I FAIL TO TEACH LATIN TO MRS. BUNDLE--THE RECTOR TEACHES ME
I was soon to discover the whole of my father's plans with Mr.
Andrewes for my benefit. Not only had they decided that I was to have
a pony, and learn to ride, but it was also settled that I was to go
daily to the Rectory to "do lessons" with the Rector.
I was greatly pleased. I had already begun Latin with my father, and
had vainly endeavoured to share my educational advantages with Mrs.
Bundle, by teaching her the first declension.
"Musa, amuse," she repeated after me on this occasion.
"Musae, of a muse," I continued.
"_Of amuse!_ There's no sense in that, my dearie," said Mrs. Bundle;
and as my ideas were not very well defined on the subject of the
muses, and as Mrs. Bundle's were even less so as to genders, numbers,
and cases, I reluctantly gave in to her decision that "Latin was very
well for young gentlemen, but good plain English was best suited to
the likes of her."
She was greatly delighted, however, with a Latin valentine which I
prepared for her on the ensuing 14th of February, and caused to be
delivered by the housemaid, in an envelope with an old stamp, and
postmarks made with a pen and a penny. The design was very simple; a
heart traced in outline from a peppermint lozenge of that shape, which
came to me in an ounce of "mixed sweets" from the village shop. The
said heart was painted red and below it I wrote in my largest and
clearest handwriting, _Mrs. B. Amo te_. When the Latin was translated
for her, her gratification was great. At first she was put out by
there being only two Latin words to three English ones, but she got
over the difficulty at last by always reading it thus:--
"A mo te,
I love thee."
My Latin had not advanced much beyond this stage when I began to go to
Mr. Andrewes every day.
Thenceforward I progressed rapidly in my learning. Mr. Andrewes was a
good scholar, and (quite another matter) a good teacher; and I fancy
that I was not wanting in quickness or in willingness to work. But
Latin, and arithmetic, and geography, and the marvellous improvement
he soon made in my handwriting, were small parts indeed of all that I
owe to that good friend of my childhood. I suppose that--other things
being equal--children learn most from those who love them best, and I
soon found out that I was the object of a strangely strong affection
in my new teacher. The chief cause of this I did not then know, and
only learnt when death had put an end, for this life, to our happy
intercourse. But I had a child's complacent appreciation of the fact
that I was a favourite, and on the strength of it I haunted the
Rectory at all hours, confident of a welcome. I turned over the
Rector's books, and culled his flowers, and joined his rides, and made
him tell me stories, and tyrannized over him as over a docile
playfellow in a fashion that astonished many grown-up people who were
awed and repelled by his reserve and eccentricities, and who never
knew his character as I knew it till he could be known no more. But I
fancy that there are not a few worthy men who, shy and reserved, are
only intimately known by the children whom they love.
I may say that not only did I owe much more than mere learning to Mr.
Andrewes, but that my regular lessons were a small part even of his
teaching.
"It always seems to me," he said one day, when my father and I were
together at the Rectory, "that there are two kinds of learning more
neglected than they should be in the education of the young. Religious
knowledge, which, after all, concerns the worthiest part of every man,
and the longest share of his existence (to say nothing of what it has
to do with matters now); and the knowledge of what we call Nature, and
of all the laws which concern our bodies, and rule the conditions of
life in this world. It's a hobby of mine, Mr. Dacre, and I'm afraid I
ride my hobbies rather like a witch on a broomstick. But a man must
deal according to his lights and his conscience; and if I am intrusted
with the lad's education for a while, it will be my duty and pleasure
to instruct him in religious lore and natural science, so far as his
age allows. To teach him to know his Bible (and I wish all who have
the leisure were taught to read the Scriptures in the original
tongues). To teach him to know his Prayer-book, and its history.
Something, too, of the history of his Church, and of the faith in
which better men than us have been proud to live, and for which some
have even dared to die."
When the Rector became warm in conversation, his voice betrayed a
rougher accent than we commonly heard, and the more excited he became
the broader was his speech. It had got very broad at this point, when
my father broke in. "I trust him entirely to you, sir," he said; "but,
pardon me, I confess I am not fond of religious prodigies--children
who quote texts and teach their elders their duty; and Reginald has
quite sufficient tendency towards over-excitement of brain on all
subjects."
