“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.”

  Chapter Twelve.

  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.”

  Chapter Thirteen.

  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.

  “Evoé!” cried the Dominie; “evoé! 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.”