CHAPTER I
ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
If anybody cares to read a simple tale told simply, I, John Ridd, of theparish of Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and churchwarden, haveseen and had a share in some doings of this neighborhood, which I willtry to set down in order, God sparing my life and memory. And they wholight upon this book should bear in mind not only that I write for theclearing of our parish from ill fame and calumny, but also a thing whichwill, I trow, appear too often in it, to wit--that I am nothing morethan a plain unlettered man, not read in foreign languages, as agentleman might be, nor gifted with long words (even in mine owntongue), save what I may have won from the Bible or Master WilliamShakespeare, whom, in the face of common opinion, I do value highly. Inshort, I am an ignoramus, but pretty well for a yeoman.
My father being of good substance, at least as we reckon in Exmoor, andseized in his own right, from many generations, of one, and that thebest and largest, of the three farms into which our parish is divided(or rather the cultured part thereof), he John Ridd, the elder,churchwarden, and overseer, being a great admirer of learning, and wellable to write his name, sent me his only son to be schooled at Tiverton,in the county of Devon. For the chief boast of that ancient town (nextto its woollen staple) is a worthy grammar-school, the largest in thewest of England, founded and handsomely endowed in the year 1604 byMaster Peter Blundell, of that same place, clothier.
Here, by the time I was twelve years old, I had risen into the upperschool, and could make bold with Eutropius and Caesar--by aid of anEnglish version--and as much as six lines of Ovid. Some even said thatI might, before manhood, rise almost to the third form, being of aperservering nature; albeit, by full consent of all (except my mother),thick-headed. But that would have been, as I now perceive, an ambitionbeyond a farmer's son for there is but one form above it, and that madeof masterful scholars, entitled rightly 'monitors'. So it came topass, by the grace of God, that I was called away from learning,whilst sitting at the desk of the junior first in the upper school, andbeginning the Greek verb [Greek word].
My eldest grandson makes bold to say that I never could have learned[Greek word], ten pages further on, being all he himself could manage,with plenty of stripes to help him. I know that he hath more head thanI--though never will he have such body; and am thankful to have stoppedbetimes, with a meek and wholesome head-piece.
But if you doubt of my having been there, because now I know so little,go and see my name, 'John Ridd,' graven on that very form. Forsooth,from the time I was strong enough to open a knife and to spell my name,I began to grave it in the oak, first of the block whereon I sate, andthen of the desk in front of it, according as I was promoted from one toother of them: and there my grandson reads it now, at this present timeof writing, and hath fought a boy for scoffing at it--'John Ridd hisname'--and done again in 'winkeys,' a mischievous but cheerful device,in which we took great pleasure.
This is the manner of a 'winkey,' which I here set down, lest childof mine, or grandchild, dare to make one on my premises; if he does,I shall know the mark at once, and score it well upon him. The scholarobtains, by prayer or price, a handful of saltpetre, and then with theknife wherewith he should rather be trying to mend his pens, what doeshe do but scoop a hole where the desk is some three inches thick. Thishole should be left with the middle exalted, and the circumfere dug moredeeply. Then let him fill it with saltpetre, all save a little space inthe midst, where the boss of the wood is. Upon that boss (and it will bethe better if a splinter of timber rise upward) he sticks the end of hiscandle of tallow, or 'rat's tail,' as we called it, kindled and burningsmoothly. Anon, as he reads by that light his lesson, lifting his eyesnow and then it may be, the fire of candle lays hold of the petre witha spluttering noise and a leaping. Then should the pupil seize his pen,and, regardless of the nib, stir bravely, and he will see a glow as ofburning mountains, and a rich smoke, and sparks going merrily; nor willit cease, if he stir wisely, and there be a good store of petre, untilthe wood is devoured through, like the sinking of a well-shaft. Now wellmay it go with the head of a boy intent upon his primer, who betides tosit thereunder! But, above all things, have good care to exercise thisart before the master strides up to his desk, in the early gray of themorning.
Other customs, no less worthy, abide in the school of Blundell, such asthe singeing of nightcaps; but though they have a pleasant savour, andrefreshing to think of, I may not stop to note them, unless it be thatgoodly one at the incoming of a flood. The school-house stands beside astream, not very large, called Lowman, which flows into the broad riverof Exe, about a mile below. This Lowman stream, although it be not fondof brawl and violence (in the manner of our Lynn), yet is wont to floodinto a mighty head of waters when the storms of rain provoke it; andmost of all when its little co-mate, called the Taunton Brook--whereI have plucked the very best cresses that ever man put salt on--comesfoaming down like a great roan horse, and rears at the leap of thehedgerows. Then are the gray stone walls of Blundell on every sideencompassed, the vale is spread over with looping waters, and it is ahard thing for the day-boys to get home to their suppers.
And in that time, old Cop, the porter (so called because he hath copperboots to keep the wet from his stomach, and a nose of copper also, inright of other waters), his place is to stand at the gate, attending tothe flood-boards grooved into one another, and so to watch the torrentsrise, and not be washed away, if it please God he may help it. But longere the flood hath attained this height, and while it is only waxing,certain boys of deputy will watch at the stoop of the drain-holes, andbe apt to look outside the walls when Cop is taking a cordial. And inthe very front of the gate, just without the archway, where the groundis paved most handsomely, you may see in copy-letters done a greatP.B. of white pebbles. Now, it is the custom and the law that whenthe invading waters, either fluxing along the wall from below theroad-bridge, or pouring sharply across the meadows from a cut calledOwen's Ditch--and I myself have seen it come both ways--upon the veryinstant when the waxing element lips though it be but a single pebble ofthe founder's letters, it is in the license of any boy, soever smalland undoctrined, to rush into the great school-rooms, where a score ofmasters sit heavily, and scream at the top of his voice, 'P.B.'
Then, with a yell, the boys leap up, or break away from their standing;they toss their caps to the black-beamed roof, and haply the very booksafter them; and the great boys vex no more the small ones, and the smallboys stick up to the great ones. One with another, hard they go, to seethe gain of the waters, and the tribulation of Cop, and are prone tokick the day-boys out, with words of scanty compliment. Then the masterslook at one another, having no class to look to, and (boys being no moreleft to watch) in a manner they put their mouths up. With a spiritedbang they close their books, and make invitation the one to the otherfor pipes and foreign cordials, recommending the chance of the time, andthe comfort away from cold water.
But, lo! I am dwelling on little things and the pigeons' eggs of theinfancy, forgetting the bitter and heavy life gone over me since then.If I am neither a hard man nor a very close one, God knows I have had nolack of rubbing and pounding to make stone of me. Yet can I not somehowbelieve that we ought to hate one another, to live far asunder, andblock the mouth each of his little den; as do the wild beasts of thewood, and the hairy outrangs now brought over, each with a chain uponhim. Let that matter be as it will. It is beyond me to unfold, andmayhap of my grandson's grandson. All I know is that wheat is betterthan when I began to sow it.
Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor Page 2