I was soon to discover the whole of my father's plans with Mr. Andrewes for my benefit. Not only had they decided1 that I was to have a pony2, 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 muses3, and as Mrs. Bundle's were even less so as to genders4, 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[130] 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 peppermint5 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 intercourse7. But I had a child's complacent8 appreciation9 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.[131] I turned over the Rector's books, and culled10 his flowers, and joined his rides, and made him tell me stories, and tyrannized over him as over a docile11 playfellow in a fashion that astonished many grown-up people who were awed12 and repelled13 by his reserve and eccentricities14, 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 worthy15 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 mere16 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 worthiest17 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 lore18 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 Scriptures19 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[132] 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 entirely20 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 conceit21 and egotism, that to foster religious self-importance is only too easy, and modesty22 and moderation are more slowly taught. But if youth is a time when one is specially23 apt to be self-conceited, surely, Mr. Dacre, it is also the first, the easiest, the purest, and the most zealous24 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 fixed25 faith to be attacked. It is the old, old story. From within, not from without. The armour26 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,[133] 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 miserable27 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 untold28 and dire29 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 stilts30, 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[134] for my religious education, Nurse Bundle proved an unexpected ally. When I repeated to her some solemn truth which in his reverent31 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 quaint32 practical advice he had given me, or perhaps some hymn33 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, judgments35, and answers to prayer. Tales, too, of the charities of the poor, the happiness of the afflicted37, and the triumphs of the deeply tempted38, such as it is good for the wealthy, and healthy, and well-cared-for, to listen to. Nurse Bundle's religious faith had a tinge39 of superstition40; 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 judgment36. The thought of death was familiar to me. (It is seldom, I think, a painful one in childhood.) I fully34 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."[135]
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 superstitions41 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 chirp42 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 blessing43."
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 botanist44, and his knowledge of the medicinal uses of wild herbs ranked next to his piety45 to raise him in Mrs. Bundle's esteem46. 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,[136] for which I shall ever be grateful to him. I fancy I can hear his voice now, saying in his curt47 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, picturesquely48 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 slate6 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 innocence49?" 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."[137]
"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 peculiar50 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 thoroughly51 realized the position of the needy52 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[138] 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!"
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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genders
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| n.性某些语言的（阳性、阴性和中性，不同的性有不同的词尾等）( gender的名词复数 )；性别；某些语言的（名词、代词和形容词）性的区分 | |
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peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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6
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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7
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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8
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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14
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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30
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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39
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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40
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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42
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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43
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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44
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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45
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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46
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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47
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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48
picturesquely
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49
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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52
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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