about half-past eight the next morning, i was called up by tom to assist in getting the lighter under weigh. when on deck i found old tom as fresh as if he had not drunk a drop the night before, very busily stumping about the windlass, with which we hove up first the anchor, and then the mast. “well, jacob, my boy, had sleep enough? not too much, i dare say; but a bout like last night don’t come often, jacob—only once in a way; now, and then i do believe it’s good for my health. it’s a great comfort to me, my lad, to have you on board with me, because as you never drinks, i may now indulge a little oftener. as for tom, i can’t trust him—too much like his father—had nobody to trust to for the look-out, except the dog tommy, till you came with us. i can trust tommy as far as keeping off the river sharks; he’ll never let them take a rope-yarn off the deck, night or day; but a dog’s but a dog, after all. now we’re brought to; so clap on, my boy, and let’s heave up with a will.”
“how’s the old gentleman, father?” said tom, as we paused a moment from our labour at the windlass.
“oh! he’s got a good deal more to sleep off yet. there he lies, flat on his back, blowing as hard as a grampus. better leave him as long as we can. we’ll rouse him as soon as we turn greenwich reach. tom, didn’t you think his nose loomed devilish large yesterday?”
“never seed such a devil of a cutwater in my life, father.”
“well, then, you’ll see a larger when he gets up, for it’s swelled bigger than the brandy bottle. heave and haul! now bring to the fall, and up with the mast, boys, while i goes aft and takes the helm.”
old tom went aft. during the night the wind had veered to the north, and the frost had set in sharp, the rime covered the deck of the barge, and here and there floating ice was to be seen coming down with the tide. the banks of the river and fields adjacent were white with hoar frost, and would have presented but a cheerless aspect, had not the sun shone out clear and bright. tom went aft to light the fire, while i coiled away and made all snug forward. old tom as usual carolled forth—
“oh! for a soft and gentle wind,
i heard a fair one cry
but give to me the roaring breeze,
and white waves beating high,
and white waves beating high, my boys,
the good ship tight and free,
the world of waters is our own,
and merry men are we.”
“a nice morning this for cooling a hot head, that’s sartain. tommy, you rascal, you’re like a court lady, with her velvet gownd, covered all over with diamonds,” continued old tom, looking at the newfoundland dog, whose glossy black hair was besprinkled with little icicles, which glittered in the sun.
“you and jacob were the only sensible ones of the party last night, for you both were sober.”
“so was i, father. i was as sober as a judge,” observed tom, who was blowing up the fire.
“may be, tom, as a judge a’ter dinner; but a judge on the bench be one thing, and a judge over a bottle be another, and not bad judges in that way either. at all events, if you warn’t sewed up, it wasn’t your fault.”
“and i suppose,” replied tom, “it was only your misfortune that you were.”
“no, i don’t say that; but still, when i look at the dog, who’s but a beast by nature, and thinks of myself, who wasn’t meant to be a beast, why, i blushes, that’s all.”
“jacob, look at father—now, does he blush?” cried tom.
“i can’t say that i perceive it,” replied i, smiling.
“well, then, if i don’t it’s the fault of my having no legs. i’m sure when they were knocked off i lost half the blood in my body, and that’s the reason, i suppose. at all events, i meant to blush, so we’ll take the will for the deed.”
“but do you mean to keep sober in future, father?” said tom.
“never do you mind that—mind your own business, mr tom. at all events, i sha’n’t get tipsy till next time, and that’s all i can say with safety, ’cause, d’ye see, i knows my failing. jacob, did you ever see that old gentleman sail too close to the wind before?”
“i never did—i do not think that he was ever tipsy before last night.”
“then i pities him—his headache, and his repentance. moreover, there be his nose and the swallow-tail of his coat to make him unhappy. we shall be down abreast of the hospital in half-an-hour. suppose you go and give him a shake, jacob. not you, tom; i won’t trust you—you’ll be doing him a mischief; you haven’t got no fellow-feeling, not even for dumb brutes.”
“i’ll thank you not to take away my character that way, father,” replied tom. “didn’t i put you to bed last night when you were speechless?”