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Andrewes. "I think you may trust
me. I know well that childhood, like all states and times of
ignorance, is so liable to conceit and egotism, that to foster
religious self-importance is only too easy, and modesty and moderation
are more slowly taught. But if youth is a time when one is specially
apt to be self-conceited, surely, Mr. Dacre, it is also the first, the
easiest, the purest, and the most zealous in which to learn what is so
seldom learned in good time."
"I dare say you are right," said my father.
"People talk with horror of attacks on the faith as sadly
characteristic of our age," said the Rector, walking up and down the
study, and seemingly forgetful of my presence, if not of my father's,
"(which, by-the-bye, is said of every age in turn), but I fear the
real evil is that so few have any fixed faith to be attacked. It is
the old, old story. From within, not from without. The armour that was
early put on, that has grown with our growth, that has been a strength
in time of trial, and a support in sorrow, and has given grace to
joy, will not quickly be discarded because the journals say it is
old-fashioned and worn-out. Life is too short for every man to prove
his faith theoretically, but it is given to all to prove its practical
value by experience, and that method of proof cannot be begun too
soon."
"Very true," said my father.
"I don't know why a man's religious belief (which is of course the
ground of his religious life) should be supposed to come to him
without the trouble of learning, any more than any other body of
truths and principles on which people act," Mr. Andrewes went on. "And
yet what religious instruction do young people of the educated classes
receive as a rule?--especially the boys, for girls get hold of books,
and pick up a faith somehow, though often only enough to make them
miserable and 'unsettled,' and no more. I often wonder," he added,
sitting down at the table with a laugh, "whether the mass of educated
men know less of what concerns the welfare of their souls, and all
therewith connected, or the mass of educated women of what concerns
their bodies, and all _therewith_ connected. I feel sure that both
ignorances produce untold and dire evil!"
"So theology and natural science are to be Regie's first lessons?"
said my father, drawing me to him.
"I've been talking on stilts, I know," said Mr. Andrewes, smiling.
"We'll use simpler terms,--duty to GOD, and duty to Man. One can't do
either without learning how, Mr. Dacre."
I repeat this conversation as I have heard it from my father, since I
grew up and could understand it. Mr. Andrewes' educational theories
were duly put in practice for my benefit. In his efforts for my
religious education, Nurse Bundle proved an unexpected ally. When I
repeated to her some solemn truth which in his reverent and simple
manner he had explained to me; some tale he had told me of some good
man, whose example was to be followed; some bit of quaint practical
advice he had given me, or perhaps some hymn I had learned by his
side, the delight of the good old soul knew no bounds. She said it was
as good as a sermon; and as she was particularly fond of sermons, this
was a compliment. She used to beg me carefully to remember anything of
the kind that I heard, and when I repeated it, she had generally her
own word of advice to add, and wonderful tales with which to point the
moral,--tales of happy and unhappy deathbeds, of warnings, judgments,
and answers to prayer. Tales, too, of the charities of the poor, the
happiness of the afflicted, and the triumphs of the deeply tempted,
such as it is good for the wealthy, and healthy, and well-cared-for,
to listen to. Nurse Bundle's religious faith had a tinge of
superstition; that of Mr. Andrewes was more enlightened. But with both
it was a matter of every-day life, from which no hope or fear, no
sorrow or joy, no plan, no word or deed, could be separated.
And however imperfectly, so it became with me. Like most children, I
had my own rather vivid idea of the day of judgment. The thought of
death was familiar to me. (It is seldom, I think, a painful one in
childhood.) I fully realized the couplet which concluded a certain
quaint old rhyme in honour of the four Evangelists which Nurse Bundle
had taught me to repeat in bed--
"If I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
I used to recite a similar one when I was dressed in the morning--
"If my soul depart to-day,
A place in Paradise I pray."
