"No, sir, but this is his boat."

"Humph, can't he take me down?"

"No, sir; but I can, if you please."

"Well, then, be quick."

A sedate-looking gentleman, about forty-five years of age, stepped into the boat, and in a few seconds I was in the stream, shooting the bridge with the ebbing tide.

"What's the matter with deaf Stapleton?"

"Nothing, sir; but he's getting old, and has made the boat over to me."

"Are you his son?"

"No, sir, his 'prentice."

"Humph! sorry deaf Stapleton's gone."

"I can be as deaf as he, sir, if you wish it."

"Humph!"

The gentleman said no more at the time, and I pulled down the river in silence; but in a few minutes he began to move his hands up and down, and his lips, as if he was in conversation. Gradually his action increased, and words were uttered. At last he broke out:--"It is with this conviction, I may say important conviction, Mr Speaker, that I now deliver my sentiments to the Commons' house of Parliament, trusting that no honourable member will decide until he has fully weighed the importance of the arguments which I have submitted to his judgment." He then stopped, as if aware that I was present, and looked at me; but, prepared as I was, there was nothing in my countenance which exhibited the least sign of merriment; or, indeed, of having paid any attention to what he had been saying, for I looked carelessly to the right and left at the banks of the river. He again entered into conversation.

"Have you been long on the river?"

"Born on it, sir."

"How do you like the profession of a waterman?"

"Very well, sir; the great point is to have regular customers."

"And how do you gain them?"

"By holding my tongue; keeping their counsel and my own."

"Very good answer, my boy. People who have much to do cannot afford to loose even their time on the water. Just now I was preparing and thinking over my speech in the House of Commons."

"So I supposed, sir, and I think the river is a very good place for it, as no one can overhear you except the person whose services you have hired--and you need not mind him."

"Very true, my lad; but that's why I liked deaf Stapleton: he could not hear a word."

"But sir, if you've no objection, I like to hear it very much; and you may be sure that I should never say anything about it, if you will trust me."

"Do you my lad? well, then I'll just try it over again. You shall be the speaker--mind you hold your tongue, and don't interrupt me."

The gentleman then began: "Mr Speaker, I should not have ventured to address the House at this late hour, did I not consider that the importance of the question now before it is--so important--no, that won't do--did I not consider that the question now before it is of that, I may say, paramount importance as to call forth the best energies of every man who is a well-wisher to his country. With this conviction, Mr Speaker, humble individual as I am, I feel it my duty, I may say, my bounden duty, to deliver my sentiments upon the subject. The papers which I now hold in my hand, Mr Speaker, and to which I shall soon have to call the attention of the House, will, I trust, fully establish--"

"I say, waterman, be you taking that chap to Bedlam?" cried a shrill female voice close to us. The speech was stopped; we looked up, and perceived a wherry with two females pa.s.sing close to us. A shout of laughter followed the observation, and my fare looked very much confused.

I had often read the papers in the public-house, and remembering what was usual in the house in case of interruption, called out, "Order, order!" This made the gentleman laugh, and as the other wherry was now far off, he recommenced his oration, with which I shall not trouble my readers. It was a very fair speech, I have no doubt, but I forget what it was about.

I landed him at Westminster Bridge, and received treble my fare.

"Recollect," said he, on paying me, "that I shall look out for you when I come again, which I do every Monday morning, and sometimes oftener.

What's your name?"

"Jacob, sir."

"Very well; good morning, my lad."

This gentleman became a very regular and excellent customer, and we used to have a great deal of conversation, independent of debating, in the wherry; and I must acknowledge that I received from him not only plenty of money, but a great deal of valuable information.

A few days after this I had an opportunity of ascertaining how far Mary would keep her promise. I was plying at the river side as usual, when old Stapleton came up to me, with his pipe in his mouth, and said, "Jacob, there be that old gentleman up at our house with Mary. Now, I sees a great deal, but I says nothing. Mary will be her mother over again, that's sartain. Suppose you go and see your old teacher, and leave me to look a'ter a customer. I begin to feel as if handling the sculls a little would be of sarvice to me. We all think idleness be a very pleasant thing when we're obliged to work but when we are idle, then we feel that a little work be just as agreeable--that's human natur'."