“suppose you did—what then?”
“why, then, i had a feeling for a dumb brute. i only say that, father, for the joke of it, you know,” continued tom, going up to his father and patting his rough cheek.
“i know that, my boy; you never were unkind, that’s sartain; but you must have your joke—
“merry thoughts are link’d with laughter,
why should we bury them?
sighs and tears may come hereafter,
no need to hurry them.
they who through a spying-glass,
view the minutes as they pass,
make the sun a gloomy mass,
but the fault’s their own, tom.”
in the meantime i was vainly attempting to rouse the dominie. after many fruitless attempts, i put a large quantity off snuff on his upper lip, and then blew it up his nose. but, merciful powers! what a nose it had become—larger than the largest pear that i ever saw in my life. the whole weight of old tom had fallen on it, and instead of being crushed by the blow, it appeared as if, on the contrary, it had swelled up, indignant at the injury and affront which it had received. the skin was as tight as the parchment of a drum, and shining as if it had been oiled, while the colour was a bright purple. verily, it was the dominie’s nose in a rage.
the snuff had the effect of partially awakening him from his lethargy. “six o’clock—did you say, mrs bately? are the boys washed—and in the schoolroom? i will rise speedily—yet i am overcome with much heaviness. delapsus somnus ab—” and the dominie snored again. i renewed my attempts, and gradually succeeded. the dominie opened his eyes, stared at the deck and carlines above him, then at the cupboard by his side; lastly, he looked at and recognised me.
“eheu, jacobe!—where am i? and what is that which presses upon my brain? what is it so loadeth my cerebellum, even as if it were lead? my memory—where is it? let me recall my scattered senses.” here the dominie was silent for some time. “ah me! yea, and verily, i do recollect—with pain of head and more pain of heart—that which i would fain forget, which is, that i did forget myself; and indeed have forgotten all that passed the latter portion of the night. friend dux hath proved no friend, but hath led me into the wrong path: and as or the potation called grog—eheu, jacobe! how have i fallen—fallen in my own opinion—fallen in thine—how can i look thee in the face! o, jacob! what must thou think of him who hath hitherto been thy preceptor and thy guide!” here the dominie fell back on the pillow, and turned away his head.
“it is not your fault, sir,” replied i, to comfort him; “you were not aware of what you were drinking—you did not know that the liquor was so strong. old tom deceived you.”
“nay, jacob, i cannot lay that flattering unction to my wounded heart. i ought to have known, nay, now i recall to mind, that thou wouldst have warned me—even to the pulling off of the tail of my coat—yet i heeded thee not, and i am humbled—even i, the master over seventy boys!”
“nay, sir, it was not i who pulled off the tail of your coat; it was the dog.”
“jacob, i have heard of the wonderful sagacity of the canine species, yet could not i ever have believed that a dumb brute would have perceived my folly, and warned me from intoxication. mirabile dictu! tell me, jacob, thou who hast profited by these lessons which thy master could give—although he could not follow up his precept by example—tell me, what did take place? let me know the full extent of my backsliding.”
“you fell asleep, sir, and we put you to bed.”
“who did me that office, jacob?”
“young tom and i, sir; as for old tom, he was not in a state to help anybody.”
“i am humbled, jacob—”
“nonsense, old gentleman; why make a fuss about nothing?” said old tom, who, overhearing our conversation came into the cabin. “you had a drop too much, that’s all, and what o’ that? it’s a poor heart that never rejoiceth. rouse a bit, wash your face with old thames water, and in half-an-hour you’ll be as fresh as a daisy.”
“my head acheth!” exclaimed the dominie, “even as if there were a ball of lead rolling from one temple to the other; but my punishment is just.”
“that is the punishment of making too free with the bottle, for sartain; but if it is an offence, then it carries its own punishment and that’s quite sufficient. every man knows that when the heart’s over light at night, that the head’s over heavy in the morning. i have known and proved it a thousand times. well, what then? i puts the good against the bad, and i takes my punishment like a man.”
“friend dux, for so i will still call thee, thou lookest not at the offence in a moral point of vision.”
“what’s moral?” replied old tom.
