"he is, released from
sea-going, after that first long voyage with his young bride"--as you
know he was, Mr Sols.'

'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.

"'Here he is," says my wife, "released from that, immediately; appointed
by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at
home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the
greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the
very best possible time of his fortunes"--which I think is the case, Mr
Sols? My wife is always correct.'

'Why yes, yes--some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come
home, truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. 'Small craft, Mr Toots, but
serviceable to my boy!'

'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he
is," says that most remarkable woman, "so situated,--and what follows?
What follows?" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and
Mr Sols, the depth of my wife's penetration. "Why that, under the very
eye of Mr Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a--an
Edifice;" that was Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, "'is
gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was
once the head, and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a
bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus," said my wife, "from
his daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend"--no "rise;"
that was Mrs Toots's word--"triumphant!"'

Mr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe--which he is extremely glad to
devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a
very uncomfortable sensation--does such grand justice to this prophetic
sentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat
in a state of the greatest excitement, cries:

'Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business?
Was it this here quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of
London, and when you are old you will never depart from it." Was it them
words, Sol Gills?'

'It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember
well.'

'Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair,
and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you Lovely Peg
right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'

Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in