When I had had a particularly pleasant ride, or enjoyed myself much
during the day, I thanked GOD specially in my evening prayers. I
remember that whatever I wished for I prayed for, in the complete
belief that this was the readiest way to obtain it. And it would be
untruth to my childish experience not to add that I never remember to
have prayed in vain. I also picked up certain little quaint
superstitions from Nurse Bundle, some of which cling to me still.
Neither she nor I ever put anything on the top of a Bible, and we
sometimes sat long in comical and uncomfortable silence because
neither of us would "scare the angel that was passing over the house."
When the first notes of the organ stirred the swallows in the church
eaves to chirp aloud, I believed with Mrs. Bundle that they were
joining in the Te Deum. And when sunshine fell on me through the
church windows during service, I regarded it as "a blessing."
The other half of Mr. Andrewes' plan was not neglected. From him I
learnt (and it is lore to be thankful for) to use my eyes. He was a
good botanist, and his knowledge of the medicinal uses of wild herbs
ranked next to his piety to raise him in Mrs. Bundle's esteem. When
"lessons" were over, we often rode out together. As we rode through
the lanes, he taught me to distinguish the notes of the birds, to
observe what crops grow on certain soils, and at what seasons the
different plants flower and bear fruit. He made me see with my own
eyes, and hear with my own ears, for which I shall ever be grateful
to him. I fancy I can hear his voice now, saying in his curt cutting
fashion--
"How silly it sounds to hear anybody with a head on his shoulders say,
'I never noticed it!' What are eyes for?"
If I admired some creeper-covered cottage, picturesquely old and
tumble-down, he would ask me how many rooms I thought it contained--if
I fancied the roof would keep out rain or snow, and how far I supposed
it was convenient and comfortable for a man and his wife and six
children to live in. In some very practical problems which he once set
me, I had to suppose myself a labourer, with nine shillings a week,
and having found out what sum that would come to in half a year, to
write on my slate how I would spend the money, to the best advantage,
in clothing and feeding two grown-up people and seven children of
various ages. As I knew nothing of the cost of the necessaries of
life, I went, by Mr. Andrewes' advice, to Nurse Bundle for help.
"What do beef and mutton cost?" was my first question, as I sat with
an important air at the nursery table, slate in hand.
"Now bless the dear boy's innocence?" cried Mrs. Bundle. "You may
leave the beef and mutton, love. It's not much meat a family gets
that's reared on nine shillings a week."
After a series of calculations for oatmeal-porridge, onion-potage, and
other modest dainties, during which Mrs. Bundle constantly fell back
on the "bits of things in the garden," I said decidedly--
"They can't have any clothes, so it's no good thinking about it."
"Children can't be let go bare-backed," said Mrs. Bundle, with equal
decision. "She must take in washing. For in all reason, boots can't be
expected to come out of nine shillings a week, and as many mouths to
feed."
"She must take in washing, sir," I announced with a resigned air, and
the old-fashioned gravity peculiar to me, when I returned to the
Rectory next day. "Boots can't come out of nine shillings a week."
The Rector smiled.
"And suppose one of the boys catches a fever, as you did; and they
can't have other people's clothes to the house, because of the
infection. And then there will be the doctor's bill to pay--what
then?"
By this time I had so thoroughly realized the position of the needy
family, that I had forgotten it was not a real case, or rather, that
no special one was meant. And I begged, with tears in my eyes, that I
might apply the contents of my alms-box to paying the doctor's bill.
Many a lesson like this, with oft-repeated practical remarks about
healthy situations, proper drainage, roomy cottages, and the like, was
engraven by constant repetition on my mind, and bore fruit in after
years, when the welfare of many labourers and their families was in my
hands.
It is difficult to convey an idea of the learning I gained from my
good friend, and yet to show how free he was from priggishness, or
from always playing the schoolmaster. He was simply the most charming
of companions, who tried to raise me to his level, and interest me in
what he knew and thought himself, instead of coming down to me, and
talking the patronizing nonsense which is so often supposed to be
acceptable to children.
Across all the years that have parted us in this life I fancy at times
that I see his grey eyes twinkling under their thick brows once more,
and hear his voice, with its slightly rough accent, saying--
"_Think_, my dear lad, _think_! Pray learn to think!"