“O, the ceremonies are not heathen,” said Bart. “Each of us is going to make an incantation in the most solemn language that we can think of; so, boys, begin.” “The most solemn thing that I can think of,” said Phil, “is English history; so here goes.” And stretching forth his hand solemnly, he said, in a whining voice, like a boy reciting a lesson:-- “_Britain was very little known to the rest of the world before the time of the Romans. The coasts opposite Gaul were frequented by merchants, who traded thither for such commodities as the natives were able to produce_.” “The most solemn thing, to me,” said Tom, “is Euclid.” And then he added in the same tone, “_The square described on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares described on the other two sides of the same._” “And I,” said Arthur, “find Arnold’s Latin Exercises the worst. The most solemn thing for an invocation is,--’ “_In temporibus Ciceronis Galli retinuerunt barbaram consuetudinem excercendæ virtutis omni occasione. Balbus odifcabat murum!_” “I,” said Bruce, “have something far more solemn.” And stretching out his hand, he said, in a loud, firm voice,-- “_Dignus, indignus, content us, proditus, captus, and fretus, also natus, satus, ortus, editus, and the like, govern the--hem--nominative--no--the vocative--no--the ablative--all the same._” “For my part,” said Bart, “the most solemn thing, to me, is Cæsar. The way they teach it here makes it a concentration of all the worst horrors of the Grammar, and Arnold, and History, with the additional horrors of an exact translation. O, brethren of the ‘B. O. W. C.,’ won’t you join with me in saying,-- “_Gallia est omnis divisa in partes très, quarum unam incolunt Belgo, aliam Aquitani, tertiam, qui ipsorum lingua Celto, nostra Galli appellantur. Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus, inter se differunt. Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna_” “Here!” cried Captain Corbet, suddenly interrupting Bart; “I can’t stand this any longer. It’s downwright heathenism--all that outlandish heathen stuff! Do ye mean to temp fate? Bewar, young sirs! It’s dangerous! ’Tain’t safe to stand here, at midnight, over a Frenchman’s bones, and jabber French at him.” “French?” said Bart. “It’s not French.” “That ain’t the pint,” said Captain Corbet, who had worked himself up into considerable excitement. “The pint is air it English? No, _sir_. Does any Christian onderstand sich? No, _sir_. We hain’t got no business with sich.” “But it’s Latin,” said Bart. “Wuss and wuss,” said Captain Corbet. “I take my stand by the patriarchs, the prophets, and the postles. Did they jabber Latin? No, sir. They were satisfied with good honest English. It was a solemn time with them thar. English did for them. So, on this solemn occasion, let us talk English, or forever after hold our peaces.” “Well, what shall we do?” asked Bart.