“No, I do not.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you; it was because the Battersea people were more humane and charitable than their neighbours. There was a time when those fields were of no value; now they’re worth a mint of money, they say. The body of a poor devil, who was drowned in the river, was washed on shore on those banks, and none of the parishes would be at the expense of burying it. The Battersea people, though they had least right to be called upon, would not allow the poor fellow’s corpse to be lying on the mud, and they went to the expense. Now, when the fields became of value, the other parishes were ready enough to claim them; but the case was tried, and as it was proved that Battersea had buried the body, the fields were decided to belong to that parish. So they were well paid for their humanity, and they deserved it. Mr Drummond says you know the river well, Jacob.”
“I was born on it.”
“Yes, so I heard, and all about your father and mother’s death. I was telling Tom of it, because he’s too fond of bowsing up his jib.”
“Well, father, there’s no occasion to remind Jacob; the tear is in his eye already,” replied Tom, with consideration.
“I wish you never had any other drop in your eye,—but never mind, Jacob, I didn’t think of what I was saying. Look ye, d’ye see that little house with the two chimneys—that’s mine, and there’s my old woman.—I wonder what she’s about just now.” Old Tom paused for a while, with his eyes fixed on the object, and then burst out:—
“I’ve crossed the wide waters, I’ve trod the lone strand,
I’ve triumphed in battle, I’ve lighted the brand,
I’ve borne the loud thunder of death o’er the foam;
Fame, riches, ne’er found them,—yet still found a home.
“Tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on shore with the bundle; ask the old woman how she is, and tell her I’m hearty.” Tom was in the boat in a moment, and pulling lustily for the shore. “That makes me recollect when I returned to my mother, a’ter the first three years of my sea service. I borrowed the skiff from the skipper.—I was in a Greenland-man, my first ship, and pulled ashore to my mother’s cottage under the cliff. I thought the old soul would have died with joy.” Here old Tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual, commenced a strain, sotto voce:—
“Why, what’s that to you if my eyes I’m a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d’ye see, in its way.
“How, miserable,” continued he, after another pause, “the poor thing was when I would go to sea—how she begged and prayed—boys have no feeling, that’s sartin.”