"Where is the bank?" said he, still labouring under the delusion that he was in the water. "Give me a hold on it. If I can only get on the bank I shall be safe." Finding it impossible to convince him how matters really stood, I left him to unroll himself to his full dimensions on the floor, and groping my way to a sofa, laid myself down once more to sleep. When the passengers met at the breakfast-table, the poor poet and his misfortunes during the night gave rise to much quizzing and merriment, particularly when he made his appearance with a black eye, and the skin rubbed off the tip of his nose. One gentleman, who was most active in teasing him, cried out to me,--"Mr. H---, do try and set last night's adventures to music, and sing them this evening at your concert. They would make a _tre-men-dous sensation_, I assure you." The poet looked daggers at us, and seizing his carpet-bag, sprang to the deck, and from the deck to the shore, which he fortunately reached in safety, without casting a parting glance at his tormentors. The Mountain Air. "Rave not to me of your sparkling wine; Bid not for me the goblet shine; My soul is athirst for a draught more rare, A gush of the pure, fresh mountain air! "It wafts on its currents the rich perfume Of the purple heath, and the honied broom; The golden furze, and the hawthorn fair, Shed all their sweets to the mountain air. "It plays round the bank and the mossy stone, Where the violet droops like a nun alone; Shrouding her eyes from the noon-tide glare, But breathing her soul to the mountain-air. "It gives to my spirits a tone of mirth-- I bound with joy o'er the new-dress'd earth, When spring has scatter'd her blossoms there, And laden with balm the mountain air. "From nature's fountain my nectar flows, 'Tis the essence of each sweet bud that blows; Then come, and with me the banquet share, Let us breathe together the mountain air!" CHAPTER VI The Singing Master The Singing-School. "Conceit's an excellent great-coat, and sticks Close to the wearer for his mortal life; It has no spot nor wrinkle in his eyes, And quite cuts out the coats of other men." S.M. "He had a fiddle sadly out of tune, A voice as husky as a raven croaking, Or owlet hooting to the clouded moon, Or bloated bull-frog in some mud-hole choking." During my professional journies through the country, I have often had the curiosity to visit the singing-schools in the small towns and villages through which I passed. These are often taught by persons who are perfectly ignorant of the common rules of music--men who have followed the plough all their lives, and know about as much of the divine science they pretend to teach as one of their oxen.