“i would point out that intoxication is sinful.”
“intoxication sinful! i suppose that means that it’s a sin to get drunk. now, master, it’s my opinion that as god almighty has given us good liquor, it was for no other purpose than to drink it; and therefore it would be ungrateful to him, and a sin, not to get drunk—that is, with discretion.”
“how canst thou reconcile getting drunk with discretion, good dux?”
“i mean, master, when there’s work to be done, the work should be done; but when there’s plenty of time, and everything is safe, and all ready for a start the next morning, i can see no possible objection to a jollification. come, master, rouse out; the lighter’s abreast of the hospital almost by this time, and we must put you on shore.”
the dominie, whose clothes were all on, turned out of his bed-place and went with us on deck. young tom, who was at the helm, as soon as we made our appearance, wished him a good-morning very respectfully. indeed, i always observed that tom, with all his impudence and waggery, had a great deal of consideration and kindness. he had overheard the dominie’s conversation with me, and would not further wound his feelings with a jest. old tom resumed his place at the helm, while his son prepared the breakfast, and i drew a bucket of water for the dominie to wash his face and hands. of his nose not a word was said; and the dominie made no remarks to me on the subject, although i am persuaded it must have been very painful, from the comfort he appeared to derive in bathing it with the freezing water. a bowl of tea was a great solace to him, and he had hardly finished it when the lighter was abreast the hospital stairs. tom jumped into the boat and hauled it alongside. i took the other oar, and the dominie, shaking hands with old tom, said, “thou didst mean kindly, and therefore i wish thee a kind farewell, good dux.”
“god be with you, master,” replied old tom; “shall we call for you as we come back?”
“nay, nay,” replied the dominie, “the travelling by land is more expensive, but less dangerous. i thank thee for thy songs, and—for all thy kindness, good dux. are my paraphernalia in the boat, jacob?”
i replied in the affirmative. the dominie stepped in, and we pulled him on shore. he landed, took his bundle and umbrella under his arm, shook hands with tom and then with me, without speaking, and i perceived the tears start in his eyes as he turned and walked away.
“well, now,” said tom, looking after the dominie, “i wish i had been drunk instead of he. he does so take it to heart, poor old gentleman!”
“he has lost his self-esteem, tom,” replied i. “it should be a warning to you. come, get your oar to pass.”
“well, some people he fashioned one way and some another. i’ve been tipsy more than once, and i never lost anything but my reason, and that came back as soon as the grog left my head. i can’t understand that fretting about having had a glass too much. i only frets when i can’t get enough. well, of all the noses i ever saw, his bests them by chalks; i did so want to laugh at it, but i knew it would pain him.”
“it is very kind of you, tom, to hold your tongue, and i thank you very much.”
“and yet that old dad of mine swears i’ve got no fellow-feeling, which i consider a very undutiful thing for him to say. what’s the reason, jacob, that sons be always cleverer than their fathers?”
“i didn’t know that was the case, tom.”
“but it is so now, if it wasn’t in olden time. the proverb says, ‘young people think old people to be fools, but old people know young people to be fools.’ we must alter that, for i says, ‘old people think young people to be fools, but young people know old people to be fools.’”
“have it your own way, tom, that will do, rowed of all.”
we tossed in our oars, made the boat fast, and gained the deck, where old tom still remained at the helm. “well,” said he, “jacob, i never thought i should be glad to see the old gentleman clear of the lighter, but i was—devilish glad; he was like a load on my conscience this morning; he was trusted to my charge by mr drummond, and i had no right to persuade him to make a fool of himself. but, however, what’s done can’t be helped, as you say sometimes; and it’s no use crying; still it was a pity, for he be, for all the world, like a child. there’s a fancy kind of lass in that wherry, crossing our bows; look at the streamers from her top-gallant.
“come o’er the sea,
maiden, to me,
mine through sunshine, storm, and snows,
seasons may roll,
but the true soul
burns the same wherever it goes
then come o’er the sea,
maiden, with me.”
“see you hanged first, you underpinned old hulk!” replied the female in the boat, which was then close under our bows.
“well, that be civil, for certain,” said old tom, laughing.
