“i say, master stapleton, suppose we were to knock out half a port,” observed old tom, after a silence of two minutes; “for the old gentleman blows a devil of a cloud: that is, if no one has an objection.” stapleton gave a nod of assent, and i rose and put the upper window down a few inches. “ay, that’s right, jacob; now we shall see what miss mary and he are about. you’ve been enjoying the lady all to yourself, master,” continued tom, addressing the dominie.
“verily and truly,” replied the dominie, “even as a second jupiter.”
“never heard of him.”
“i presume not; still, jacob will tell thee that the history is to be found in ovid’s metamorphoses.”
“never heard of the country, master.”
“nay, friend dux, it is a book, not a country, in which thou may’st read how jupiter at first descended unto semele in a cloud.”
“and pray, where did he come from, master?”
“he came from heaven.”
“the devil he did. well, if ever i gets there, i mean to stay.”
“it was love, all-powerful love, which induced him, maiden,” replied the dominie, turning, with a smiling eye, to mary.
“’bove my comprehension altogether,” replied old tom.
“human natur’,” muttered stapleton, with the pipe still between his lips.
“not the first vessels that have run foul in a fog,” observed young tom.
“no, boy; but generally there ar’n’t much love between them at those times. but, come, now that we can breathe again, suppose i give you a song. what shall it be, young woman, a sea ditty, or something spooney?”
“oh, something about love, if you’ve no objection, sir,” said mary, appealing to the dominie.
“nay, it pleaseth me maiden, and i am of thy mind. friend dux, let it be anacreontic.”
“what the devil’s that?” cried old tom, lifting up his eyes, and taking the pipe out of his mouth.
“nothing of your own, father, that’s clear; but something to borrow, for it’s to be on tick,” replied tom.
“nay, boy, i would have been understood that the song should refer to women or wine.”
“both of which are to his fancy,” observed young tom to me, aside.
“human natur’,” quaintly observed stapleton.
“well, then, you shall have your wish. i’ll give you one that might be warbled in a lady’s chamber without stirring the silk curtains:—
“oh! the days are gone when beauty bright
my heart’s chain wove,
when my dream of life from morn to night
was love—still love.
new hope may bloom, and days may come,
of milder, calmer beam,
but there’s nothing half so sweet in life
as love’s young dream;
oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life,
as love’s young dream.”
the melody of the song, added to the spirits he had drunk and mary’s eyes beaming on him, had a great effect upon the dominie. as old tom warbled out, so did the pedagogue gradually approach the chair of mary; and as gradually entwine her waist with his own arm, his eyes twinkling brightly on her. old tom, who perceived it, had given me and tom a wink, as he repeated the two last lines; and then we saw what was going on, we burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “boys! boys!” said the dominie, starting up, “thou hast awakened me, by thy boisterous mirth, from a sweet musing created by the harmony of friend dux’s voice. neither do i discover the source of thy cachinnation, seeing that the song is amatory and not comic. still, it may not be supposed, at thy early age, that thou canst be affected with what thou art too young to feel. pr’ythee continue, friend dux, and, boys, restrain thy mirth.”
“though the bard to a purer fame may soar
when wild youth’s past,
though he win the wise, who frowned before,
to smile at last,
he’ll never meet a joy so sweet
in all his noon of fame,
as when first he sung to woman’s ear
his soul-felt flame;
and at every close she blush’d to hear
the once-lov’d name.”
at the commencement of this verse the dominie appeared to be on his guard; but gradually moved by the power of song, he dropped his elbow on the table, and his pipe underneath it; his forehead sank into his broad palm, and he remained motionless. the verse ended, and the dominie, forgetting all around him, softly ejaculated, without looking up, “eheu! mary.”
“did you speak to me, sir?” said mary, who, perceiving us tittering, addressed the dominie with a half-serious, half-mocking air.
“speak, maiden? nay, i spoke not; yet thou mayest give me my pipe, which apparently hath been abducted while i was listening to the song.”
“abducted! that’s a new word; but it means smashed into twenty pieces, i suppose,” observed young tom. “at all events, your pipe is, for you let it fall between your legs.”
“never mind,” said mary, rising from her chair, and going to the cupboard; “here’s another, sir.”
“well, master, am i to finish, or have you had enough of it?”
“proceed, friend dux, proceed; and believe that i am all attention.”
“oh, that hallowed form is ne’er forgot
which first love trac’d,
still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
on memory’s waste.
’twas odour fled as soon as shed,
’twas memory’s winged dream,
’twas a light that ne’er can shine again
on life’s dull stream;
oh, ’twas light that ne’er can shine again
on life’s dull stream.”
