“The most solemn thing, to me,” said Tom, “is Euclid.” And then he added in the same tone, “The square described on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares described on the other two sides of the same.”
“And I,” said Arthur, “find Arnold’s Latin Exercises the worst. The most solemn thing for an invocation is,—’
“In temporibus Ciceronis Galli retinuerunt barbaram consuetudinem excercendæ virtutis omni occasione. Balbus odifcabat murum!”
“I,” said Bruce, “have something far more solemn.” And stretching out his hand, he said, in a loud, firm voice,—
“Dignus, indignus, content us, proditus, captus, and fretus, also natus, satus, ortus, editus, and the like, govern the—hem—nominative—no—the vocative—no—the ablative—all the same.”
“For my part,” said Bart, “the most solemn thing, to me, is Cæsar. The way they teach it here makes it a concentration of all the worst horrors of the Grammar, and Arnold, and History, with the additional horrors of an exact translation. O, brethren of the ‘B. O. W. C.,’ won’t you join with me in saying,—
“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes très, quarum unam incolunt Belgo, aliam Aquitani, tertiam, qui ipsorum lingua Celto, nostra Galli appellantur. Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus, inter se differunt. Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna”
“Here!” cried Captain Corbet, suddenly interrupting Bart; “I can’t stand this any longer. It’s downwright heathenism—all that outlandish heathen stuff! Do ye mean to temp fate? Bewar, young sirs! It’s dangerous! ’Tain’t safe to stand here, at midnight, over a Frenchman’s bones, and jabber French at him.”
“French?” said Bart. “It’s not French.”
“That ain’t the pint,” said Captain Corbet, who had worked himself up into considerable excitement. “The pint is air it English? No, sir. Does any Christian onderstand sich? No, sir. We hain’t got no business with sich.”