I thought that Mary was very likely to forget all her good resolutions, from her ardent love of admiration, and I was determined to go and break up the conference. I, therefore, left the boat to Stapleton, and hastened to the house. I did not like to play the part of an eavesdropper, and was quite undecided how I should act; whether to go in at once or not, when, as I pa.s.sed under the window, which was open, I heard very plainly the conversation that was going on. I stopped in the street, and listened to the Dominie in continuation--"But, fair maiden, _omnia vincit amor_--here am I, Dominie Dobbs, who have long pa.s.sed the grand climacteric, and can already muster three score years--who have authority over seventy boys, being Magister Princeps et Dux of Brentford Grammar School--who have affectioned only the sciences, and communed only with the cla.s.sics--who have ever turned a deaf ear to the allurements of thy s.e.x, and ever hardened my heart to thy fascination-- here am I, even I, Dominie Dobbs, suing at the feet of a maiden who had barely ripened into womanhood, who knoweth not to read or write, and whose father earns his bread by manual labour. I feel it all--I feel that I am too old--that thou art too young--that I am departing from the ways of wisdom, and am regardless of my worldly prospects. Still, _omnia vincit amor_, and I bow to the all-powerful G.o.d, doing him homage through thee, Mary. Vainly have I resisted--vainly have I, as I have lain in bed, tried to drive thee from my thoughts, and tear thine image from my heart. Have I not felt thy presence everywhere? Do not I astonish my worthy coadjutor, Mistress Bately, the matron, by calling her by the name of Mary, when I had always before addressed her by her baptismal name of Deborah? Nay, have not the boys in the cla.s.ses discovered my weakness, and do they not shout out Mary in the hours of play? _Mare periculosum et turbidum_ hast thou been to me. I sleep not--I eat not--and every sign of love which hath been adduced by Ovidius Naso, whom I have diligently collated, do I find in mine own person. Speak, then, maiden. I have given vent to my feelings, do thou the same, that I may return, and leave not my flock without their shepherd. Speak, maiden."

"I will, sir, if you will get up," replied Mary, who paused, and then continued. "I think, sir, that I am young and foolish, and you are old and--and--"

"Foolish, thou wouldst say."

"I had rather you said it, sir, than I; it is not for me to use such an expression towards one so learned as you are. I think, sir, that I am too young to marry; and that perhaps you are--too old. I think, sir, that you are too clever--and that I am very ignorant; that it would not suit you in your situation to marry; and that it would not suit me to marry you--equally obliged to you all the same."

"Perhaps thou hast in thy reply proved the wiser of the two," answered the Dominie; "but why, maiden, didst thou raise those feelings, those hopes in my breast, only to cause me pain, and make me drink deep of the cup of disappointment? didst thou appear to cling to me in fondness, if thou felt not a yearning towards me?"

"But are there no other sorts of love besides the one you would require, sir? May I not love you because you are so clever, and so learned in Latin. May I not love you as I do my father?"

"True, true, child; it is all my own folly, and I must retrace my steps in sorrow. I have been deceived--but I have been deceived only by myself. My wishes have clouded my understanding, and have obscured my reason; have made me forgetful of my advanced years, and of the little favour I was likely to find in the eyes of a young maiden. I have fallen into a pit through blindness, and I must extricate myself, sore as will be the task. Bless thee, maiden, bless thee! May another be happy in thy love, and never feel the barb of disappointment. I will pray for thee, Mary--that Heaven may bless thee." And the Dominie turned away and wept.

Mary appeared to be moved by the good old man's affliction, and her heart probably smote her for her coquettish behaviour. She attempted to console the Dominie, and appeared to be more than half crying herself.

"No, sir, do not take on so, you make me feel very uncomfortable. I have been wrong--I feel I have--though you have not blamed me, I am a very foolish girl."

"Bless thee, child--bless thee!" replied the Dominie, in a subdued voice.

"Indeed, sir, I don't deserve it--I feel I do not; but pray do not grieve, sir; things will go cross in love. Now, sir, I'll tell you a secret, to prove it to you. I love Jacob--love him very much, and he does not care for me--I am sure he does not; so, you sir, you are not the only one--who is--very unhappy;" and Mary commenced sobbing with the Dominie.

"Poor thing!" said the Dominie; "and thou lovest Jacob? truly is he worthy of thy love. And, at thy early age, thou knowest what it is to have thy love unrequited. Truly is this a vale of tears--yet let us be thankful. Guard well thy heart, child, for Jacob may not be for thee; nay I feel that he will not be."

"And why so, sir?" replied Mary, despondingly.

"Because, maiden--but nay, I must not tell thee; only take my warning, Mary--fare thee well? I come not here again."

"Good-bye, sir, and pray forgive me; this will be a warning to me."

"Verily, maiden, it will be a warning to us both. G.o.d bless thee!"

I discovered by the sound that Mary had vouchsafed to the Dominie a kiss, and heard soon afterwards his steps as he descended the stairs.

Not wishing to meet him I turned round the corner, and went down to the river, thinking over what had pa.s.sed. I felt pleased with Mary, but I was not in love with her.