“nay,” said the dominie, again abstracted, “the metaphor is not just. ‘life’s dull stream.’ ‘lethe tacitus amnis,’ as lucan hath it; but the stream of life flows—ay, flows rapidly—even in my veins. doth not the heart throb and beat—yea, strongly—peradventure too forcibly against my better judgment? ‘confiteor misere molle cor esse mihi,’ as ovid saith. yet must it not prevail! shall one girl be victorious over seventy boys? shall i, dominie dobbs, desert my post?—again succumb to—i will even depart, that i may be at my desk at matutinal hours.”
“you don’t mean to leave us, sir?” said mary, taking the dominie’s arm.
“even so, fair maiden, for it waxeth late, and i have my duties to perform,” said the dominie, rising from his chair.
“then you will promise to come again.”
“peradventure i may.”
“if you do not promise me that you will, i will not let you go now.”
“verily, maiden—”
“promise,” interrupted mary.
“truly, maiden—”
“promise,” cried mary.
“in good sooth, maiden—”
“promise,” reiterated mary, pulling the dominie towards her chair.
“nay, then, i do promise, since thou wilt have it so,” replied the dominie.
“and when will you come?”
“i will not tarry,” replied the dominie; “and now good night to all.”
the dominie shook hands with us, and mary lighted him downstairs. i was much pleased with the resolution and sense of his danger thus shown by my worthy preceptor, and hoped that he would have avoided mary in future, who evidently wished to make a conquest of him for her own amusement and love of admiration; but still i felt that the promise exacted would be fulfilled, and i was afraid that a second meeting, and that perhaps not before witnesses, would prove mischievous. i made up my mind to speak to mary on the subject as soon as i had an opportunity, and insist upon her not making a fool of the worthy old man. mary remained below a much longer time than was necessary, and when she re-appeared and looked at me, as if for a smile of approval, i turned from her with a contemptuous air. she sat down, and looked confused. tom was also silent, and paid her no attention. a quarter of an hour passed, when he proposed to his father that they should be off, and the party broke up. leaving mary silent and thoughtful, and old stapleton finishing his pipe, i took my candle and went to bed.
the next day the moon changed, the weather changed, and a rapid thaw took place. “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” observed old stapleton; “we watermen will have the river to ourselves again, and the hucksters must carry their gingerbread-nuts to another market.” it was, however, three or four days before the river was clear of the ice, so as to permit the navigation to proceed; and during that time, i may as well observe, that there was dissension between mary and me. i showed her that i resented her conduct, and at first she tried to pacify me; but finding that i held out longer than she expected, she turned round, and was affronted in return. short words and no lessons were the order of the day; and as each party seemed determined to hold out, there was little prospect of a reconciliation. in this she was the greatest sufferer, as i quitted the house after breakfast, and did not return until dinner time. at first old stapleton plied very regularly, and took all the fares; but about a fortnight after we had worked together, he used to leave me to look after employment, and remain at the public-house. the weather was now fine, and, after the severe frost, it changed so rapidly that most of the trees were in leaf, and the horse-chestnuts in full blossom. the wherry was in constant demand, and every evening i handed from four to six shillings over to old stapleton. i was delighted with my life, and should have been perfectly happy if it had not been for my quarrel with mary still continuing, she as resolutely refraining from making advances as i. how much may life be embittered by dissension with those you live with, even when there is no very warm attachment; the constant grating together worries and annoys, and although you may despise the atoms, the aggregate becomes insupportable. i had no pleasure in the house; and the evenings, which formerly passed so agreeably, were now a source of vexation, from being forced to sit in company with one with whom i was not on good terms. old stapleton was seldom at home till late, and this made it still worse. i was communing with myself one night, as i had my eyes fixed on my book, whether i should make the first advances, when mary, who had been quietly at work, broke the silence by asking me what i was reading. i replied in a quiet tone.
“jacob,” said she, in continuation, “i think you have used me very ill to humble me in this manner. it was your business to make it up first.”
“i am not aware that i have been in the wrong,” replied i.
“i do not say that you have; but what matter does that make? you ought to give way to a woman.”
“why so?”
“why so! don’t the whole world do so? do you not offer everything first to a woman? is it not her right?”
“not when she is in the wrong, mary.”
“yes, when she’s in the wrong, jacob; there’s no merit in doing it when she’s in the right.”
“i think otherwise; at all events, it depends on how much she has been in the wrong, and i consider you have shown a bad heart, mary.”
“a bad heart! in what way, jacob?”
“in realising the fable of the boys and the frogs with the poor old dominie, forgetting that what may be sport to you is death to him.”
“you don’t mean to say that he’ll die of love,” replied mary, laughing.
“i should hope not: but you may contrive, and you have tried all in your power, to make him very wretched.”
“and, pray, how do you know that i do not like the old gentleman, jacob? you appear to think that a girl is to fall in love with nobody but yourself. why should i not love an old man with so much learning? i have been told that old husbands are much prouder of their wives than young ones, and pay them more attention, and don’t run after other women. how do you know that i am not serious?”
