HOW THE SCHOLAR FAILED IN ORIENTAL LANGUAGES.
It was high noon, and the day was the first of the week. Willum
Cobbledick walked out of the church and into the “Plume of Feathers.”
He was wearing an old cassock, short in front and dragging behind,
like a maid-of-all-work’s frock; and upon his bristling hair rested at
a military angle a distinctly clerical hat. Willum always exchanged
church for alehouse at the earliest opportunity, not so much because
sawdust and beer-barrels were preferable to harmonium and lectern as
because in the “Plume of Feathers” he could feel himself an instructor
of the villagers who were wont to foregather there as often as the law
allowed. Willum was a churchwarden. He was also organist, bell-ringer
in moderation, and sexton. He collected the offertory and read the
lessons. He intoned the psalms and sang the hymns. He was in effect
the spiritual pastor and master of the village, as the vicar was too
infirm and witless to perform his duty, and had almost lost the
faculty of intelligent speech. Everybody who came to Lew went to hear
Willum read the lessons. He rendered them in broad dialect,
disregarding stops, gasping for breath in the middle of a word,
sometimes turning over two pages and reading on unconscious of his
error; while Mrs. Cobbledick listened with tearful pride and would
have applauded had she dared. Service over, Willum would hurry to the
“Plume of Feathers” for his well-earned beer. His fellow-villagers
patronised the local Zion, which offered no attraction in the morning,
nor indeed at any time when the house of good cheer was open. They
recognised Willum as a superior. He was the local representative of
learning. When an election was impending it was Willum who controlled
the votes. When the rural dean made his visitation it was Willum who
appeared armed with registers and misstatements. “Willum be the
sinecure of all eyes,” Mrs. Cobbledick frequently explained to
newly-arrived visitors.
Griffey, the preacher, sat on a bench, clutching a blue and white mug.
Upon the table by his side sat his favourite disciple, Wollacott of
the game leg, who was too miserly to buy refreshments for himself, and
so far had not been offered any. Other worthies lounged in picturesque
attitudes about the room. They were listening to Griffey, who had been
discoursing upon the uncertainty of life, and the necessity of doing
good to one’s neighbours. As the preacher confined his attentions to
his neighbours by removing the boundary stone of one and diverting the
water supply of another, his remarks were not received with that
attention which the subject deserved.
“Us be like sparrows,” Griffey shouted as Willum entered.
“Like what?” asked old Wannell, who had never been in a bath, and was,
on that account perhaps, somewhat hard of hearing.
“Like sparrows,” Griffey repeated.
“Us be,” agreed old Wannell, looking round to see if anyone was
prepared to deny it, “like sparrows that sitteth alone on the
house-top, and withereth afore they be plucked up.”
“That ain’t it at all,” broke in the amateur divine. “’Tis grass what
withers. Sparrows fall to the ground.”
“And the Lord careth for ’en,” said the preacher, as he lowered his
head reverently over his mug.
“Beautiful the beer smells,” said Wollacott of the game leg.
“It’s a wonder to me where you gets the learning from,” said Kellaway
the wall-eyed.
“Ah!” said Willum profoundly, as he produced two books and a pipe from
the pocket of his cassock.
“You don’t get it from your father,” observed old Ruddle, who had
never been in a train.
“I never got it from he,” Willum agreed.
“You can’t account for learning,” said Dufty, who couldn’t look
straight.
“It grows,” said Eastaway, the publican. “It’s just like warts; some
have ’em, some don’t.”
“It don’t grow unless you helps it a lot,” said Willum modestly.
“I says reading’s a waste o’ time; that’s what I says,” commented
Muzzlewhite, who had failed to master the accomplishment.
“So be writing,” added Kentisbeer, whose talent in that direction was
equally undeveloped.
“Them be half-dafty notions,” said Willum.
Griffey, the preacher, opened his mouth to agree; but remembering
suddenly that it was against his principles to agree with anyone,
closed it again.
At this point Veale, the village toper, who had for some time felt
sleep approaching, composed himself for a quiet nap beneath the
trestle-table.
“What be they books, Willum? Full o’ learning, I reckon?” said the
publican.
This was the moment for which the scholar had been waiting. He had
held the books ostentatiously, confident that such a question would be
asked before long. As a matter of fact, it was the publican that he
desired particularly to impress. Eastaway was the financial magnate of
Lew. He was the village banker. He was also keeper of the Cobbledick
tombstone. Eastaway was practically the only employer of labour in the
neighbourhood apart from the mines, where work was precarious, and
received poor pay. By a stroke of genius worthy of a higher intellect,
he had combined the business of granite merchant with that of
beer-seller. He held the only licence in the village. His stoneyard
was not a dozen yards away from the door which had painted upon it the
laconic announcement “Bar.” While the men worked in the hot sun they
could see the seductive interior, and smell the aroma of malt and
hops, which, as old Veale had pathetically observed, made the place
“so homelike.” Eastaway paid his men each Saturday at noon. During the
week the greater part of his money came back to him through that
process, which might have been described as an effect of machinery
upon wages.
