ridges
spanning over the water. The faint ripple of the tide was harmony, the
reflection of the moon, beauty; I felt happiness in my heart; I was no
longer the charity-boy, but the pilot of the barge. Then, as I would
survey the scene, there was something that invariably presented itself
between my eyes and the object of my scrutiny; whichever way I looked,
it stood in my way, and I could not remove it. It was like a cloud, yet
transparent, and with a certain undefined shape. I tried for some time,
but in vain, to decipher it, but could not. At last it appeared to
cohere into a form--it was the Dominie's great nose, magnified into that
of the Scripture, "As the tower which looketh towards Damascus." My
temples throbbed with agony--I burned all over. I had no exact notions
of death in bed, except that of my poor mother, and I thought that I was
to die like her; the horrible fear seized me that all this burning was
but prefatory to bursting out into flame and consuming into ashes. The
dread hung about my young heart and turned that to ice, while the rest
of my body was on fire. This was my last recollection, and then all was
blank. For many days I lay unconscious of either pain or existence:
when I awoke from my stupor, my wandering senses gradually returning, I
opened my eyes, and dimly perceived something before me that cut across
my vision in a diagonal line. As the mist cleared away, and I recovered
myself, I made out that it was the nose of Dominie Dobiensis, who was
kneeling at the bed-side, his nose adumbrating the coverlid of my bed,
his spectacles dimmed with tears, and his long grey locks falling on
each side, and shadowing his eyes. I was not frightened, but I was too
weak to stir or speak. His prayer-book was in his hand, and he still
remained on his knees. He had been praying for me. Supposing me still
insensible, he broke out in the following soliloquy:--

"_Naviculator larvus pallidus_--how beautiful even in death! My poor
lighter-boy, that hath mastered the rudiments, and triumphed over the
Accidence--but to die! _Levior puer_, a puerile conceit, yet I love it,
as I do thee. How my heart bleeds for thee! The icy breath of death
hath whitened thee, as the hoar-frost whitens the autumnal rose. Why
wert thou transplanted from thine own element? Young prince of the
stream--lord of the lighter--`_Ratis rex et magister_'--heir apparent to
the tiller--betrothed to the sweep--wedded to the deck