“No; that was pulled up with me. I had kept fast hold of it; we fell and rose together, and so I was not—
”‘Doomed to perish by the slaughtering gun.’”
However, it was unfit for service, like its owner, for the remainder of that day; its chilled barrel looked as if it were moaning forth to me, in hollow tone,—
”‘Stay by me—thou art resolute and faithful;
I have employment worthy of thy arm.’”
It will be seen that Mr O’Mackerry had a smattering of classical lore. He was asked to name his last poet.
“Dryden,” said he, off-hand.
“You hadn’t a dry den when you were up to your chin in the wet, black hole,” quickly added Tydvill. Here there was unanimous applause.
This led to some conversational nonsense about punning.
“What is a pun?”
“Don’t you know,” said O’Mackerry, “Swift’s definition in the essay which he entitled ‘The Ars Punica sive flos linguarum, by Tom-Pun-Sibi, Dublin?’” None other of the crew knew anything concerning it; O’Mack therefore gave them the concluding part as a specimen, and in reply to the question. “Punning is an art of harmonious jingling upon words, which, passing in at the ears and falling upon the diaphragms, excites a titillatory motion in those parts, and this being conveyed by the animal spirits into the muscles of the face, raises the cockles of the heart, and promotes the end of good fellowship, which is laughing.”