Willum opened the Greek Testament tenderly, and after gazing at the
pages with a rapt expression, passed the book upside down into the
rough and beery hands of the publican. The scholar’s face shone with
idiocy, which the spectators mistook for wisdom, as he laconically and
lyingly remarked, “Fifteen pounds!”
“Be a lot of money for a book; such a little ’un, too,” remarked the
gentleman of the game leg.
“Mun have cost a lot to print ’en,” said Eastaway. “Do all they little
things mean English words, Willum?” he went on incredulously.
“You turns ’em into English words--us do as knows how,” the scholar
answered.
“What be ’en?” the preacher demanded.
“Chinese,” said Willum. “Chinese Bible.”
“Show us the bit about the sparrows,” said the preacher.
Catching a familiar word, the village toper beneath the table began to
murmur a little ditty concerning a bird of that species, which sat
upon a spout while a thunderstorm was impending.
“There be nought about sparrows here. They don’t have none in China,”
Willum explained.
Old Veale proceeded to show how the storm broke, and forcibly expelled
the sparrow from its coign of vantage.
“Then it bain’t a Bible,” said Griffey triumphantly.
“You gurt fool,” cried Willum, in anger at such stupidity. “Didn’t I
tell ye ’twas Chinese?”
“What they chaps read as be slaves in Africa, where my cousin Bill
Conybeare died o’ fever fighting wi’ the Boers,” explained Kellaway,
the wall-eyed.
“They bain’t slaves,” shouted Willum, hotly. “It be a wicked lie. They
works for their living same as us.”
“Order, please,” shouted Eastaway. “No politics here. What be t’other
book, Willum?”
The scholar resumed his bland smile, as he handed over the torn and
shabby Sanskrit dictionary, upon which he commented thus: “Only two
others like it. One of ’em in the British Museum to Oxford, Mr.
Burrough told me, and t’other be lost somewhere.”
“Be it Chinese too?” asked the gentleman who couldn’t read.
Willum replied in the affirmative, while Veale beneath the table
murmured his joyous conviction that Chinamen never would be slaves.
Probably he meant Britons, but the conversation had confused him.
“One of these books tells ye about t’other,” the scholar announced.
“Which tells ye about what?” asked Eastaway, blankly.
This question muddled Willum. After some hesitation he explained that
when in doubt as to a word in the dictionary it was necessary to turn
to the Testament for enlightenment. The publican, who was a practical
man, requested Willum to translate a passage into fluent English. It
was then the scholar discovered he had floundered; but a little
sleight of hand, which resulted in a sort of reshuffling of the books,
glossed over his error. Then relying upon memory and impudence, he
pointed to a passage, and quoted a sentence which had occurred in the
first lesson that morning.
“Ain’t nothing like that in our Bible,” said Eastaway decidedly.
“Well, I dunno,” said Griffey the preacher. “Seems somehow familiar.”
Willum considered that his scholarly reputation would be enhanced by
remaining silent.
“Where did ye get they books from?” asked the publican.
Willum became at once mysterious. Under pressure he told a rambling
tale of an old house in Cornwall, which had been long deserted and was
gradually falling into decay. At length it was decided to pull it
down, and the books were discovered in a box bricked up in a chimney.
The gentleman into whose hands they came had sent them to him, Willum,
for his opinion.
“How did ye know they was Chinese?” interrupted wall-eyed Kellaway,
who mistrusted Willum.
“What’s the use of being a scholar if ye can’t find out things?”
retorted Willum.
“That bain’t no answer,” replied the wall-eyed gentleman. “What be the
signs and tokens?”
“What be the signs and tokens that the sun be shining?” shouted
Willum.
“I can see ’en,” replied Kellaway.
“I can see them books be Chinese,” came the answer, which everybody
present considered decidedly crushing.
“’Tis easy to see you be no scholar, Joe,” said Muzzlewhite, who was
himself no better.
“What I wants to know is how he got they books,” went on Kellaway. “If
they were worth a lot of money how did the gentleman come to part wi’
’em?”
“I bought ’em,” said Willum. “The gentleman didn’t know how valuable
they was, and I wasn’t fool enough to tell ’en. I offered ’en a fair
price, and he took it, and I kept the books.”
“Same way as I sold they sick ponies,” muttered the preacher
thoughtfully.
Wall-eyed Kellaway gave way grumbling. To ask how Willum came by the
money was too delicate a question. It was common knowledge that his
efforts to obtain control over the offertory had failed. The vicar
might be a dotard, but he had sense enough to retain the bag. Willum
was fond of referring to sums which he lavished upon various articles;
and somehow or other the villagers had fallen into the habit of
believing him.
“Seems to me you might pay for that tombstone next time you has a few
shilluns handy,” Eastaway remarked blandly.
“That be mother’s business, not mine,” Willum retorted. He had the
feeling that he was being baited, and he did not like it. “Mother
ordered ’en, and mother must pay for ’en. ’Tis to go above she and
father, and it can bide till she be dead.”
“Be ye going to drink that beer?” said Wollacott suggestively.
“I be,” replied the scholar, hastily guarding his mug with two huge
hands.