“because i know your character, mary, and am not to be deceived. if you mean to defend yourself in that way, we had better not talk any more.”
“lord, how savage you are! then, suppose i did pay the old gentleman any attention. did the young ones pay me any? did either you, or your precious friend, mr tom, even speak to me?”
“no; we saw how you were employed, and we both hate a jilt.”
“oh, you do. very well, sir; just as you please. i may make both your hearts ache for this some day or another.”
“forewarned, forearmed, mary; and i shall take care that they are both forewarned as well as myself. as i perceive that you are so decided, i shall say no more. only, for your own sake, and your own happiness, i caution you. recollect your mother, mary, and recollect your mother’s death.”
mary covered her face and burst into tears. she sobbed for a few minutes, and then came to me. “you are right, jacob; and i am a foolish—perhaps wicked—girl; but forgive me, and indeed i will try to behave better. but, as father says, it is human nature in me, and it’s hard to conquer our natures, jacob.”
“will you promise me not to continue your advances to the dominie, mary?”
“i will not, if i can help it, jacob. i may forget for the moment, but i’ll do all i can. it’s not very easy to look grave when one is merry, or sour when one is pleased.”
“but what can induce you, mary, to practise upon an old man like him? if it were young tom, i could understand it. there might be some credit, and your pride might be flattered by the victory; but an old man—”
“still, jacob, old or young, it’s much the same. i would like to have them all at my feet, and that’s the truth. i can’t help it. and i thought it a great victory to bring there a wise old man, who was so full of latin and learning, and who ought to know better. tell me jacob, if old men a how themselves to be caught, as well as young, where is the crime of catching them? isn’t there as much vanity in an old man, in his supposing that i really could love him, as there is in me, who am but a young, foolish girl, in trying to make him fond of me?”
“that may be; but still recollect that he is in earnest, and you are only joking, which makes a great difference; and recollect further, that in trying at all, we very often lose all.”
“that i would take my chance of, jacob,” replied mary, proudly throwing her curly ringlets back with her hand from her white forehead; “but what i now want is to make friends with you. come, jacob, you have my promise to do my best.”
“yes, mary, and i believe you, so there’s my hand.”
“you don’t know how miserable i have been, jacob, since we quarrelled,” said mary, wiping the tears away, which again commenced flowing; “and yet i don’t know why, for i’m sure i have almost hated you this last week—that i have; but the fact is, i like quarrelling very well for the pleasure of making it up again; but not for the quarrel to last so long as this has done.”
“it has annoyed me too, mary, for i like you very much in general.”
“well, then, now it’s all over; but jacob, are you sure you are friends with me?”
“yes, mary.”
mary looked archly at me. “you know the old saw, and i feel the truth of it.”
“what, ‘kiss and make friends?’” replied i; “with all my heart,” and i kissed her, without any resistance on her part.
“no, i didn’t mean that, jacob.”
“what then?”
“oh! ’twas another.”
“well, then, what was the other?”
“never mind, i forget it now,” said she laughing, and rising from the chair. “now, i must go to my work again, and you must tell me what you’ve been doing this last fortnight.”
mary and i entered into a long and amicable conversation till her father came home, when we retired to bed. “i think,” said old stapleton, the next morning, “that i’ve had work enough; and i’ve belonged to two benefit clubs for so long as to ’title me to an allowance. i think, jacob, i shall give up the wherry to you, and you shall in future give me one-third of your earnings, and keep the rest to yourself. i don’t see why you’re to work hard all day for nothing.” i remonstrated against this excess of liberality; but old stapleton was positive, and the arrangement was made. i afterwards discovered, what may probably occur to the reader, that captain turnbull was at the bottom of all this. he had pensioned old stapleton that i might become independent by my own exertions before i had served my apprenticeship; and after breakfast, old stapleton walked down with me to the beach, and we launched the boat. “recollect, jacob,” said he, “one-third, and honour bright;” so saying, he adjourned to his old quarters, the public-house, to smoke his pipe and think of human natur’. i do not recollect any day of my life on which i felt more happy than on this: i was working for myself, and independent. i jumped into my wherry, and, without waiting for a fare, i pushed off, and, gaining the stream, cleaved through the water with delight as my reward; but after a quarter of an hour i sobered down with the recollection that, although i might pull about for nothing for my own amusement, that as stapleton was entitled to one-third, i had no right to neglect his interest; and i shot my wherry into the row, and stood with my hand and fore-finger raised, watching the eye of every one who came towards the hard. i was fortunate that day, and when i returned, was proceeding to give stapleton his share, when he stopped me. “jacob, it’s no use dividing now; once a-week will be better. i likes things to come in a lump; cause, d’ye see—it’s—it’s—human natur’.”
