“Me?” said he, in a mild and almost parental tone. “Me not care? me! Look here, Mr. Long. Do you know what I am? I’m a parient! Your books call you home, sir; but what is it that’s a-callin’ o’ me? My babby, sir! That there tender infant has twined hisself round my boosom; an’ what am I a-doin’? You don’t know, sir; but I’m a-yearnin’ an’ a-pinin’ for my babby. He’s the most wonderful babby that I ever see,” continued the captain, in a faltering voice. “He’s got the pootiest crow; and if you’d jest hear him say his ga, ga, ga—”
“O, bother your confounded baby!” said Mr. Long, with brutal rudeness, turning away abruptly.
Captain Corbet looked after him with a puzzled expression. At first, indignant surprise seemed to predominate, and those who stood near anticipated an outburst of long-restrained feeling. But it was only for a moment. Then Captain Corbet’s better angel came to his assistance. Indignation vanished, and the face that was turned toward Mr. Long had on it nothing but a meek, sad smile.
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“Thar, that’s it; allus the same,” said he; “on-sympathetic, hard as a milestone, an’ owdacious in opposition to the tender babe. Human natur’,” he continued, elevating his patriarchal head, and regarding Mr. Long’s back with a severe dignity,—“human natur’ might exult in a administerin’ of a rebewk to sich langedge; but I’ve learned a better lesson. Yes, boys. I’ve sot at the feet of my babby. The aged Corbet has received insterruction from a mild infant. Now, I regard all that,” waving his hand toward Mr. Long, “not with anger, not with re-perroach, no, but with kimpassion. I pity him. I feel sorry for him. To him is unknown the holiest feeling of the hewman boosum; sich as I feel, sich as every feyther feels when he’s a-nussin’ of his peresshus babby.”
XXI
Blomidon, insulted, avenges himself.—A Victim devotes himself to appease his Wrath.—Original Views of Captain Corbet with regard to the Archaeology and the Science of Navigation.
THE schooner went on drifting, and drew near to Blomidon again. The giant cliff frowned darkly overhead, its sides all scarred and riven by the tempests of centuries, its base worn by the fierce tides that never cease to sweep to and fro. Standing as it does, it forms one of the sublimest objects in nature. Other cliffs are far higher, and every way more stupendous; but Blomidon is so peculiar by its shape, its position, and its surroundings, that it stands monarch of the scene, and rises always with a certain regal majesty, seldom appearing without its diadem of clouds. All around are low lands, wide meadows, and quiet valleys, and the far spreading sea, into which this rugged height is boldly projected, terminating an abrupt rocky wall. From the shores, for many and many a mile around, wherever the eye may wander over the scenery, it rests upon this as the centre of the view.
“Blomidon,” said Bart, “looks more magnificently than ever, and we have an excellent chance for a close inspection.”