t horsiness about his cut. I set him down for a
sporting parson from the country, and wondered why he wore clothes so
much superior to those of the Plymouth parsons known to me by sight.

"Just listen to that now!" exclaimed Mr. Jope. A cornet in one of
the coaches ahead had struck up _Tom Bowling_, and before we reached
the head of the street from coach after coach the funeral party broke
into song:

"Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of his crew-ew;
No more he'll hear the te--empest how--wow--ling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the--e ma--hanliest beau--eau--ty--"

"I wouldn't say that, quite," observed Mr. Jope pensively. "To begin
with, he'd had the small-pox."

"_De gustibus nil nisi bonum_," Mr. Whitmore observed soothingly.

"What's that?"

"Latin."

"Wonderful! Would ye mind saying it again?"

The words were obligingly repeated.

"Wonderful! And what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?"

"It means 'Speak well of the dead.'"

"Well, we're doing of it, anyhow. Hark to 'em ahead there!"

The _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention. Folks on
the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two,
catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their
handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of
Old Town Street and past St. Andrew's Church a small crowd raised
three cheers for us. And still above it the cornet blared and the
mourners' voices rose uproarious:

"His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y--
For Tom is gone aloft."

"Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr. Jope murmured: "but as you say,
sir--Would you oblige us again?" Again the Latin was repeated, and
he swung round upon me. "Think of that, now! Be you a scholar,
hey?--read, write and cipher? How would you spell 'sojer' for
instance?"

The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening
under the clergyman's eyes.

"Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a
whisper.

"Very good: now make a rhyme to it."

"I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes."

"Well, that's honest, anyway. Now I'll tell you why I asked."
He turned and addressed Mr. Whitmore. "I'm Cornish born, sir; from
Salt