Stapleton gave a nod of a.s.sent, 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, without looking up, "Eheu!

Mary."

"Did you speak to me, sir?" said Mary, who, perceiving us t.i.ttering, 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 succ.u.mb 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?"