'm drunk."
"And I'm cock sure of it," cried Tom, laughing, as the Dominie fell back
in a state of insensibility.
"And I'm cock sure of it," said old Tom, rolling himself along the deck
to the cabin hatch "that I've as much--as I can stagger--under, at all
events--so I'll sing myself to sleep--'cause why--I'm happy. Jacob--
mind you keep all the watches to-night--and Tom may keep the rest." Old
Tom then sat up, leaning his back against the cabin hatch, and commenced
one of those doleful ditties which are sometimes heard on the forecastle
of a man-of-war; he had one or two of the songs that he always reserved
for such occasions. While Tom and I dragged the Dominie to bed, old Tom
drawled out his ditty--
"Oh! we sailed to Virgi-ni-a, and thence to Fy-al,
Where we water'd our shipping, and so then weigh-ed all,
Full in view, on the seas--boys--seven sail we did es-py,
O! we man-ned our capstern, and weighed spee-di-ly.
"That's right, my boys, haul and hold--stow the old Dictionary away--for
he can't command the parts of speech.
"The very next morning--the engagement proved--hot,
And brave Admiral Benbow received a chain-shot.
O when he was wounded to his merry men--he--did--say,
Take me up in your arms, boys, and car-ry me a-way.
"Now, boys, come and help me--Tom--none of your foolery--for your poor
old father is--drunk--."
We assisted old Tom into the other "bed-place" in the cabin. "Thanky,
lads--one little bit more, and then I'm done--as the auctioneer says--
going--going--
"O the guns they did rattle, and the bul-lets--did--fly,
When brave Benbow--for help loud--did cry,
Carry me down to the cock-pit--there is ease for my smarts,
If my merry men should see me--'twill sure--break--their--hearts.
"Going,--old swan-hopper--as I am--going--gone."
Tom and I were left on deck.
"Now, Jacob, if you have a mind to turn in. I'm not sleepy--you shall
keep the morning watch."
"No, Tom, you'd better sleep first. I'll call you at four o'clock. We
can't weigh till tide serves; and I shall have plenty of sleep before
that."
Tom went to bed, and I walked the deck till the morning, thinking over
the events of the day, and wondering what the Dominie would say when he
came to his senses. At four o'clock, as agreed, I roused Tom out, and
turned into his bed, and was soon as fast asleep as old Tom and the
Dominie, whose responsive snores had rung in my ears during the whole
time that I had walked the deck.