What Will He Do With It? (Belford)/Book 5/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
Truly saith the proverb, "Much corn lies under the straw that is not seen."
Meanwhile George Morley followed the long shady walk—very handsome walk, full of prize roses and rare exotics—artificiaily winding, too—walk so well kept that it took thirty-four men to keep it—noble walk, tiresome walk—till it brought him to the great piece of water, which, perhaps, four times in the year was visited by the great folks in the Great House. And being thus out of the immediate patronage of fashion, the great piece of water really looked natural—companionable, refreshing—you began to breathe—to unbutton your waistcoat, loosen your neckcloth—quote Chaucer, if you could recollect him, or Cowper, or Shakspeare, or Thomson's Seasons; in short, any scraps of verse that came into your head—as your feet grew joyously entangled with fern—as the trees grouped forest-like before and round you—trees which there being out of sight, were allowed to grow too old to be worth five shillings apiece, moss-grown, hollow-trunked, some pollarded—trees invaluable! Ha! the hare! how she scuds! See, the deer marching down to the water-side. What groves of bulrushes—islands of water-lily! And to throw a Gothic bridge there, bring a great gravel road over the bridge! Oh, shame! shame!
So would have said the scholar, for he had a true sentiment for nature, if the bridge had not clean gone out of his head.
Wandering alone, he came at last to the most umbrageous and sequestered bank of the wide water, closed round on every side by brushwood, or still patriarchal trees.
Suddenly he arrested his steps—an idea struck him—one of those odd, whimsical, grotesque ideas which often when we are alone come across us, even in our quietest or most anxious moods. Was his infirmity really incurable? Elocution masters had said "Certainly not;" but they had done him no good. Yet had not the greatest orator the world ever knew a defect in utterance! He too, Demosthenes, had, no doubt, paid fees to elocution masters, the best in Athens, where elocution masters must have studied their art ad unguem, and the defect had baffled them. But did Demosthenes despair? No, he resolved to cure himself.—How? Was it not one of his methods to fill his mouth with pebbles, and practice manfully to the roaring sea? George Morley had never tried the effect of pebbles. Was there any virtue in them? Why not try? No sea there, it is true; but a sea was only useful as representing the noise of a stormy democratic audience. To represent a peaceful congregation that still sheet of water would do as well. Pebbles there were in plenty just by that gravelly cove, near which a young pike lay sunning his green back. Half in jest, half in earnest, the scholar picked up a handful of pebbles, wiped them from sand and mould, inserted them between his teeth cautiously, and, looking round to assure himself that none were by, began an extempore discourse. So interested did he become in that classical experiment, that he might have tortured the air and astonished the magpies (three of whom from a neighboring thicket listened perfectly spell-bound) for more than half an hour, when, seized with shame at the ludicrous impotence of his exertions—with despair that so wretched a barrier should stand between his mind and its expression—he flung away the pebbles, and, sinking on the ground, he fairly wept—wept like a baffled child.
The fact was, that Morley had really the temperament of an orator; he had the orator's gifts in warmth of passion, rush of thought, logical arrangement; there was in him the genius of a great preacher. He felt it—he knew it; and in that despair which only Genius knows, when some pitiful cause obstructs its energies and strikes down its powers—making a confidant of Solitude—he wept loud and freely.
"Do not despond, Sir; I undertake to cure you," said a voice behind.
George started up in confusion. A man, elderly, but fresh and vigorous, stood beside him, in a light fustian jacket, a blue apron, and with rushes in his hands, which he continued to plait together nimbly and deftly as he bowed to the startled scholar.
"I was in the shade of the thicket yonder, Sir; pardon me, I could not help hearing you."
The Oxonian rubbed his eyes, and stared at the man with a vague impression that he had seen him before—When? Where?
"You can cure me," he stuttered out; " what of?—the folly of trying to speak in public. Thank you, I am cured."
"Nay, Sir, you see before you a man who can make you a very good speaker. Your voice is naturally fine. I repeat I can cure a defect which is not in the organ, but in the manage ment."
"You can! you—who and what are you?"
"A basket-maker, Sir; I hope for your custom."
"Surely this is not the first time I have seen you?"
' True; you once kindly suffered me to borrow a resting-place on your father's land. One good, turn deserves another."
At that moment Sir Isaac peered through the brambles, and, restored to his original whiteness, and relieved from his false, horned ears, marched gravely toward the water, sniffed at the scholar, slightly wagged his tail, and buried himself among the reeds in search of a water-rat he had therein disturbed a week before, and always expected to find again.
The sight of the dog immediately cleared up the cloud in the scholar's memory; but with recognition came back a keen curiosity and a sharp pang of remorse.
"And your little girl .?" he asked, looking down abashed.
"Better than she was when we last met. Providence is so kind to us."
Poor Waife, he never guessed that to the person he thus revealed himself he owed the grief for Sophy's abduction. He divined no reason for the scholar's flushing cheek and embarrassed manner.
"Yes, Sir, we have just settled in this neighborhood. I have a pretty cottage yonder at the outskirts of the village, and near the park-pales. I recognized you at once; and as I heard you just now, I called to mind that when we met before, you said your calling should be the Church, were it not for your difficulty in utterance; and I said to myself, ' No bad things those pebbles, if his utterance were thick, which it is not; ' and I have not a doubt. Sir, that the true fault of Demosthenes, whom I presume you were imitating, was that he spoke through his nose."
"Eh!" said the scholar, " through his nose? I never knew that!—and I—"
"And you are trying to speak without lungs; that is, without air in them. You don't smoke, I presume?"
"No—certainly not."
"You must learn—speak between each slow puff of your pipe. All you want is time, time to quiet the nerves, timeto think, time to breathe. The moment you begin to stammer—stop—fill the lungs thus, then try again! It is only a clever man who can learn to write—that is, to compose; but any fool can be taught to speak.—Courage!"
"If you really can teach me," cried the learned man, forgetting all self-reproach for his betrayal of Waife to Mrs. Crane in the absorbing interest of the hope that sprang up within him— "If you can teach me—If I can but con—con—con—conq—"
"Slowly—slowly—breath and time; take a whiff from my pipe —that's right. Yes, you can conquer the impediment." "Then I will be the best friend to you that man ever had. There's my hand on it."
"I take it, but I ask leave to change the parties in the contract. I don't want a friend—I don't deserve one. You'll be a friend to my little girl instead; and if ever I ask you to help me in aught for her welfare and happiness—"
"I will help, heart and soul. Slight, indeed, any service to her or to you compared with such service to me. Free this wretched tongue from its stammer, and thought and zeal will not stammer, whenever you say, 'Keep your promise.' I am so glad your little girl is still with you!"
Waife looked surprised—"Is still with me—why not?"
The scholar bit his tongue. That was not the moment to confess; it might destroy all Waife's confidence in him. He would do so later.
"When shall I begin my lesson?"
"Now, if you like. But have you a book in your pocket?"
"I always have."
"Not Greek, I hope, Sir."
"No, a volume of Barrow's Sermons. Lord Chatham recommended those sermons to his great son as a study for eloquence."
"Good! Will you lend me that volume, Sir, and now for it; listen to me: one sentence at a time—draw your breath when I do."
The three magpies pricked up their ears again, and, as they listened, marvelled much.