their appendages--the one in the
usher, the other in the assistant housemaid. But of this quartette, the
master was not only the most important, but the most worthy of
description; and as he will often appear in the pages of my narrative,
long after my education was complete, I shall be very particular in my
description of Dominie Dobiensis, as he delighted to be called, or
Dreary Dobs, as his dutiful scholars delighted to call him. As in our
school it was necessary that we should be instructed in reading,
writing, and ciphering, the governors had selected the Dominie as the
most fitting person that had offered for the employment, because he had,
in the first place, written a work that nobody could understand upon the
Greek particles; secondly, he had proved himself a great mathematician,
having, it is said, squared the circle by algebraical false quantities,
but would never show the operation for fear of losing the honour by
treachery. He had also discovered as many errors in the demonstrations
of Euclid as ever did Joey Hume in army and navy estimates, and with as
much benefit to the country at large. He was a man who breathed
certainly in the present age, but the half of his life was spent in
antiquity or algebra. Once carried away by a problem, or a Greek
reminiscence, he passed away, as it were, from his present existence,
and everything was unheeded. His body remained, and breathed on his
desk, but his soul was absent. This peculiarity was well known to the
boys, who used to say, "Dominie is in his dreams, and talks in his
sleep."

Dominie Dobiensis left reading and writing to the usher, contrary to the
regulations of the school, putting the boys, if possible, into
mathematics, Latin, and Greek. The usher was not over competent to
teach the two first; the boys not over willing to learn the latter. The
master was too clever, the usher too ignorant; hence the scholars
profited little. The Dominie was grave and irascible, but he possessed
a fund of drollery and the kindest heart. His features could not laugh,
but his trachea did. The chuckle rose no higher than the rings of the
wind-pipe, and then it was vigorously thrust back again by the impulse
of gravity into the region of his heart, and gladdened it with hidden
mirth in its dark centre. The Dominie loved a pun; whether it was let
off in English, Greek, or Latin. The last two were made by nobody but
himself, and not being understood, were, of cours