“It bain’t right to let your father lie wi’out a stoane at his head,”
said old Ruddle, whose travelling had been confined to horse-drawn
vehicles. “He was a good man. Hit I on the face one ’lection time. Us
was proud o’ he.”
“He warn’t a scholar same as Willum,” said Eastaway, who was hoping to
get an offer for the tombstone.
“Could use his hands,” said Ruddle.
“Willum uses his brains,” said the publican.
“Us don’t want brains. Us can live wi’out ’em,” said wall-eyed
Kellaway, returning to the attack. “You can’t cut peat and crack
stones wi’ brains. ’Tis only men what don’t work as wants brains to
tell ’em how to pass the time. Us knows what to du for a living, and
us don’t want to be bothered wi’ brains.”
This was a distinct challenge to Willum. He could not disregard it
without a distinct loss of reputation. He drained his mug, wiped his
sandy moustache, and with a look of malevolence in his foxy eyes
advanced to the centre of the room, faced his opponent, and was just
about to commence a denunciation when an interruption occurred. The
door opened noisily, and a couple of artillery officers entered.
The villagers became as silent as mice. Military visitations from the
artillery camp on the moor were frequent: but it was not often that
officers deigned to enter the little alehouse. As they walked to the
counter, after a curt “good-morning” to the men, a few well-aimed
kicks in the ribs fully aroused old Veale, who becoming conscious of
uniforms shambled from beneath the table and, bespattered with
sawdust, lurched for the door. Tumbling down the steps, he cuffed the
urchins who were holding the officers’ horses, and drove them off
blubbering with disappointment. Horse-holding for officers was a
salaried position held for life by the toper. It was a monopoly
enjoyed by him. The salary came from tips. No gentleman in uniform
ever gave less than sixpence. Old Veale managed to pass the curb-reins
round his arm, then supporting himself between the horses resumed the
blameless slumbers which had been so rudely interrupted.
While the publican was producing the bottled ale, which he assured his
aristocratic visitors was stocked especially for their benefit, the
officers could not fail to perceive the books, left incautiously by
Willum, lying open upon the counter. The younger of the two exclaimed
at once--
“I say! Here’s a thing to pitch upon in a Dartmoor pub! Look here!
this will remind you of your time in India.”
“A Sanskrit dictionary, by Jove!” said the other. “And what’s this? A
Greek Testament. Landlord! is this the sort of reading you indulge
in?”
“Well, Captain, us don’t read ’em,” replied Eastaway. “But Willum
does. He be a scholar. There be Willum.” He nodded blandly towards the
object in the clerical hat and disreputable cassock, while the
officers exchanged smiles.
“So, my man, you read Greek and Sanskrit?” said the senior officer.
“Beg pardon, Captain,” broke in Kellaway, with an exultant grin.
“Willum says they be Chinese Bibles.”
At that moment Willum, who still occupied the centre of the floor,
looked as though he were experiencing that sensation in the palate and
throat which is a premonitory symptom of nausea.
“I dare say it’s Chinese to him,” said the officer, with a
good-humoured smile. “This book is the New Testament in Greek. And
this is a Sanskrit dictionary. Sanskrit, as Willum may have told you,
is the early language of India.”
“Willum never told us that,” said Kellaway.
“What would they books be worth, sir?” added the wall-eyed one, as
Eastaway with a most deferential manner and obsequious smile set two
foam-topped glasses before his patrons.
Willum made a remark about mother waiting dinner for him.
“What do you mean?” asked the officer as he lifted his glass.
“The chap has been fooling them,” the other muttered with a soft
laugh.
“What would they be worth to buy? A lot of money, I s’pose, sir?”
“Lord no! They are old second-hand affairs. I suppose you picked them
up at some bookstall for a few coppers?” said the officer, turning to
the scholar.
“I bought them of a gentleman, Captain,” said Willum brazenly.
“And he had you!”
The two officers burst out laughing, and the one who had last spoken
picked up the books and handed them to Willum, who was already
preparing an indictment upon the ignorance of army-officers in
general, and these two in particular, to be delivered as soon as they
had departed.
Kellaway had still another question; and he lost no time in putting
it.
“Would one o’ they books, sir, help ye to read the other?”
“Of course not,” came the answer. “They are two different languages.”
“Willum,” said the younger officer solemnly, “go home, my lad, and
stick to halfpenny newspapers in the future.”
They laughed again, then paid their reckoning, and clattered outside
to find fresh amusement in the somnolent horse-holder; but so soon as
they had ridden away Willum lifted up his voice in denunciation and
exclaimed, “They be nice men to be officers in the British Army. They
don’t know Chinese when they sees it.”
The villagers laughed somewhat in scorn, and wall-eyed Kellaway
laughed louder than the others. The majority were unwilling to believe
that Willum was a fraud and a delusion. Willum was in his way an
institution; someone they could be proud of, whom they could point out
to visitors. But their faith in his wisdom had been seriously
disturbed by the words of the officers.
“They be gurt fools and gurt liars,” thundered Willum.
“Why didn’t ye tell ’em so?” sneered Kellaway.