FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   45   46   47   48   49   50   51   52   53   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69  
70   71   72   73   74   75   76   77   78   79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   94   >>   >|  
t horsiness about his cut. I set him down for a sporting parson from the country, and wondered why he wore clothes so much superior to those of the Plymouth parsons known to me by sight. "Just listen to that now!" exclaimed Mr. Jope. A cornet in one of the coaches ahead had struck up _Tom Bowling_, and before we reached the head of the street from coach after coach the funeral party broke into song: "Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of his crew-ew; No more he'll hear the te--empest how--wow--ling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the--e ma--hanliest beau--eau--ty--" "I wouldn't say that, quite," observed Mr. Jope pensively. "To begin with, he'd had the small-pox." "_De gustibus nil nisi bonum_," Mr. Whitmore observed soothingly. "What's that?" "Latin." "Wonderful! Would ye mind saying it again?" The words were obligingly repeated. "Wonderful! And what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?" "It means 'Speak well of the dead.'" "Well, we're doing of it, anyhow. Hark to 'em ahead there!" The _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention. Folks on the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two, catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of Old Town Street and past St. Andrew's Church a small crowd raised three cheers for us. And still above it the cornet blared and the mourners' voices rose uproarious: "His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y-- For Tom is gone aloft." "Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr. Jope murmured: "but as you say, sir--Would you oblige us again?" Again the Latin was repeated, and he swung round upon me. "Think of that, now! Be you a scholar, hey?--read, write and cipher? How would you spell 'sojer' for instance?" The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening under the clergyman's eyes. "Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a whisper. "Very good: now make a rhyme to it." "I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes." "Well, that's honest, anyway. Now I'll tell you why I asked." He turned and addressed Mr. Whitmore. "I'm Cornish born, sir; from Salt
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   45   46   47   48   49   50   51   52   53   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69  
70   71   72   73   74   75   76   77   78   79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   94   >>   >|  



Top keywords:

Bowling

 

repeated

 

Wonderful

 

Whitmore

 

observed

 
coaches
 

cornet

 

turned

 

crawled

 

melanchol


salutations
 

handkerchiefs

 

shouted

 

hearted

 

cheers

 

blared

 

raised

 
Andrew
 

Street

 

Church


mourners

 

voices

 

blithe

 

uproarious

 

friends

 

whisper

 
scarce
 
answer
 

managed

 
addressed

Cornish

 

rhymes

 

honest

 
Soldier
 

scholar

 

couldn

 

murmured

 

oblige

 
cipher
 

whitening


clergyman

 

knocked

 

instance

 

question

 

darling

 

funeral

 
broach
 
empest
 

street

 

wondered